When I was younger, I wasn’t the “chill one.” I had a temper that was as tall as I was, and it wasn’t good. Little things made me angry, even the most trivial ones. My dad knew this was a big problem and that one day it would land me in trouble if I didn’t control it. He used to say I had a lot of anger inside me and that it suppressed growth, that if I wanted to grow taller, I would have to let go of the anger. We’ll talk about that some other time. I told him it wasn’t true and that I didn’t care. Well, I didn’t care until Michael happened. Michael. The name alone sends shivers down my spine. That day is one I will never forget. Now I’m going to tell you the story of how I almost made my grade four classmate a eunuch.

First of all, it wasn’t my fault. Michael liked me. If you’re wondering why he liked me when we were just in Grade Four, me too. I have no idea. Back then, I had nothing else in mind except securing my first position. Every other thing could wait, especially the “I like you” nonsense. We were just a bunch of eight or nine year olds.

So on that day, maybe God decided to teach me a lesson, or maybe I decided to teach Michael one. Anyone can choose. Michael walked up to me to tell me that he liked me. It wasn’t the first time I had heard it. I had already heard it as gossip flying around the class. I kept wondering, didn’t you people have other things to worry about, like reading for tests and exams or becoming the teacher’s favourite so you could enjoy the perks?

Anyway, Michael chose that moment to confess. Imagine hearing that right after scoring 19 out of 20 in an assignment. I was already boiling inside, and that was the last thing I needed. So I punched him. I was provoked, obviously. I would never do that to someone without reason. I punched my dear admirer below the belt, and the blow sent him flat on the floor instantly.

Poor Michael. See what love did to him.

It didn’t end there. He lay on the floor in serious pain, the kind that doesn’t even let you cry. You just lie there, frozen. He wasn’t wincing, but there was a streak of tears running down his face. I ran out of the class, grabbed my school bag, and disappeared to the waiting hall. As I waited for my siblings since school was almost over, one of my classmates came to me and said I should pray to God so Michael would survive. That I had killed someone. Killed someone?

What was I going to tell my dad? How do the parents of a murderer handle something like that? How was I supposed to live with the fear of being found out, even if no one knew where I lived? I ran home. I didn’t wait for my siblings anymore. It didn’t matter at that point. I ran as if Michael’s life depended on it. When I got home, my parents weren’t around. I couldn’t eat that night, even when everyone else was having dinner. I lost my appetite completely. I just kept saying over and over that I wanted Michael to live.

The next day, I went to school scared, expecting to be called to the headmistress’s office by Michael’s parents. But guess who I saw that morning, bright eyed, laughing as usual, and even waving at me? Michael. I was the happiest person alive that day. I waved back. I didn’t mean it, but I wanted to be nice since he was… alive.

That same day, he offered to help me open my food flask. Oh God, did I ask you, eh, Michael?? Please leave me alone.

You see? I wasn’t the problem. My dad was wrong. It was Michael’s fault. People should really learn to be less annoying.

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The gravel crunching beneath our feet, the distant traffic, streetlights glowing like tired stars. You said you loved how the streetlights reflected on my shiny forehead. You would lean closer, studying it like something fascinating, then kiss the exact spot where the light settled. “I’m recharging your glowy battery,” you would say. More forehead kisses meant more glow. And there was always suya. That suya seller close to the transformer at Maryland. I always offered to buy, as usual. You never let me. Every single time. You would shake your head like it was obvious, like it was already decided. I talked endlessly. That was my release. My yapping, as you called it. You listened like it was your favorite thing in the world. You said you could hear me talk all day and never get tired.

You once asked about my first kiss. I thought it was such a strange question, but I love details, so I told you everything. How the thought of contact made my stomach turn. How I kept my lips pressed shut even when he tried to push further with his tongue. How the idea of his saliva mixing with mine made my skin crawl. I only let his lips touch mine. Barely. Then I pulled away.

I have always been so aware of my body. I hated closeness, hated contact, hated the thought of other people’s fluids but with you, things were different. I let you hug me when I was sweaty. I let you hold me longer than anyone else ever had. I let your hand slide gently around my waist when you kissed me. Somehow, I did not mind. I did not mind your saliva mixing with mine. With you, I never cared. With you, germs did not exist. I wanted to melt into you. To be absorbed. To be consumed fully by you. Loving you was the first thing that ever swallowed me whole. I could not think past you. Could not see beyond you. Everything in my head, my chest, my quiet spaces carried your presence.

You told me I was pretty. I always insisted I looked ugly in the afternoon. You kept calling me pretty until the word stopped feeling like a lie. Until I believed it.You showed me what love felt like without effort. Without begging. Without asking to be treated gently. You just knew.

You knew the most random facts. We were constantly trying to outsmart each other. You loved self-help books. I lived somewhere between politics, history and fiction. A crazy mix, honestly. But somehow, we made sense.

You loved me deeply and fully to the bones. And it hurt so badly to lose you. To let you go. Now I am back to reality, to my senses. My books and exams are staring at me with cold eyes. Life moving like it always does. Still, I miss you, my imaginationship. I can't wait to see you again after exams.

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Every other person seems to wake up refreshed, energized, clear-headed. For you, it is always the reverse. Sleep has become a luxury you barely experience. You did not even sleep last night, yet you still had an eight o’clock class waiting for you. The lack of electricity has turned nights into long, restless stretches of heat and irritation. Life without light is quietly depressing. You cannot read. You cannot focus. Sometimes, you do not even know what to do with yourself.

You prepare for school and arrive only to find the classroom already full. Bodies packed into seats. Fans spinning overhead, pushing around warm air that somehow feels hotter than the heat outside. Even if there had been space, would you have survived inside? The heat is relentless. The fans serve absolutely no real purpose. They feel decorative, aesthetic at best. So you stay outside.

Your stomach is cramping badly now, sharp waves of pain folding into each other. There is no seat outside, no space at the quadrangle, your faculty already overflowing with students. You stand at a corner with others who could not get seats inside. Despite the stabbing discomfort twisting through your abdomen, you still fake smiles. You still greet people. You still perform normalcy. At some point, you begin to wonder how many people around you have done exactly the same thing. How many people have stood in pain, discomfort, exhaustion, pretending to be perfectly fine so nobody would notice. You look at the faces beside you and wonder if anyone standing there is fighting their own silent battle.

Then the dizziness creeps in, the familiar, unwelcome sensation that arrives whenever you are surrounded by too many people. Your legs weaken, forcing you to lean against the wall. In your head, a quiet prayer loops endlessly. God, please do not let me pass out again in this same class. You bend slightly and notice the position eases the pain just a little, so you maintain it. Half-folded. Sweating. Enduring. The class lasts two hours, each minute dragging heavily behind the last. The week has barely begun, yet your body already feels defeated. Why me?

