Chapter 32
The days after Beth's visit moved with a strange stillness—like the calm after a storm you know will come again. I kept replaying that afternoon in my head, not because I wanted to relive it, but because part of me couldn't believe it had happened. Her laughter still echoed in my room, in my chest. The scent of her still lingered on the pillow she had rested her head on. It was haunting and comforting at the same time.
But I couldn't let it consume me.
I still had to survive. I still had to feed myself, pay rent, keep the lights on. And I was still broke.
My routine went back to the dull rhythm it had adopted since I dropped out. Wake up, write, look for freelance jobs, send out articles, get no replies. The library had become my second home again—where I could use the school's computer and at least pretend I was still a student. It gave me the illusion of movement, even when I was standing still.
I didn't hear from Beth for a few days. It was like she had returned to her world and left me behind in mine. I didn't blame her. Life goes on. But my emotions were caught in limbo—somewhere between longing and suspicion.
I tried to focus on productivity. I wrote short stories and submitted them to contests. I worked on opinion pieces, blog drafts, and even tried ghostwriting gigs I found on shady forums. Anything to get money. Anything to breathe.
Then, she called again.
It was late evening, just as the power came back and I was about to plug in my rechargeable lamp.
"Hey," her voice came through the speaker, soft and playful. "I'll be going back to school in two days. Like I said, I'll stop by and spend the night. Hope that's still okay?"
I hesitated. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say yes. But all I managed was: "Yeah, sure. That's fine."
After the call ended, I sat in the dark for a while, the hum of the fridge next door vibrating through the thin walls. What was I doing? Was I really letting her back in—just like that?
I knew how this story often played out: the ex who shows up only when she's bored or needs a place to crash. The guy who still holds on to memories, mistaking them for signs.
But deep down, a part of me hoped she was different. That she came not just to visit, but to reconnect. That maybe—just maybe—she missed the version of us that used to feel so real.
I cleaned the room the next day. Swept the floor twice, wiped down the window panes, even fixed the broken curtain rod. It felt ridiculous, how much effort I was putting in. But I did it anyway.
The night before she was supposed to arrive, I didn't sleep. I lay awake, watching the ceiling fan rotate lazily above me, trying to convince myself that this wasn't a mistake. That I could handle whatever came next.
But beneath all the preparation, beneath the cleaning and the quiet anticipation, there was a voice whispering in the back of my mind:
Don't get too comfortable. Don't forget what happened last time.
I shut my eyes and tried to silence it.
Tomorrow would come with its own answers.
The following morning, I woke up before the sun. I hadn't planned to, but my body was restless. My room looked neater than it had in weeks—everything arranged, bedspread fresh, even the mirror wiped clean like I was expecting someone important. And maybe I was.
By afternoon, the sun had softened and the room felt warm. I kept checking my phone. No missed calls. No new texts. I tried to write but couldn't concentrate. I kept typing sentences and deleting them. My mind wasn't with the words; it was with her.
Then around 4 p.m., she called.
"I'm at the junction," she said, almost casually, like she hadn't been a ghost in my life just weeks ago.
I put on slippers and went to get her. And there she was—wearing a plain tee and jeans, her hair braided neatly, a nylon bag in one hand and a small duffel in the other. She looked the same, but older. Softer, but sharper. Like life had done things to her too.
We didn't hug. We just smiled, and I took her bag. The walk back to my place was mostly silent, but it wasn't awkward. It was like we were saving the words for later.
When we got to my room, she looked around and nodded. "You've really tried to keep it tidy," she said.
"I had to impress my guest," I replied, forcing a grin.
She laughed. "You're still dramatic."
That evening, we sat side by side, talking about little things—school, family, nothing too deep. She had brought food again—rice, some stew, and even a small pack of Milo. It felt so normal. Too normal.
But beneath it all, I felt it—the tension, the memory, the pull.
And I knew the night would be anything but normal.
We ate together, sitting cross-legged on the floor like we used to back in the early days when things were simple. I told her about how I'd been trying to survive—writing, pitching to editors, managing with nothing but stubbornness and garri. She listened, nodding, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling, like she genuinely cared. And maybe she did. But part of me didn't want to believe that.
"You've always been strong, Fred," she said, her voice low, almost like a whisper meant only for the silence in the room. "Even when everything's working against you."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. Because if I spoke, I'd tell her how her silence was one of those things that worked against me. That the night I got her message was the same night I almost broke completely. But I swallowed all that.
After dinner, the light went out. NEPA did their usual magic. I lit my small rechargeable lamp and placed it by the window. The room glowed dimly, golden and soft. She lay on the bed, scrolling through her phone. I watched her in silence, trying to understand what I was feeling. Resentment? Lust? Hope?
When she finally looked up at me, her eyes held that same old familiarity—the one that used to make my heart skip.
"What?" she asked, smiling.
"Nothing," I said, but everything in me was screaming.
The tension between us grew heavy, and somewhere between a glance and a touch, we crossed the line. Clothes came off. Words stopped. Bodies remembered what hearts were trying to forget.
It wasn't just sex.
It was something deeper. It was confusion wrapped in comfort. It was betrayal and forgiveness tangled in the same breath. I wanted her, yes. But I also wanted answers. I wanted closure. Or maybe I just wanted to feel like I mattered to someone again.
Afterward, we lay still. My arm beneath her head, her fingers tracing circles on my chest.
She said quietly, "I'll spend the night here when I'm going back to school. I'll come from here to the park."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Because the truth was—I didn't know what any of it meant.
Was she back?
Was this temporary?
Or was I just a place she could rest in until her real life continued?
I didn't know.
But I knew one thing—I was still broken in places she had once touched.
And now, she was touching them again.