WHAT IS LEFT OF US Between what was and what remains.

CHAPTER 1 NOTHING SPECIAL, EVERYTHING IMPORTANT INARALYN’S POV If I sneezed one more time in this bus, I was going to be the reason someone demanded I get down. The woman beside me had already stopped saying “bless you” after the third one. Not out of cruelty, I assumed, just resignation. My nose, however, had decided we were not done suffering. It itched again. Twitched again. As if it had a personal vendetta against my peace. “God,” I muttered under my breath, pressing my fingers against it. “Since when did Port Harcourt turn into Lagos traffic?” We had been moving in fragments; stop, crawl, stop again. The kind of motion that makes time feel like it is mocking you. I was supposed to be home by now. A hot bath. Silence. Sleep. That had been the plan after the wedding in Enugu. But plans, I was learning, rarely survived Nigerian roads. The bus jerked forward suddenly. Everyone shifted slightly in their seats, the collective relief of movement passing through us like a shared prayer answered too late. I exhaled slowly. Finally. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe the worst was over. That was my mistake. My nose chose that exact moment to declare independence. “Achoo. Achoo. Achoo.” Three sharp betrayals in a row. I heard a faint sigh from somewhere behind me. By the time I recovered, my eyes were already watering, not from emotion, but from sheer exhaustion. Whoever said home is where the heart is clearly never rode a keke down their street, grinning like a mad person. Home was not a poetic idea. Home was recognition. The pothole you knew by memory. The POS woman who never smiled but always had change. The bole stand that survived every government notice like it had diplomatic immunity. Home was Nepa light flickering like it was unsure whether it wanted to stay. Home was that first breath of fan air hitting your skin after a long day and convincing you, briefly, that life was tolerable again. The bus finally stopped near my street. I didn’t even wait for full silence before I stood up. My body had already decided it was done participating in public life for the day. Outside, the air was slightly kinder. Not clean…just familiar. I walked the remaining distance without thinking too hard about anything. That was the advantage of routine. It allowed your mind to stop pretending it was in control. By the time I reached my gate, my exhaustion had settled into something heavier than tiredness. It was absence. The kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly. Just sits with you. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. My apartment greeted me the way it always did. Quietly. Without expectation. I dropped my bag near the chair, not caring where it landed. My shoes followed immediately after, kicked off with the kind of relief that felt almost emotional. The floor was cool beneath my feet. I let myself sink down slowly until I was sitting, then leaning, then fully collapsed against it. Worn tiles pressed gently against my back. The silence inside the room swallowed everything I had been holding up all day. No traffic. No voices. No movement. Just stillness. For a moment, I didn’t move. Didn’t think. Didn’t even try to organize my exhaustion into something meaningful. Just existed. Finally. Then I exhaled, low and tired. “Well,” I murmured to no one. “I’m home.” My eyes closed. And for the first time all day, the world stopped asking anything from me. I guess I’ll just clean up later. Order something. Sleep. Start again tomorrow. That was the routine. That was life. And yet, somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the silence, beneath everything I refused to name…there was a feeling I couldn’t quite place. Not new. Not loud. Just…waiting. Like something I had forgotten was slowly making its way back. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** The office was rather quiet, except for the constant clicking of keyboards. Controlled noise. Low conversations that never spiraled into anything loud, though a considerable amount always ended up as gossip that surfaced later like it had been waiting its turn. Light queries were sometimes meted out as punishment for speaking too freely. Chair legs rolled softly across tiled floors. Water bottles stood on different desks like quiet markers of routine. Emails. Messages. Notifications that never truly stopped arriving. I came into the office almost every day at exactly 8:30, and I logged into my system at almost the same time. Routine had become something I could rely on more than people. I worked as a copywriter. I wrote about things. Mostly people’s life stories. The ones the world was too busy to hear properly. “So you didn’t bring anything from the wedding, huh?” Becky dropped herself into the chair beside me without waiting for permission. I gave my