Twisted Affection

Episode Two: Mirror Tasks

Emeka’s next email arrives before Amara’s morning tea: _My father called it a kindness game—do one good thing for the person you hurt. You don’t take credit; that ruins it._ She reads it at her desk while a patient’s file waits. She replies during a bathroom break, phone hidden behind soap dispenser: _Returning something beats checking on them. Try returning an object, or time._ Concrete. Safe. Therapist language.

She thinks Dayo would mock it—_your schemes to save everyone_—but also bring her plantain chips because she forgets lunch. They’ve settled into that

rhythm after ten months: she over-functions; he softens the edges. Yesterday he realigned her balcony latch without being asked. She felt cared for and slightly managed. She didn’t say either part aloud.

Clinic door has jammed for weeks. Facilities promised; nothing. Today it opens clean. Amara checks with security: no report, no work order. She rolls her bag through, unsettled. In her office she finds Emeka’s reply waiting from 6:03 a.m.: _Door hinges oiled. She liked that sound._ Amara’s throat tenses. Adaora—patient, recovering opioid use, five years clean—once mentioned her father oiled doors before trying apologies. Amara wrote

that note. She did not share it.

She pushes the coincidence down and goes clinical: Emeka is symbolizing repair. That’s progress. She feels the familiar tug—to be useful in someone’s pivot.

At lunch she shows Bisi the Adaora file left on her desk. Underlined in blue, her pen: _I only stay if I’m needed._ “Bisi, did you—?” Bisi shakes her head. “Get sleep, Amara. You’re the hero in every story today.” “It’s my job.” “Your job has office hours.”

She wants to tell Dayo. Instead she messages Emeka back fast: _Did you return what you took?_ Instantly

regrets the hunger in it. But already he replies: _Working on how._ She tucks her phone away, buzzing like a second pulse.

Home smells like peppers. Dayo spoons sauce, kisses her temple, asks about her day. She says jammed door fixed. He hums approval, passes her rice. When she mentions Adaora’s father, he still-faces for half a beat. “Sad blueprint,” he says, and she nods. Later, brushing teeth, she sees her blue pen on the bathroom counter, rolled parallel to the sink. Dayo never touches her pens. She rolls it back. She tells herself: *coincidences*.

She does a security sweep: balcony

door locked; keys in bowl (house key, clinic key, mailbox); windows latched. She texts Dayo: _All secure._ He replies with three kisses and a reminder about Ibadan weekend. While she’s typing back, she notices the closet by the front door—she keeps files in there—slid almost closed. She opens it; her spare clinic key is gone from the hook.

She debates calling Dayo. Hears his traffic podcast in the hallway (he’s home, she forgot). She slides the closet shut and adjusts her therapist voice in her head: _You are catastrophizing._ But another part—quieter—says: _You answered Emeka at 6:03 a.m. You’re doing his game

too._ Returning what was taken. She went looking for a breach, found it, and now she knows. That knowing feels like usefulness.

She goes to bed, Dayo’s arm warm over her waist. She lies awake, deciding whether retrieving her spare key would count as returning something, and who she’d be returning it to.