You buy something cold because your body feels like it is overheating. Since you cannot eat outside, you simply hold the drink. An emotional support bottle, a small promise of relief. Eventually, you open it, desperate for even a sip of cold comfort. Then someone nudges you. Or maybe your shaking hands betray you. Either way, liquid spills across your white uniform. Of course your uniform is white. Rage surges instantly, colliding violently with the urge to cry. You seal the bottle and press it against your burning skin, clinging to that fleeting, glorious cold. That one minute of relief feels almost magical.

Then attendance. Another ordeal. Walking feels strangely difficult because you are convinced the stain, though not terrible, is glaringly obvious. You imagine everyone noticing, everyone silently judging. Who still spills drinks on themselves? You asked the girl for a straw. She had none. Naturally. You wait for the crowd to thin before taking your attendance, then drift to the quadrangle in search of somewhere, anywhere, to sit. There is no shed, but at least the space feels airy. You sit briefly with your friend and quickly realize you cannot stay. Your body aches. Your mood has deteriorated. Irritation hums beneath your skin.

You both wander around the school searching for a place to sit. Every single spot is occupied. Benches filled. Corners claimed. Spaces taken. Why is everyone in school today? Then your friend asks for your handkerchief. You wonder what she needs it for. She tells you she wants to wipe a stain on your uniform. A stain you did not even know existed. WHAT STAIN? At this point, it almost feels like the day is mocking you. You mentally retrace your movements. Did you lean on something? Was it the chair? The wall? She finally explains. Lipgloss. Accidentally brushed against you. Now your uniform carries two stains, pink and light brown, like souvenirs from a day already overflowing with nonsense. In that moment, all you want is home. You want your mum. You want escape. To disappear.

Somehow, you survive long enough to enter another class. It is your first with the lecturer, so leaving is not an option. No seats again. Standing again. Until the lecturer tells a guy behind you to stand up so you can sit. “Men should be used to suffering. Let her sit, she is a lady.” In that moment, the chair feels like salvation. Pure mercy. You know, with painful certainty, that you would have passed out if you remained standing for one more minute. You apologize to the guy and sink into the seat, your body heavy with relief.

Then comes the final blow. Weekend clinical postings. Fridays. Saturdays. Sundays. The only days that belong to you. The only days meant for sleep, for rest, for recovery. Gone. What a spectacular way to start the week.

After a class you surprisingly enjoy, you wait for another lecturer who does not show up even after thirty minutes. You give up and rush home, drained, overheated, completely exhausted. The first thing you do even before taking out your shoes is to remove your uniform. You start typing rapidly in your notepad because it helps. You remember the drink, which is now warm. You open it and swallow like it was your last, typing and sipping as you reached flow state, only to discover later that the lecturer came. Two hours later. Compulsory attendance. Of course.

God abeg.

If you're reading this and you hate relationship people, you're at the right place. I made us proud today.

My name is Amara, and I can assure you that nobody out-hates them more than I do.

I'm a very unproblematic person. I love minding my business, but they don’t let me. Always flaunting their gifts and almost blinding me with them. That’s why I even put on my status today: “Don’t let your Valentine’s gift touch me.”

Please, enough. I’m loved at home.

One thing about them that pisses me off is their entitlement. Today is a day to celebrate love, I understand, but does it only encompass romantic love? No. But they’ve colonized it. That’s why I don’t like them.

Whoever coined the term “Single people have anger issues” didn’t lie. Since I was on the queue at the tap downstairs, the only thing on my mind was anger. What we call “Up and vexful", that was my situation.

Three girls just came down to pick up packages from dispatch riders. This one got cupcakes. Ordinary cupcakes with tiny frosting. The red isn’t even red like that. It looks like the baker ran out of colouring. Maybe the girl even ordered it herself to pepper us. Maybe she even borrowed to buy it.

Let me deviate a bit. I was on TikTok the other day and saw this lady running an ad. She was renting money bouquets and hot air balloon treat boxes. WHAT? Is it now that bad? Five thousand naira for one hour. I laughed out loud. Wonders will indeed never end.

Back to my story.

It finally got to my turn, and I filled up my bucket and left without telling the guy who permitted me to fetch thank you. I always say thank you. Trust me, it wasn’t deliberate. It’s the fault of you know who (lovers).

As I was heading to the entrance, I saw a girl who had come to pick her package climbing back up. I was tired and hangry, that's hungry plus angry. The weight of the bucket made everything worse, plus the banging headache.

Now, don’t ask me why I carried it on my head knowing fully well that I had a headache. You’ll find out soon.

I hadn’t eaten the night before because I was busy thinking of a way to wicked one relationship person. Actually there was no light, my torch, phone, and everything was down, my gas had finished and I was too shy to beg. I just snacked on dry golden morn.

I started walking slowly, waiting for her to get to the door before me. When she was almost there, I rushed in too, and in the course of that, her rubbish, scanty money bouquet touched me. The moment I had been waiting for. God finally delivered the Philistines into my hands. And I had already posted my warning, so nobody can say I didn’t warn everybody. I made it public. I then tripped and fell. The water from the bucket splashed on us, soaking her money bouquet and her jeans.

AMARA 1 : 0 LOVERS.

I immediately started apologizing. I told her I couldn’t see properly without my glasses and that I was sorry. As I was doing that, I noticed something. The flower in her money bouquet wasn’t even real.

IT WAS PLASTIC! Mama G, you need to see this.

Well, the entire bouquet wasn’t drenched, so she could still dry it. Other people who heard her shout came and even apologized on my behalf, telling her the damage wasn’t much. My baby face also helped. Please, don't try this at home. Honestly, I was relieved because if she had made me pay for it… where would I have started from? God knows my heart, and my budget.

What went wrong?

What did I do wrong?

Where did it start to fall apart?

You look for a moment you can name. A choice. A mistake. Something solid enough to blame. But there is nothing. You just woke up one day and realized the warmth was gone. It left you slowly, the way ink drains from a pen. You keep writing because you think there is still enough. You do not notice the thinning lines, the fading words. Then one day the page tells on you. The gaps are too obvious to ignore. You begin to wonder what you wrote, what you poured out so freely that it emptied you this completely.

You wish you had answers to give the people who ask with concern in their voices. You wish you had answers for yourself. You no longer recognize who you are becoming. You stand in front of mirrors longer than necessary, studying your own face, trying to convince yourself that your soul was swapped with someone else’s. You know it isn’t true. You have always known. But the lie is sweeter than the truth. So you keep it. You let it stay. And slowly, you're forced to fall in love with this unfamiliar version of yourself. Not because she is better or healed. But because she is the one who learned how to stay.

Let me tell you how my first visit turned into my final one, how I proved my mother right about why children shouldn’t get too comfortable in other people’s houses.

I was six or seven. The sky outside had settled into that bluish evening shade, and it was a few minutes past six. We were at Neme’s house, sitting on the cool tiled floor of their parlour, eyes fixed on a small television balanced on a wooden stand. One of those Mount Zion movies was playing, probably Battle of Faith. It was the kind where everyone spoke in heavy, prayerful tones and whispers. It was one of those rare days we were miraculously allowed to visit the neighbors, so we had to milk it properly. Even better, my dad wasn’t at home. And that meant freedom had stretched its legs in our house.

