THE TRANSFER

CHAPTER TWO: THE SPACE BETWEEN

Late evenings became routine, stay back, Kemi would say, already slipping off her heels. “We need to reconcile the international transfers.” What began as a necessity slowly acquired rhythm. The building emptied, lights dimmed floor by floor, and the bank took on a different personality; quieter, softer, almost conspiratorial. They spoke between spreadsheets, between coffee refills, between silences that grew heavier each night.

Kemi talked as if the numbers loosened her tongue. About deadlines. About pressure. About how success could still feel like suffocation. One night, she paused mid-sentence, heels dangling from her fingers, her bare feet pressing into the cool tile.

“I used to be happy,” she said, not to him exactly, but to the room.

Tosin looked up, unsure whether the comment required a response or restraint. “Marriage doesn’t end happiness,” he said carefully, choosing caution over curiosity.

“No,” she replied, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that unsettled him. “Neglect does.”

The word lingered.

It settled between them like an open file. Neither could close. Tosin returned to his screen, but the numbers blurred. He noticed how her voice softened after that, how she lingered longer over explanations he already understood.

At home, her husband spoke in checklists about appointments, errands, and obligations completed or deferred. Conversations ended where they began, efficient and hollow. At work, Tosin listened. He didn’t interrupt, he absorbed her pauses as attentively as her words.

That difference mattered more than either of them wanted to admit. It carved a space that was not physical but emotional, a quiet territory, shaped by attention and restraint. They didn’t touch or confess. But each night, when the security lights clicked on and the city hummed below, they lingered a moment longer than necessary, occupying something fragile, unnamed, and already dangerous.