Twisted Affection

Episode Three: Over lap

The Adaora file stays on Amara’s mind like a bruise she keeps pressing. By Thursday she’s mentioned the underlined sentence twice to Bisi, who’s stopped answering and just brings her extra chin-chin. “Strong Amara,” Dayo says Friday as he presses cold water into her hand—she’s too warm, he noticed. He’s good at noticing. She’s good at explaining it away.

Saturday brunch with Ijeoma turns the key. Over zobo and gossip, Ijeoma slides her phone: “Tell me I’m paranoid.” Screenshot of a dating profile—guy in a black tee, Dayo’s jaw,

Dayo’s scar above his eyebrow, different name. Bio line: _I rehearse apologies like lines._ Amara’s stomach flips. She laughs to cover it: “Someone’s stealing your references.” Ijeoma rolls her eyes: “You literally said that last month about Dayo.”

Amara drives home in too much traffic, turning the coincidence over. She believes in patterns; she’s a therapist. Patterns mean something. She also believes Dayo, ten months of him, his hand on her knee at red lights, remembering her brother’s death anniversary. She chooses belief. She’ll make it a joke.

She finds him on the balcony with

laundry. Holds up the phone, grinning: “We have a fan.” He squints, smiles, calls her suspicious mind cute. He opens his apps, shows her: nothing. No profile. “Identity theft,” he says. “Means you’re dating someone memorable.” She snorts, lets it go. Relief tastes like her own complicity.

Monday she ends Emeka’s thread clinically: _You’ve described distress; I’m referring you to a male clinician for transference safety. Level 1 closure._ She writes the note in Adaora’s chart too—document defense. She presses send at 12:04 p.m. At 12:11 p.m. a new address pings: _I know. I’m sorry. Your perfume is jasmine and hospital soap—I noticed at Bayero clinic

Saturday._ Amara’s mug halts halfway to her desk. She was at Bayero Saturday for pro bono hours. Dayo had called at 10:02 a.m.: _Working late; don’t wait._ She replays the call’s background: traffic and a door buzzer she could not place.

She walks to reception, asks about Saturday visitors. “Just you, Doc.” Her pulse ticks: _maybe he visited during my break._ She returns to her office, re-reads the email. He knows her scent; he knows clinic schedules. She considers IP logs, stops herself. If she checks, she’ll know. Knowing will make her complicit.

Dayo plans Ibadan weekend—

botanical gardens, lunch with his aunt—“Real Amara time, not Dr. Nwosu.” She agrees, buys fruit for the aunt. While packing she looks for her blue pen and finds it in Dayo’s jacket pocket, along with a photograph: Dayo and Adaora, university, arms around each other, 2012. She’s holding the photo when he walks in.

“Small world,” he says immediately, too ready. “Adaora—your Adaora?” He nods, explains: faculty of pharmacy, same hostel, never dated, lost touch. “Did you know she’s my patient?” “I never matched the surname,” he says. She wants to believe him. She does, mostly. She slides the photo back, says nothing about Emeka’s email,

about scent and soap, about the pen.

Night drive to Ibadan, rain smearing headlights, Amara watches dashboard glow on his knuckles. She thinks: _This is love—choosing the story where I’m safe._ She doesn’t open her phone to block Emeka. She leaves the thread unread in her inbox. She answers Dayo’s aunt’s questions about their wedding plans—hypothetical, “when it happens”—and Dayo’s hand finds her thigh. She covers it with hers, as if to keep it there.

Later, in the hotel, she dreams of underlined lines. This time the handwriting is Dayo’s.