I glanced at the wall clock. The minute hand was creeping too close to the hour. Our time was almost up. I signalled my siblings with my eyes. My brother suggested we wait ten more minutes. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling fan slicing through the air above us, its steady hum blending with the voices from the TV. The movie had already lost my interest. My thoughts drifted. Then Neme’s sister walked in with their dinner.A plastic tray. A mound of pale looking garri in a bowl, soup sitting thick and yellow beside it. The smell of egusi quietly filled the room. We all knew the Nigerian code in moments like this. Either ignore the food completely or hurry up and leave before it became an invitation. We were taught never to eat at people’s houses. Just then, Neme asked his sister to bring him more soup. I looked at him. Soup stains dotted the front of his shirt, careless and bright. Something about it irritated me, the mess, the expectation, the way he sat there waiting to be served.And before I could stop myself, the words slipped out.

“Can’t you get it yourself? Is she your maid?”

Silence. The ceiling fan suddenly sounded too loud.

I didn’t even realize what I had done until Neme’s aunty walked in, her wrapper swishing, eyes scanning the room.

“Who said that?”

My heart knocked once in my chest. But I raised my hand.

“I did.”

Because I was a visitor, she didn’t do much. She only warned me never to speak like that again. But the moment had already ended the visit. We left immediately. Outside, the evening air felt colder than before. When we got home, my brother told my mother what happened. And I got what I deserved. I never went back to that house. Or any other. And strangely, I never regretted what I said.

Situationships should be banned.

Not managed. Not explained. Not “communicated through.”

Banned.

Because whoever coined that term did a good job. You’re truly in a situation — one you have no idea how it will end, or if it will end at all. You’re just there. Floating. Hoping. Guessing. Giving pieces of yourself to something that has no name but still has power over your heart. No one deserves to live in the emotional waiting room of a relationship that refuses to define itself.

Tell me why are you up at night? Not reading your books. Not watching a movie. Not working. Just waiting. Waiting for someone who probably doesn’t even remember you exist to send a text. Or call. It makes you go crazy.

You start reading meaning into useless things. Unnecessary things. You become a theorist overnight, analyzing every conversation, every post, every text, every silence.

You notice the jewelry the girls on his status wear, checking if any match what he’s gifted before. You send your male friends’ arms on Snapchat just to see if he’ll notice. You plot, you scheme, you wait for the tiniest reaction. You try to make him jealous and fully expect him to react. All these, just to be seen. To be noticed by someone who claims to care.

He doesn’t reply to your text, so you swear on your best friend’s life that you’ll never text him again. Then he finally replies. And guess who comes running back three seconds after being ignored for two weeks? You.

On other days, he’s a darling, calling every night. Adjusting his voice to that exact pitch that makes you want to drown in it. Texting every day, saying he loves you. And you believe because why not?

And just like that, your heart does somersaults like a child on a trampoline. You laugh at the absurdity, even as it hurts, even as you wonder if he feels any of it.

And yet somehow, you can’t leave. You stay. You hope. You forgive. You rationalize. You are caught. Trapped. Hooked. Stockholm syndrome for the heart.

Then one day, your brain finally sends a signal. And you realize your primary school teachers were probably glazing you when they wrote “She is intelligent and well behaved” on your report sheet because in this situation, you are nothing but a fool.

And the funny part is that even as you see it, you would do it all over again without thinking twice.

Like every other Nigerian, my bank was the first to send a birthday text, followed closely by MTN. It’s always like that, before every other message rolls in. I slept over at Kate’s because we had something to work on and were presenting it the next day. We got ready in a hurry, the smell of hair products and perfume hanging in the room. And since she had a car, I was happy nothing would spoil my steeze. In her haste, she left toothpaste smeared on the sink. I noticed it, of course. But I didn’t complain. I mean… it was my birthday. Kate didn’t remember it. I’ll never forgive her.

At work, nobody remembered either.

My phone lay face-up on the desk, lighting up only for spam messages and group chat noise. I kept waiting for that sudden hush, that conspiratorial laughter, the shuffle of chairs being pulled aside — the kind of surprise I’d seen in movies. Instead, there was only the steady whir of the ceiling fan and the dry taste of disappointment settling at the back of my tongue. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pained.

Then came the real ache: my boyfriend didn’t wish me a happy birthday. Some people might think it’s trivial, but for me, it’s a big deal. I never forget his. Never. We’d had rounds of arguments about how his constant forgetting didn’t sit well with me, and how the belated birthday cake he ordered a week later never quite healed the disappointment. So this year, I left Post-it notes on his refrigerator two weeks before my birthday, their bright colors shouting reminders in a kitchen he couldn’t ignore.

Evening came. Still nothing.

Everyone knows I’m not the type to post birthday pictures, so I put up a meme on my WhatsApp status, just enough to remind him I still existed. He was the third person to view it. I watched the number sit there, unmoving, my thumb hovering over his name, the glow of my screen washing over my face. No typing bubble. No call. Just silence.

I held myself together till closing time. My feet ached, my chest felt tight, and I swallowed every emotion on the bus ride home.

When I got home, the lights went off almost immediately, which only heightened my annoyance. Darkness swallowed the living room. I rushed in, hands outstretched, groping blindly until my fingers found the solar bulb switch. Before I could flip it, the lights burst on.

A striking white light. I was seeing double for a moment.

There was a faint smell of cake. Vanilla, or was it coconut?

Small hands wrapped around my waist.

Voices too loud, too excited.

Oh, not again.

“Happy birthday, Mummy!”

There was a cake.

“World’s Best Mum,” it read, the icing slightly uneven, made with love.

It was my kids and my husband. They had planned another surprise. Again. They never forgot my birthday.

There’s plenty of love at home. And cake too.

And as for my boyfriend? He’s now an ex. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Don’t let your boyfriend stop you from loving your man.

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Until it is you.

A Monday morning, sometime in 2017. Junior secondary school. That is when you realize the villains in those movies had reasons too. And worse, you understand them.

That day, you had a math class. Your teacher was a corps member, jovial, patient, and good at his job. He made math feel less hostile. As someone who hated the subject with devotion, you somehow understood whenever he taught.

He gave an assignment in the last class and warned that it was due that morning. No stories. Just submission.

When it was time, you searched your bag.

Nothing.

That was when it dawned on you that you were in trouble. Real trouble. You racked your brain, trying to remember where you last saw the notebook. You were sure you did the assignment, in class, immediately after he gave it. The only memory you could cling to was leaving your notebook with Jane. To this day, you do not know whether that memory was real or convenient. But you had lent her your notebook before, and with no way to prove your innocence, you decided to tell the teacher that you gave it to her and she forgot to return it.

That was your escape.

He called students out alphabetically, collecting the assignments right in front of him to be sure the names matched. You had an advantage. You could cry on command. And who would not believe a small girl shaking and shedding tears uncontrollably?

