In between sundays

Wrecked Month

A whole month had passed, and somehow, it felt both fast and slow. Fast, because every Sunday had brought little sparks — moments, words, glances — that made my heart skip. Slow, because the waiting stretched endlessly between those Sundays, each day full of anticipation, uncertainty, and replaying memories over and over in my head.

I couldn’t stop thinking about them. About Peter, the light-skinned one, who had shown me that picture of myself. About Philemon, the dark-skinned brother, whose small gestures — catching my falling phone, patting my shoulder, staring just enough — made me feel seen in ways I hadn’t experienced before.

It was confusing. Suspicious, even, that maybe they both liked me. How could that be possible? How could two brothers, living under the same roof, notice me — really notice me — in the same small church? But maybe that’s just the way it happens sometimes: admiration doesn’t wait for schedules, and feelings don’t ask permission.

A week ago, I had thought about leaving a message through their younger sister — the one who sometimes stays with them. Maybe I could ask how Peter’s Post-UTME went, show that I still remembered him. But I hesitated. I hadn’t said anything to her before, and somehow it felt… indirect. I didn’t want to seem forward or like I was prying.

And yet, the temptation was strong. My heart wanted even the smallest connection. So I sent a short message, careful and casual:

> Stella: How is Peter? I heard he wrote Post-UTME.

The girl: Yes, he went October.

Stella: He has gotten admission.

The girl: mute

Stella: Alright, send my regards to him, o.

Simple. Innocent. Polite. But as soon as I sent it, my mind spun. I wondered if Peter would ever know I asked. I wondered if he’d think I was weird for checking. I wondered what he was feeling — nervous? excited? scared?

Then there was Philemon. That Sunday, he came to church, and I could feel him before I even noticed him. His eyes found mine — or was it the other way around? I couldn’t tell. How can anyone tell who’s really staring first when two people are caught in the same moment? But the effect was electric, subtle but undeniable. My heart started racing, and I had to look away, only to find my gaze circling back.

All month, I had been replaying tiny moments — how Peter had called me a funny name during night vigil, the way he laughed, the way he spoke about shyness, fear, friends, and school. How he had confessed that he sometimes watched YouTube videos to figure out how to approach someone, or how to navigate life, even though it felt a little awkward. How he had shared that most of his friends were guys, and how he wanted to learn, to grow, to be better at what he does.

I kept remembering the way he had spoken so openly, honestly, and yet still shyly, and I couldn’t understand how someone so careful could also be so bold — bold enough to show me that picture of me. If I had been in his shoes, I wouldn’t have had the courage. And yet he did. That small gesture made the weeks of waiting feel alive again.

Philemon, on the other hand, had been quiet but deliberate. Catching my falling phone, patting my shoulder twice during prayer, even just sitting and staring while I thought I was recording the congregation — it all added up. He hadn’t said much, hadn’t confessed feelings or curiosity in words, but his actions spoke in a language I could feel. And I noticed. I had to notice.

All month, I had been checking out outfits, wondering what I could wear to church if they came. I didn’t want to overthink it, but I couldn’t help it. Each choice, each little preparation, was part of my hope — hope that maybe, just maybe, one of them would notice me in that particular way again.

And then came the constant questions in my head:

Did they really like me? Or was it just admiration, curiosity, coincidence? If they liked me, why did Peter skip church sometimes? Why didn’t Philemon say more? Was I reading too much into it all? Was I just imagining their attention?

Sometimes I wanted to let it die, pretend it never happened, and distract myself with school or friends. But even when I tried, it wasn’t possible. Their small gestures, their glances, Peter’s conversations, Philemon’s quiet attentiveness — it stayed in my head, in my heart, every single day.

I overheard bits of information here and there: Peter’s younger brother saying he’d always been gentle in high school, that his only problem was girls. That he’s twenty-something now, maybe like twenty-three or twenty-four. That he’s careful but thoughtful. That he’s cautious with people but brave in little ways that matter.

All of it added layers to my curiosity and my feelings. I didn’t know what to believe. I didn’t know if Peter liked me, or if Philemon was just being polite. I didn’t know if this was a momentary crush or the start of something that could stretch across distance and time.

And yet, despite everything — the uncertainty, the what-ifs, the distance between us — I couldn’t stop noticing. I couldn’t stop wondering. I couldn’t stop imagining.

A month had passed. Glances, small interactions, messages, laughs, shared silences, the quiet question of who looks first and who notices more. A month of hope, confusion, and curiosity. And I was still waiting. Still wondering. Still caught in between knowing and not knowing, feeling and overthinking.

Because no matter what, my heart refused to stop paying attention — and that was the most honest truth of all.