MENDED PIECES

MENDED PIECES - 1&2

Dedication

> For the broken, the healing, and the silent fighters.

To every soul who has sat in the quiet hoping for a voice, this is for you.

👉MENDED PIECES 👈

Chapter One: The Silence

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that doesn’t bring peace—but weight.

A heavy hush that pressed down on Ada's chest and echoed in her mind.

Outside her window, students’ laughter drifted in like a distant memory. But inside her space, time had frozen. A half-finished bowl of cereal sat on the desk. The sheets tangled around her legs like chains. And in her hand, she held the photo—creased, worn, too familiar.

It was her and Chika, smiling beneath a jacaranda tree on campus. Before everything cracked. Before love turned hollow.

Her phone lit up beside her.

CHIKA: I'm sorry.

Ada stared at the message but didn’t move. She wasn’t sure what she felt anymore. Anger? Emptiness? Confusion?

Maybe all of them. Maybe nothing at all.

A soft knock came at the door.

> “Ada?” came Nkechi’s voice from outside. “You coming out today?”

Ada didn’t answer. She hadn’t spoken much in days.

> “I’m fine,” she finally muttered. “Just tired.”

> “You’ve been tired for five days.”

The door creaked open. Nkechi stepped in carefully, taking in the dim room and the girl curled up on the bed.

> “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” she said gently, sitting beside her.

Ada blinked slowly, the light from the hallway stinging her eyes.

> “You’re stronger than this, Ada.”

> “Then why do I feel so weak?” Her voice cracked.

Nkechi sighed. “Because you’re grieving. But silence won’t save you.”

Ada turned her face to the wall.

She didn’t want to talk. Not about Chika. Not about the cold, aching place he left behind. Not about her father who vanished when she was nine, or the mother who worked late shifts and came home a stranger.

No. Talking meant remembering, and remembering made the pain too real.

Later That Day – Campus Walkway

Ada drifted through the crowds like a ghost in daylight.

She wore her emotions like an invisible cloak. No one asked. No one noticed. Except maybe Chika, who stood across the court talking to another girl. When he glanced her way, she quickly turned and walked faster.

She skipped her next class. Again.

INT. CLASSROOM – NEXT MORNING

The room buzzed with activity—group work, laughter, and discussion. Ada sat alone, chin resting on her hand, eyes glazed.

Lecturer Okoro, a tall man with kind eyes behind stern glasses, noticed.

> “Miss Ada?” he called.

She looked up, startled. Eyes from around the room turned.

> “Can I see you after class?”

She nodded.

INT. OFFICE – MOMENTS LATER

Books lined the walls. A clock ticked rhythmically above a shelf of dusty journals.

Okoro leaned forward.

> “You’re one of my brightest students, Ada. But you’ve vanished.”

She looked down.

> “Life… happened.”

> “It always does,” he replied. “But grief doesn’t give deadlines. Still, your life needs direction.”

Silence.

> “Talk to someone. Anyone. Don’t drown quietly.”

His words hovered in the air like lifelines.

Ada nodded, barely.

She walked out, head lower than when she came in.

That night, she found herself outside the chapel.

It wasn’t planned.

She had wandered, feet unsure but soul aching. And there, on the old stone steps, sat an elderly woman sweeping leaves into a pile.

Her scarf fluttered in the breeze. Her hands were wrinkled but steady.

Mama Efe.

Without speaking, she looked at Ada and smiled gently.

Ada sat on the steps.

And cried.

Not loud. Not wild. Just quiet tears that slipped down her cheeks and soaked the collar of her hoodie.

Mama Efe didn’t ask questions.

After a moment, she spoke softly.

> “You’re not the first to be broken here, you know. Many of us sat on these steps with cracks in our chest.”

Ada wiped her face.

> “I don’t even know what I believe anymore.”

> “Start there,” the old woman said. “Truth is often found in the honest places.”

Chapter Two: Fading in the Crowd

The following days slipped past Ada like rain down a windowpane—present, but distant. She walked, ate, and sometimes even smiled when spoken to, but none of it felt real.

Everywhere she turned, the world spun fast—too fast. Students rushed between lectures, groups laughed over shared jokes, lovebirds held hands like nothing could ever break them. But Ada? She was just passing through.

At the cafeteria, Nkechi would sit across from her, chatting about everything from lecturers to annoying roommates, doing her best to pull Ada into normal life again. But Ada’s responses remained short, her gaze often fixed somewhere just behind her thoughts.

> “You should come with me to fellowship this Friday,” Nkechi said one afternoon, sipping her Fanta. “It’s a worship night. Might help clear your head.”

Ada raised an eyebrow. “I don’t do church anymore.”

> “You used to.”

Ada didn’t reply.

She used to sing in the choir. Back in secondary school, when things weren’t perfect—but they at least made sense. Back before her father disappeared without a trace. Before her mother stopped praying. Before Chika filled that space and then ripped it wider when he walked out without explanation.

That evening, as the sun lowered and cast long shadows across the quad, Ada found herself watching people again. She saw couples smiling, students practicing dance moves under a tree, even a few kids filming a skit for t****k.

And there, just a few steps away, Chika. Alone this time.

He noticed her.

They stared for a second too long.

He walked toward her.

> “Hey,” he said, his voice unsure.

Ada stood still.

> “You didn’t reply my message,” he continued.

> “Did you expect me to?” Her tone was colder than she meant.

Chika shifted. “I didn’t know how to say goodbye. Things got… complicated.”

Ada clenched her fists. “You don’t vanish on someone and call it complicated.”

> “I’m sorry.”

She stared at him, trying to remember why she ever loved him.

Then she turned and walked away.

Not with anger. Just… empty.

INT. HOSTEL – NIGHT

Back in her room, Ada lay staring at the ceiling. Nkechi was out, probably at the hostel fellowship she always talked about.

The silence returned.

Not the calm kind—but the kind that echoes your worst thoughts.

She reached under her bed and pulled out her old Bible. It was dusty. The edges curled like forgotten promises.

She opened it.

The pages didn’t speak.

She closed it again.

Then turned off the light.

EXT. CAMPUS – THE NEXT DAY

Another class missed.

Another voicemail from Lecturer Okoro.

Another unread message from Nkechi:

> You don’t have to go through this alone.

Ada wandered the back path that led toward the old chapel again. Her steps were slow, unsure. But her heart… it remembered something about that space. Something about Mama Efe.

As she approached, she found the old woman tending to flowers beside the stone wall.

> “You’re back,” Mama Efe said, without looking up.

> “I didn’t plan to be.”

> “Broken things rarely follow plans. They just find their way back.”

Ada sat beside her, breathing in the scent of wet soil and hibiscus.

> “I saw him yesterday,” Ada said after a while.

> “The boy?”

She nodded.

> “Still hurts?”

Another nod.

> “Then the wound is still speaking. Let it say what it needs to, then release it.”

> “That’s easier said.”

> “All healing is.”

They sat in silence, broken only by the chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves.

INT. CHAPEL – LATER THAT EVENING

The space was dimly lit, golden rays filtering through stained glass.

Ada stood at the back, hands in pockets, unsure of why she came inside.

A guitar echoed from the front. Someone was rehearsing worship songs. A soft hum filled the air. It was simple, imperfect—but sincere.

She sat in a pew, heart trembling.

And for the first time in weeks… she whispered.

> “God… if you’re still there… I don’t know what I’m doing. I just… don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Tears didn’t fall. But something inside her loosened.

Not quite healing.

But maybe… the beginning of it.