You started the performance early. You asked Jane for your notebook. She said she did not have it. By the time it was over, you had convinced not just the teacher but the entire class that Jane took your book.

No one believed her.

Your plan worked. You were not flogged.

When you got home, you found the notebook on your reading table.

You felt bad. Briefly.

The guilt did not last long, because now you had a new problem. You needed to make sure everyone still believed Jane had it. You went to school early the next day and slipped the notebook into her locker without anyone noticing. When she arrived and saw it there, she convinced herself that you had indeed left it with her.

Afterward, you felt something close to what Judas must have felt. Disgust. Shock. A quiet horror at how easily you had lied, how quickly you had thought, adapted, and executed. You had not known you were capable of that.

But what stayed with you was not just the lie. It was the ease of it.

You wondered why you did not stop yourself, why you did not hesitate even once. Why you did not simply admit the truth when you found the notebook at home. Why, instead of letting the lie die, you carried it further and placed the book in Jane’s locker with deliberate care. You questioned why self-preservation mattered more than fairness, why fear made you cruel, and why you did not hold back at any point throughout the entire process.

That was when you grasped that being a villain isn’t always obvious; sometimes it’s subtle and still. Sometimes, it looks like survival. Sometimes, it feels justified. And you realized then that it does not take much to be a villain. It does not require grand evil or cruelty. It only takes being human.

This is a piece about the moment you realized you were not the same person anymore.

Except the villain in this story is not you.

It is me.

There are years that build you, and there are years that strip you down to the bone so you can see what is left. This was that kind of year for me. I will not dress it up or make it sound softer than it was. It was heavy, the kind of weight you learn to breathe under.

I kept going anyway, even when I was not sure why. And somewhere inside all of that, I realized something about pessimism: when you are used to pain, you do not stay long with joy. You notice the good, yes, but you do not trust it. You hold it loosely, afraid that believing too hard might make it disappear.

Yet this was also the year I was genuinely happy. And yes, I was happy in a loud way. I laughed loudly. I spoke loudly. I talked to people I had never met before like I was already close to them. That still surprises me.

My friends and I hosted a book club meeting, and that day did something to me. It was not quiet freedom. It was the kind that spills over. I felt fully alive. I did not hide. I did not shrink. I did not adjust myself to fit into a space that was not made for me. I let myself exist as I was. I let my soul breathe. I stayed in the moment instead of rushing past it.

For the first time in a long while, I felt happy with people around me. Truly happy. I had never felt that free, not even with people I had known for years. Some of them were strangers, yet I felt safe. Seen. I talk about that day whenever I can because it matters to me. It reminds me that joy is possible, even after everything. It is a moment I do not think I will ever get over. Ever.

This year, I also joined a writing community. Somehow, it became one of the softest places I have known. I enjoyed every single moment we spent analyzing our stories, pulling them apart gently, finding meaning in lines we did not even know we had written with intention. I enjoyed planning meetups that never happened, the long conversations, the shared excitement. I loved the sense of family we built, even though we were strangers. Even though we came from different places. It taught me that connection does not need time. It needs honesty.

It was there I realized something important: the real you is not static. It is flexible. It shifts depending on who you are with. Different versions of you show up in different rooms. Your personality bends, your voice changes, your laughter sounds different. That does not mean you are fake or lost. It just means you are human.

But this year still took a lot from me.

I lost myself academically. When I think about the promises I made to myself at the beginning of the year, I do not laugh because they were silly. I laugh because they were hopeful. I wanted better. I believed I could do more. The big academic comeback we all swear we will have next semester. The clean slate. The version of ourselves that finally gets it right.

Instead, I took on too much. I joined things. I chased growth. I stacked deadlines on top of exams and convinced myself I could handle it. My days were crowded. My head was loud. I was overstimulated almost every day, always rushing, always behind, always trying to prove something. I lived close to tears.

There were so many obstacles during my exams, and instead of slowing down, I pushed harder. I stretched myself beyond what I knew was safe because I wanted to be better. I did not realize how much I was breaking myself until my body stopped cooperating. I collapsed in class. One moment I was there, the next I was not.

And in those few minutes, I felt peace. Real peace. I do not remember much. I do not know who held me. But I remember the silence. I remember not thinking. If you have never lived inside your thoughts every second of the day, you will not understand why that moment felt like relief. Why stillness felt like mercy.

It was also during this period that I had thoughts I have never said out loud. Thoughts that scared me. I did not give in, but knowing how close I came is something I still carry with me.

Even now, I’m not sure where I stand with some of my feelings. I don’t know if I’ve truly moved on, or if I’ve just learned to numb myself. Sometimes I choose to ignore certain memories, because that quiet brings a strange kind of peace, and because punishing myself no longer feels like growth.

I know one thing for certain: if the past ever presented itself again, a part of me might reach for it without hesitation. Or maybe that was just my younger self. I honestly don’t know anymore. That uncertainty scares me. And I hope that moment never comes, because the last time it did, it left me drained in ways I’m still healing from.

I lost opportunities this year too. Not because I was not capable, but because I doubted myself. I talked myself out of rooms I belonged in. I hesitated when I should have stepped forward. And when I look back now, it hurts, because the opportunities I forced myself to take, I did well. I showed up. So why was I so quick to believe I would not?

This was also the year I wrote the most. I wrote openly. I wrote for others to read.

And they liked it.

That mattered.

This year did not give me any major win, or maybe I was too hungry for more to notice that the small wins actually meant something. I ticked off things on my list, but I did not let myself feel proud of them. I am learning now to celebrate even the smallest victories, to clap for myself quietly, but also not let those tiny wins become a ceiling that convinces me I have already done enough and stops me from reaching for the bigger ones.

And the truth is, even though I pushed myself, I still ended the year feeling like I did not do much. Like I was running and running but not arriving anywhere. And maybe that is part of the ache. How a year can feel full and empty at the same time.

Now I am about to write a bucket list for next year, not knowing if it will turn out any better than the last. Life is funny that way. We do not know how things will end, yet we believe anyway. We plan anyway. We hope anyway.

Like I told my friends, there is something about starting over that feels like relief. Even if it is fragile. Even if it is imperfect. Even if it is just something we do to survive.

And maybe, for now, that is enough.

There are some people we look at and wonder why we worry at all. Bob was an example. He was always cheerful, never angry. I always wondered if he ever cried. He had this perpetual smile plastered on his face—one I initially thought was a facade until I realized that not everyone was as bitter as I was.

When I first moved into the flat, I was disappointed. It wasn’t what I expected. The ceilings were low—so low that if I were tall enough and stretched on my toes, I could touch them. The paint on the walls wasn’t any better. They were peeling, and I wasn’t pissed because they were peeling; I was pissed because my fingers couldn’t resist ruining them even more. I don’t know what I expected with my meagre earnings. The living room was bare, except for a brown, damp-looking couch and a framed painting of a nearly nude, dark-skinned woman.

