Chapter 31
She arrived on a quiet Wednesday afternoon.
I wasn't expecting anything more than a short visit, some small talk, maybe an awkward hug at the door. But when Beth showed up, she came with a nylon bag in each hand—stuffed with foodstuffs. Rice, tomatoes, onions, spaghetti, seasoning cubes, even a small tin of groundnut oil. I just stood there, staring at her like I had forgotten how to speak.
"I figured you weren't eating right," she said, brushing past me like she still knew her way around. "And I'm not about to sit down and watch you turn into a stick."
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The gesture caught me off guard, and for a moment, I just watched her move around my room like she had never left. She dropped the bags, sat on the edge of my bed, and smiled up at me like old times.
"You're not going to offer me water?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
I blinked, then chuckled. "Right. Water. Yeah."
We laughed. It started awkward, but it found its rhythm. We ate rice and eggs that she cooked herself, right there in my cramped space, like we were teenagers again, like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The way she looked at me was still soft, still knowing. We talked for hours—about school, her pharmacy program, life in Edo State. I told her a bit about the polytechnic, but I left out the part where I dropped out. I didn't want to spoil the moment. She didn't ask why I looked thinner, or why my room seemed more like a prison than a home. Maybe she already knew.
The laughter came easy, the comfort even easier.
And then, somewhere between the silence and the shared glances, it happened.
She leaned into me, or maybe I leaned into her—I don't even remember. All I know is our lips met, slow at first, then desperate. Like we were trying to make up for everything that had been lost. It wasn't planned. It wasn't even logical. But it felt right in the moment.
We ended up in bed. Our clothes slipped off like memories we didn't want to carry anymore. The world outside that room disappeared, and all that remained was the warmth of her skin against mine, the sound of her breath in my ear, and the ache of something we never fully healed from.
It wasn't just sex. It was something deeper. Something unresolved.
Afterwards, we lay tangled in each other, silent, like we were afraid to break whatever magic had found its way into the room. I watched her chest rise and fall and wondered if she still felt the same way I did.
But the truth was heavy in my chest.
She had chosen someone else. While I was here, scraping by, fighting to hold onto my dreams, she was building something new in another place—with another person. She hadn't said it, but I knew. Everyone knew. The guy from her school. The one she told me about back then. I never forgot.
Part of me wanted to push her away, to ask why she came back, why she still looked at me like I meant something. But another part of me just wanted to hold on—to enjoy what little we had left.
Maybe she did come to use me.
Or maybe she missed me. Maybe she missed the boy who once held her hand on hot afternoons and made her laugh without trying. I didn't know. I didn't ask.
And the hardest part? I still wanted her. That's what hurt the most. I still craved the sound of her laugh, the way she said my name, the softness in her voice when she called me "babe" like it still meant something.
After she dressed up and got ready to leave, she turned to me and said, "I'll stop by again—on my way back to school. I'll even sleep over, if you don't mind."
I nodded, even though I didn't know how to feel about it. My heart was split in two. One half still burned for her, still reached for what we used to have. The other half was wary, guarded, tired of being the backup plan.
But I didn't push her away.
Because even if it was all temporary, even if I was just a page in her story now, she still made me feel something I hadn't felt in a long time—wanted.
And sometimes, when you're stuck in a life that feels like it's falling apart, that's enough.
She walked out the door with a small smile and a promise in her voice. I stood there, watching her go, wondering what would happen next.
Wondering if I'd ever truly heal from the kind of love that keeps coming back even after it breaks you.