usual practiced smile. “Good morning, Becky. There were no souvenirs, unfortunately.” “I hear you,” she said, rolling her eyes lightly. “Even if there were, you would’ve left immediately you thought it was over.” Another smile. Automatic. Carefully maintained. Then I turned back to my work. I wouldn’t call myself unfriendly. And I wouldn’t call myself friendly either. I was always somewhere in between. Not wanting to be known too deeply, but never disappearing enough to be invisible. That should have been the definition of unfriendly. I sighed quietly and focused on the screen. We told stories. Not novels. Real life stories. Curated pieces of life written into readable form. It was my job to make people see them and want to read them. That’s what my manager had said to me the day I got the job. “Make them feel something,” she said. I wasn’t sure I knew how to do that anymore. On my screen, a draft title waited: ALONE CAN BE IT I stared at it for a second. No. Who captions a life story about a single father who raised his children alone after the death of his wife like that? I rubbed my face lightly. Becky leaned over. “Daily struggles.” she said casually. “You’ll get it. Don’t worry.” Oh, but I already did. She had just given me the file. I deleted the title. Typed again. Paused. Then wrote: WHEN LIFE LEAVES NO CHOICES Better. Cleaner. Catchier. That was what we were told mattered. Make it poetic. Finer. Less complicated. I opened the interview file. A single father. Lost his wife early. Two children. A trader who built everything from almost nothing. Now his children were in university. A stable shop. A stable life. People loved stories like this. Neat beginnings. Hopeful endings. Because they didn’t ask anything of the reader. Still, I paused at one line he had said: “I always kept going because who was I stopping for? Not myself… not my children.” I stared at it longer than I should have. I always kept going. The words lingered. Do we ever really stop? The cursor blinked. Waiting. As if it expected me to begin a conversation I hadn’t agreed to yet. Across the office, Becky was typing. The sound filled the space between my thoughts. Someone laughed loudly near the entrance. It faded quickly. Nothing here ever lasted too long. Even emotion seemed to expire faster than it should. My phone buzzed beside my keyboard. I didn’t check it immediately. Instead, I clicked back into the draft. The line I had just read still sat in my mind. So, I replaced it. Not because it was wrong. But because it didn’t sound right for the audience. I typed: When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. I deleted it immediately. Then paused. And stared at it again. Becky glanced at me. “You’re overthinking again.” “I’m not.” She smiled slightly. “You always say that right before you start overthinking.” I didn’t answer. Because she wasn’t wrong. As I wrote about other people’s messy beginnings and carefully polished endings, I found myself wondering something I didn’t say out loud. If someone were to write my story… Would they remove the parts that weren’t beautiful? The hesitation. The silence. The moments I didn’t know how to name. “Inara, are you okay?” Becky’s voice pulled me back. I blinked. Turned slightly. “Yes. Why?” She studied me briefly, then shrugged. “You just looked like you weren’t here for a second.” She turned back to her screen. I forced a small smile. “I’m here.” Maybe that was the problem. I was always here. I returned to my work. The cursor blinked again. Patient. Unbothered. Waiting for me to continue pretending that everything I wrote belonged only to other people. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** It was past five, and I was done for the day. I saved my draft and shut down my system. Around me, people were already filing out of the office, eager to beat the evening traffic and get home. Another day finished. Another routine completed. Another story told. I grabbed my bag and stood. "Will you head home with me?" Becky asked. She always asked, even when she already knew the answer. "I'm good. See you tomorrow." She nodded and left. I waited until I was sure she was gone before making my way out. Outside, Port Harcourt was settling into evening. People hurried home while others were only just setting up for the night. Market umbrellas opened one after another. Street vendors arranged their goods beneath fading sunlight. Cars crawled along the road, impatient horns cutting through the air. Life moved on. It always did. I adjusted the strap of my bag and continued walking. Life never really paused for anyone. Not for heartbreak. Not for disappointment. Not for the people who left. And certainly not for the people they left behind. The thought came and went before I could stop it. I kept walking. Tomorrow was just another day. And like every day before it, I would keep going.