Bob came in smiling and offered to help me set up. He even offered to buy takeout that same day. “Visitor’s treatment,” he said. I didn’t expect such warmth from a flatmate, and truthfully, I didn’t expect it to last. I was the type of person who braced for disappointment because good things never stayed long with me. So when Bob kept showing up in the same steady, gentle way for weeks, then months, I didn’t know when it happened, but I stopped watching the exits. I let myself relax. I let myself believe him.

He brought colour into my life. Made me realize that we only live once, and we shouldn’t spend our short stay here being unnecessarily miserable. He was there when I had my first breakup, day before my professional exam. He told me I had enough time to cry after the papers. He was there when I failed two exams too. I was curled up on my bed, crying my eyes out, scared I would run out of tears if I didn’t stop. He held me close, so close I could smell the detergent lingering on his shirt. He brought warmth into my life, the same warmth I had been seeking tirelessly.

Sometimes I wondered if he was a guardian angel sent to fill the vacuum in my life because I met him at exactly the right time. I hadn’t felt so loved, platonically, before. I finally had a safe space.

And sometimes, I asked myself if I ever gave back as much as he did. He never talked about having issues. I never asked. So I decided to treat him that day—a little payback for being there for me.

It was raining, and I had no umbrella. I was scared the parcel I carried would get drenched and ruin my surprise.

I pushed the door open, dripping, clutching the parcel to my chest, ready to say, “Bob, guess what—”

But the apartment was quiet.

Turned out I was the one being surprised, because the last person I expected to see dangling from the ceiling the moment I stepped in wasn’t my angel. Limp. White. Gone. And worst of all—he still had that same smile plastered on his face. The one I thought meant he was okay.

The one I trusted.

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The problem was instant. A confusing shock of heat, like a sudden jolt of power, would shoot through you whenever his skin touched your skin. It felt good, and you knew it was wrong. You should have moved, should have pulled away, but you were stuck. You desperately wanted the strange feeling to last, and that wish filled you with a deep, hidden guilt.

It began quietly, with his smile, a flash that was too bright, all pale gums and gleaming, broad teeth. You smiled back without thinking, never knowing that such a simple thing was a way to tell him yes. Soon, his touch was on purpose, staying too long whenever he took your hand. You made excuses for it, telling yourself it meant nothing.

The bad things got worse. He would always ask to play hide-and-seek, telling you to hide with him because he "knew the best corners." And you always agreed. That was the first time he held your waist. You were hidden at the back of the house, completely alone. That day, you felt that confusing electric jolt for the first clear time.

He kept pushing boundaries. One day, you fell asleep on the couch and woke up right away, you are a light sleeper, because his hand was resting on your inner thigh. You lay there frozen, shocked, but you didn't move. You mean, you were sleeping; you had no idea what was happening. You later cried because you did nothing. You told nobody. The silence felt like the only way to carry the heavy shame.

He made it a habit. Once, at the kiosk on a Sunday morning, he pressed himself against you in public. You just felt something hard against your back, and when you turned, it was him. You thought it was his belt and tried to ignore it. At every gathering, he would sit next to you, sneaking his hand under your top to gently squeeze the skin on your waist. You grew deeply uneasy, but you knew no one would believe you. He was the compound’s favorite kid, the oldest, the one everyone called the safest.

Your internal retreat became visible. You started skipping events where you had to see him. When he sat near you, you quickly changed seats, or rushed out with a weak excuse the moment he tried to sit beside you. You were desperate to escape being near him.

The situation became unbearable when another girl from the street mentioned, quietly, that he had touched her, too. It was like a cold, hard stone dropped into your stomach. It wasn't just you being crazy or imagining things. It was a pattern. The knowledge that you weren't alone lasted only a second, then a terrible dread washed over you. He was hurting others. You felt sick for her, and sicker for keeping quiet yourself. You went home and cried until your eyes burned. The shame wasn't just yours anymore; it was a bigger, heavier feeling.

The day you were sick and taking a bath was the day everything snapped. You didn't know he was outside until you reached for the soap and saw him: his face pressed right up against the glass. He had been there waiting. The sight of him looking was like a punch to your chest, stealing your breath. In that moment, the confusion and the guilt vanished. It was replaced by a pure, icy-cold hate. He took the last safe place from you. You were totally exposed. That day, you decided you were done being silent. You didn't shout, but inside, you broke. The change showed later: You started jumping, pulling back, flinching anytime anyone, even a friend, accidentally brushed your arm. It was your body’s way of finally screaming.

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It’s that day again, the day we turn a year older.

Nobody talks about you anymore. Everyone moved on as though nothing had shattered.

I once said I couldn’t live without you, yet here I am, breathing, surviving.

The cruel thing about life is how it keeps going, how it forces us to live with absence until it no longer tastes bitter. We never truly move on; we just grow around the ache.

Since you’re not here, let me tell you what’s become of me. I know you’ll never read this, or the other letters I’ve whispered into the years, but I’ll write anyway. It’s the only language we ever spoke, the only one that let us bleed safely, even when words trembled on our tongues.

You’d have so many questions, I know. I don’t even know where to begin.

I didn’t write to you on our birthday last year, and I still curse myself for it. Maybe that’s why you’ve been showing up in my dreams lately, tapping softly at the edge of my sleep, reminding me I owed you one.

I grew older without you. But I never grew away from you. You’re woven into who I am, a quiet echo that shapes every version of me.

You’d want to know what growing up feels like. I’ll tell you. It feels like being trapped in a life that never stops demanding. No one calls me Baby anymore. Sometimes I wish I could stay small forever, untouched by duty or time.

Adulthood feels like dragging luggage four times your weight, chained to your wrist. You can’t cut it off, so you keep walking, hoping it lightens. Sometimes, someone with a lighter load helps you carry yours for a while.

Anxiety and self-doubt became my closest shadows. The same girl who once memorized her morning speech a day before, who spoke clearly so the headmistress could hear every word, now forgets her lines. The girl who led the march-past because she was small but sure falters now.

You’d be disappointed by how far I’ve stumbled. The A student is now battling mediocrity..

You were there when I scored nine out of ten in that essay. You taught me punctuation and patience. You weren’t angry that I got a nine; you were angry that I could have gotten ten. You always wanted me to outdo myself.

You’ve missed so much. I wish you’d lived long enough to see Substack. You’d love it. I write there now. You never met Twitter either, chaos and beauty in equal measure. It’s funny, you only knew Facebook. Most people don't use it anymore. You’ll laugh at this. That lower abdominal pain we used to fear has a name: Mittelschmerz. It just sounds exactly how it feels. You weren’t dying. Other girls feel it too.

Remember that night you said you were screaming but no one could hear you? The one I didn’t believe? You said you tried to stretch, to move, but you couldn't. It has a name, too: sleep paralysis. Everything has a name now. Even the ghosts we thought were ours alone.

And people don’t buy paper recharge cards anymore. Everyone buys airtime through their bank apps. Dipping bread in tea is now called “diabolical.”

No Super Snax. No Fantasia. No Baker’s Chef. Capri-Sonne, Happy Hour, and Bobo all taste different now, bland, almost sad. But I saw Krakjak in a shop near school the other day and smiled. Oh, and those tiny white flowers we once thought were baby roses? They’re called pale globe amaranth. Who names these things? It's even rhyming with my name.

Sometimes I wonder what you’d think of how fast the world spins now. Maybe it’s mercy that you left before it began to blur. Your absence forced me to grow, to become independent in ways I never imagined.

I no longer wait for you to cross-check my assignments. There’s this thing called ChatGPT that helps me now. It’s like you, but small enough to fit in my phone. Smart ass. I can cross the road by myself now, though my heart still races each time.

I write more than ever. You remember that day someone said your story was copied from another book? You threw it away and stopped writing. I wish you hadn’t. I picked up your pen after you left. You’d be proud of what I’ve written, especially the pieces no one’s allowed to see. I joined a writing community. They’ve been kind, and they’ve helped me grow. You’d love them.

I no longer ruin my pap. I’ve mastered it now. You’d be jealous. And guess what? I like cashew nuts. You always prayed that day would never come because you always had my share. It came anyway. You just weren’t here to see it.

I feel both wiser and smaller, a child trapped in a grown woman’s body.

If growing up means becoming smarter, then I’ve failed spectacularly. I still can’t tell which sign means “less than” or “greater than.” But I’ve learned that just intelligence isn’t proof of growth. I still can’t chew rice properly, I just swallow. I chew my garri. I eat yams, plantains or potatoes before eggs. Bananas and groundnuts still feel like a crime when eaten together. Why not eat them one after the other?

Heels still defeat me. You were the heels girl; I’m still a flats-and-sandals person. I still count my steps when I walk or climb stairs. I barely sleep these days.

I haven’t made cheese yet. We used to plan it, remember? We just never found renin. We watched the most random DIYs on your mom's phone. Cheese, how to make paper from elephant dung and the rest.

I’m even more forgetful than you were. Remember your missing school fees receipt? You swore it was in your English textbook. Your mom warned you not to keep things in books, but you never listened. We found it eventually, on page forty-six. You were bathed in sweat that day.

I still read a lot, but not as much as you did. You were a beast. I once finished three books in a day and still felt like an amateur beside you.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend. Don’t laugh.

And no, I haven’t kicked anyone since Michael. You thought that kick was hilarious; I thought I’d killed him.

I lost your memorandum, that book of abbreviations and strange words from your dad’s shelves, and every other random word you bumped into.

And I burned your Me Book. It carried too much sorrow. I needed to let it go.

But I still have that tiny white bag you gave me. I’ve carried it twice. People say it’s cute. I finally traced the Nsibidi letters that spelt our names. I still drop letters for you in the blue shoebox, the one that once held our hoarded Indomie stickers. Don’t ask how many. Enough to fill the years. I wonder if you’d still laugh at my jokes. Those loud, throaty sounds you made even when my jokes were dry. I miss them.

I can sew now. I’d have made you scrunchies. Do you even know what those are?

And I braid my hair now, no more short cuts. I didn’t grow much taller, still the tiniest in every room.

I still cry easily, even when I don’t want to. That’s when I miss you most, because you’d have fought whoever made me cry.

I can’t remember the last time I ran. I haven’t been to the stadium since our last visit. So many things ended when you left. It’s like you carried a piece of me with you.

I miss you. Desperately.

I’d say “in ways words can’t express,” but I’ve never believed that. Words exist so we can express. Yet somehow, I still can’t find the right ones. Maybe they haven’t been invented yet. I don’t just think of you on our birthday. I think of you every day.

Do you ever think of me?

You don’t even know what I look like now. Just imagine Baby, stretched taller and topped with a pair of glasses.

Are you happy? Did you make new friends?

Do you still think of that dead pig we saw on the road home from school, crushed to pulp, poor thing?

Do you still wonder if birds get tired midair? Did you figure where flies sleep at night and where dragonflies go when they're out of season?

If Ralph and Sulphus ever had children, angels, devils, or hybrids?

Did you ever ask Jesus if He loved the girls more? Remember that song?

Everything I do echoes you.

I even sleep like you did, legs curved in a V, hands tucked beneath my head. You said it was the best position.

I still smell every book I read, page after page. You said it was sacred, that I should honor the trees that gave their lives so I could have stories.

I wish you hadn’t left so soon. You’d have helped me reply to all the birthday messages. You’d laugh. People still say “bday.”

Flying cars, they said.

Still waiting.

Oh, and I never figured out how many eggs Cordelia Kenn used to make that giant omelette.

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“It’s not so difficult, just go out there.” Most people without severe anxiety think everyone finds it as easy as they do, and it makes me wonder. If it were that easy, I wouldn't be sweating profusely or box-breathing just because I want to speak. Nobody wants to be that way. Every single person I know who is struggling with anxiety or overthinking (because they come hand in hand) is finding a way to leave that cage.

Personally, it's not a place I want to be, because with what I've set my mind to achieve in life, I need to learn to manage my anxiety. So when people tell me that it's not that hard, do it, it makes me feel like all the effort I've been putting in so far is a waste. Like I'm not trying at all.

“Do you think this thing you're doing is good?”

I'm trying man, I'm trying so hard. This is even the improved me.

What Anxiety Feels Like For Some People.

Your stomach twists and rumbles, your teeth chatter, and suddenly a cold shiver runs through you. You stamp your foot repeatedly, dig your nails into your thumb, and chew your lower lip until it hurts.

Your chest feels tight, your heart pounds like it’s trying to jump out, and you can’t catch your breath.

You whisper the grounding technique again and again. You try box breathing.

Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm… it’s nothing… it’s nothing…

But it doesn’t help. For some people, this isn’t just a moment—it’s every day, and it never really stops.

I remember not sleeping properly because of something someone said to me. I was supposed to be angry at him, but no. I was angry at myself for reasons I can't wrap my head around. I needed reassurance. I needed someone to continuously tell me that I wasn't at fault even when it was clearly evident that I wasn't at fault.

It's always the smallest, unreasonable things that make me go crazy. The valid ones? Oh, I lose myself. My red lights go off. I'm really grateful for the people around me, who—no kidding—when I call them, try so hard to calm me down.

Most times you get asked:

"It's nothing, why are you overthinking it?"

Honestly, I don't know. A part of me just wants to. Not because I'm bored. No. Because I feel the need to.

I can't explain why I'm about to go crazy because of something someone said or did to me. I can't explain why I have sleepless nights trying to dissect every single sentence, word by word. Why my head keeps spinning because of that single conversation, wishing it never happened.

The funny thing is—you’re the one who’s sleep deprived. The other party is probably living their life, unbothered.

I'll drop some tips I think might help:

1. Run to God: "Casting all your anxieties to Him, because He cares for you." (1 Peter 5:7) Do not take God's word for granted. This particular verse will always live in my head. Someone spoke to me one day, and asked me to read my Bible. That it helps. During the course of that, I stumbled on this verse. I always recite it over and over again. Some other verses I read soothed me—they reminded me that my maker is always there for me. I wondered why I didn't run to Him initially. I wondered why I waited for too long, to be eaten up this bad, before I asked for help.

   Prayer helps too. Talk to God. Make it a habit. No matter how short it may be. Even if you think you do not have the exact words to say to Him, just say it the same way it comes to your head.

2. Ask for help: This may sound funny, especially to my fellow Nigerians that think seeing a doctor is not worth it. When it becomes overwhelming and you can't handle it, visit a doctor (well, if you have the resources). There are professionals out there who know how these things work and can be of help.

3. Companionship: Have the right people around you. People who value you. Genuine friendship is an underrated concept. Having the right friends can change a lot in your life. People to reassure you and tell you that it wasn't your fault, people to talk to when it's too much for you. People who do not see you as a burden. This helps a lot.

4. Unplug: If music, books, movies, going out, painting or whatever hobby does it for you, please, go ahead and do it often. Release, unwind. Do what makes you happy. It helps you forget so many things. That little time you have to yourself can be so comforting. Constantly remind yourself that you too deserve freedom, happiness. You deserve to feel light. Remind yourself that most times the incessant worries aren't worth it. If words of affirmation are your thing, to then go for it.

5. Dare: Give that brave act a try. That particular act that your anxiety has been hindering. Go for it. Practice makes perfect. It doesn't have to be perfect at first. It's okay to have flaws as you start. We're all prone to make mistakes. All it takes is one step, then consistency and discipline.

I'm genuinely rooting for anyone out there who is fighting anxiety, anyone who has to do the grounding technique to get rid of what's in their head, anyone whose head is always spiralling with thoughts over little things that do not really matter, or anyone who blames themselves just to make others feel better.

If you have tips that helped you out, feel free to share in the comments.

And about curing anxiety in three days?

The truth is, I don't think you can. But you can start. And starting is the first step to freedom.

It reminded me of my dad. He could never stand a disarranged reading table. He always made us arrange the books properly—sorted by size, ownership, and importance. As a child, I would grumble at his complaints about scattered books, yet today I find myself doing the exact thing. Without even thinking, I arrange my own books in the very order he taught me.

We leave parts of ourselves with people, and they leave parts of themselves with us. It is inevitable, especially with those we have spent a long time with. It can be little things, like saving contacts the same way they did, texting, or saying a particular word they always said. Liking a particular song because they did, fancying a particular meal, dress, or art because they loved it. It can come in so many ways. We may not even realize it until later.

Souvenirs. Reminders. Memories.

Like everything else, they can be good or bad.

We may remember some and curse ourselves for it. The mere act of sniffing your dress mid-ironing, to see if it still smells of the fabric softener, can ruin your day.

We may see a picture or hear music somewhere, and suddenly we are taken back to the days we detest the most, the day we lost someone or something precious or a part of us.

In the same way, we can also be reminded of the beautiful memories we had or shared with people by the smallest things.

Every time I catch myself doing something like that, I am reminded of the person who left that piece of themselves with me. Most times, I wonder what people think of the souvenirs I have left with them.

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Here’s my secret: I like games.

Yes, you heard me right. I can almost hear Tony laughing already. I’ve always said I hated games. I wore that hatred like a badge, slipping it into conversations whenever I could.

When I was a child, I didn’t play many games. I stayed indoors, flipping through my dad’s bookshelf, rereading the same magazines, big books and journals, most of which I barely understood but read anyway. I was the quiet one, the boring child.

Football.

There weren’t many girls around me at home. When my brother and his friends played football and I begged to join, they’d shove me into the goalpost. Goalkeeper. Because I was a “JB”—someone who sucked at football. Nobody wanted to pick me. Who wanted to play with a girl? Girls ruined the game. They thought they were doing me a favour by just letting me stand there.

Board Games.

I wasn’t all bad at games. I could hold my own in a few board games, and most times, I even won. Those wins felt good, but to me, they were small victories—quiet ones. They never filled the same space that video games seemed to occupy in my heart.

Video Games.

We had Grand Theft Auto on our old laptop. I was terrible at it. I couldn’t hold the keys properly. My brother played with ease, while I… I got mugged even before I could steal my first car. I stopped taking turns and just watched him play because he made it look effortless, like magic. I envied him—how did he do it with such finesse? Maybe that’s why I always wanted to master video games. Not just to play, but to play like him.

Somewhere along the way, my envy turned into dislike. I told myself games weren’t for me. Maybe I was too scared to try, too afraid of failing again. Maybe I convinced myself that I enjoyed it more when others played, so I didn’t have to risk the embarrassment.

But the first time I played a racing game, something inside me shifted. I felt free, like a knot had finally loosened. Was this what I’d been missing all along? That carefreeness, that wild joy, those moments where you pocket maturity and just laugh. Not the polite giggles, but loud, throaty laughter that drags you back to childhood.

So, Tony, this one’s for you.

I like games. So much.

Sometimes I still say I don’t, just because you’re obsessed with them. I wish I was better at them.

I wish I could play football and hear people scream my name after a mad dribble. I wish I could hold a controller and play effortlessly.

Here’s the truth I never said out loud:

I like games. And maybe, one day, I’ll play without fear, and love every moment of it.

Hallowed be thy name,

thy kingdom come.

I whisper as I blink away the tears clouding my glasses. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. Wrecked. Bloodstains blotch my scrub, faint enough, I hope, not to drag too much attention. My keys slip between my fingers, the cursed tote bag swallowing them whole. Across the corridor, my neighbor mops in silence. Two years in this building, and I still don’t know her name. I don’t know anyone’s name. I turn to offer a faint good afternoon, but her eyes slice through me, cold and unblinking.

Thy will be done

on earth,

as it is in heaven.

Inside, the first thing I do is strip. Then I fold into myself on the floor, knees pressed to chest, tears streaming hot and endless. Five things I can see. Four things I can touch. Three things I can hear… I chant it, layering the prayer over the grounding ritual, desperate for something to hold me.

Give us this day

our daily bread.

My water bottle lies abandoned on the floor. I gulp greedily, hoping that it'd push down the lump in my throat, but it doesn't. Then I stagger to turn on the fan. Sweat pours down my body. My heart hammers. I collapse again, dizzy, drowning in tears.

Forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those

who trespass against us.

A cold bath, maybe? I am trembling and sweating all at once. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. The mantra breaks from my lips like a hymn.

I killed a man. I wasn’t sure if he was dead yet. It all happened in a split second—he tried to touch me and I grabbed the very first thing I could lay my hands on, my pen, and stabbed him over and over, not minding where it landed. I killed a man. I killed someone. Jail. Manslaughter or murder? Jail. These thoughts rang in my head. How would I live with this memory?

And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from all evil.

Amen.

I am in the bathroom now, clutching my arms around me as if they can keep my heart from splitting apart. As if tears can wash away what I see. The first splash of water soothes me, briefly. I reach for the soap dish, but slip, my skull cracking against porcelain.

This is the moment I always dread, yet imagine again and again: dying alone, unseen, unheard. Blood seeps warm and steady, winding down the drain. Outside, my neighbor probably gives her floor a final sweep, never knowing I am bleeding out just a few feet away.

And still, somehow, I pray, pray that someone, anyone, will save me.

But nobody comes.

Deliver us from evil. Amen.

Most times, I wonder why I always turn my back on genuine love.

Maybe it’s because I’m scared—scared of ruining something I’ve never truly experienced. I forget that it doesn’t have to be perfect, that it’s okay to start out messy, learn, and grow. But fear won. I was too scared to try, too scared to open up.

I hold back a lot. I don’t always express myself because I worry. What would you think of my thoughts? What if I became too much, an emotional burden? What if I wanted to say how I felt but the words didn’t come out right? What if I loved you too much, and you thought I was just a broken girl?

There’s always so much going on in my head. My thoughts crash into each other, too overwhelming to voice at once. The pauses, the “neverminds”, they weren’t indifference. They were me trying to piece words together but stumbling midway. What if you never really gave me the chance to?

Maybe I am colour-blind, seeing red flags as green and green as red. Maybe I’m the problem. I never let you into my head as much as you let me into yours. I never echoed your “I love yous.” The words felt foreign, though I did love you. My tongue was just too heavy.

Deep down, I wanted to open up, to say “I love you too” instead of just smiling behind my phone with my legs curled up. I wished you were beside me so I could catch that scent lodged rent-free in my memory. To hear you tease me in person, not through a call. To look away shyly when you called me beautiful.

But I saved you from me. That’s why I kept my distance. I didn’t text or call, even though I longed to hear your voice, my sweetest undoing. I loved you, but I couldn’t say it. I didn’t want to drown you in my chaos. I was tired of the emotional rollercoaster, of loving and hating each other with the same intensity.

If only I saw you again, I’d hold your soft hands, breathe you in, and finally speak, no “neverminds” this time.

And if I don't, I hope we meet in another life. Maybe then, I’d be made lighter, able to love as fiercely as you loved me.

"One, two, seven, four, nine, six…" I count as I climb the escalator. My fingers trail along the cold rails, smooth, metallic, soothing. I was sneaking out again.

And before you ask, yes, I said escalator. I’m not crazy. The power’s just out, so it’s really a staircase.

The steps look uneven, like they’re breathing. Or maybe I’m tripping.

Outside, drizzle dots my hair and skin. I stand in it for a minute, eyes closed, drinking in that rain-earth smell. The word for it sits on the tip of my tongue, something I saw in one of the old magazines.

I wait here because I don’t want Carol to see me yet.

I’m shivering hard. It’s just drizzle. Why am I this cold?

Carol. God, Carol. Always checking if I have my phone. Always telling me,

"Annie, it’s time for bed."

"Annie, you’ve exceeded your screen time."

"Annie, eat your greens."

"Time for your pills."

Those chalky, bleach-tasting pills.

Oh, Carol, shut up for once.

Days like this are the only days I get to myself. The only days without Carol breathing down my neck, telling me what’s good for me.

It’s 6:30 AM, still dark, but I can make out figures across the road. They’re staring. At me.

Yes, it’s been a while since I stepped outside, but the way they’re looking, it’s too much.

You’re probably wondering why I’m out here this early, something strange is happening. First a dead rat on the kitchen counter. Two days later, a dead cat. I can’t stay there. Carol makes it worse. Says she wants to protect me. From danger.

Funny, because I’m the danger.

Carol thinks she knows everything, but she's so slow for someone who acts so smart.

Oh, there’s Carol now, running toward me with a blanket. Speak of the devil.

Why is everyone staring?

…Ah. Right. I forgot to wear my clothes again. Not on purpose this time. No wonder I’m so cold.

From the corner of my eye, I see the big glass doors sliding open behind her, the words St. Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital glinting in the drizzle.

She caught me again.

"Do you ever think of me?" she wondered.

She told herself this would be the last time. She would write what she had always wanted to say, even if it went unread. The scene in her head felt like Stan and Eminem—she was writing furiously, on a bus on her way to school. Don’t worry, I’m not going to crash or anything, she thought. Like you ever cared.

It was her last day as a secondary school student, and it felt too much. Everyone looked so pretty and handsome in their sparkly dresses, carefully ironed suits, mountain-high heels, and shiny loafers. They were all giggling, smiling, like they should. She envied them.

Their parents were there too, many in matching outfits; even the not-so-rich ones outdid themselves. Then there was her, the girl who never brought her mum to PTA, Open Day, or any other event.

She remembered the last day she saw her mother. Her hands interlocked with a man twice her age, stepping out of a sleek car, laughing with two step-kids dressed elegantly, her heart stopped.

She had looked so beautiful. Her skin was lighter; she could almost feel the softness even from a distance. She took in everything—perfectly lined brows, blazing red lipstick, Chimamanda-style. She looked stunning. She must have been happy then. Her mother was alive, breathing, happy.

And there she was, still in hand-me-downs. She ran back to her Aunt’s house and cried.

What made her cry that day was not just seeing her. It was the moment their eyes locked and she rushed to hug her, to at least touch her. Her mother turned and left. She ignored her completely. She left her there, stunned, tears clouding her glasses.

She left her again.

Again—because she had left when she was little. Passed down from one relative to another, she clung to the few memories she had: a faded picture of her parents hidden in a book, a worn scarf, a pair of shoes left behind. She arranged them in a shoebox, her little shrine. She called it her box of hope, because she believed her mother would come back.

She waited, sometimes standing at bus stops, other times crying herself to sleep, thinking something bad had happened. Maybe she had died. Maybe she was in the hospital. She gave her so many excuses, because she couldn’t believe a mother could leave her only baby.

But she had.

Her mother had been alive when she got her first period. It was her cousin who washed the sheets because she was too scared to touch them, too shocked at the sight of the blood.

Her mother had been alive when she was raped and needed someone to hold her, to tell her it wasn’t her fault. Ken had done his best, he heated water, led her to the bathroom, but he wasn’t her. She needed her mother to cradle her, to whisper she wasn’t tainted, to remind her she would be fine.

She needed her mother.

Now she sat in the last row of the auditorium, waiting to collect her prize. She planned to rush to the stage, smile, and leave quickly. She didn’t want to watch other children take pictures with their parents. She didn’t want the questions about where hers were.

The applause was loud, but not for her yet. Her palms sweated against the cheap fabric of her dress. She kept blinking at the stage lights so the tears wouldn’t spill.

"You should have been here, Ma," she thought. "You should be the one fixing my collar, whispering that you’re proud of me. But you’re not. You never are."

When they finally called her name, she rushed forward, managed a smile, even if it was fake and posed for the picture because she was meant to, not because she wanted to.

Outside, she took a deep breath and let the moment wash over her. Someone had seen her, someone appreciated her efforts.

It felt good to be seen.

Her mother hadn’t been there to clap for her like other parents did, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t stop the moment.

It was her moment.