Chapter 11 – When Regret Grows TeethJ
648 Words
Chapter 11 – When Regret Grows Teeth
Jide’s Point of View
The air in the penthouse was cold—colder than it had any right to be in mid-April. The windows were closed, the AC off. Still, the chill that seeped into Jide’s bones wasn’t from the weather. It was from silence.
From absence.
The first few days after Amara left, he lied to himself. That she was taking space. That she'd return. That he’d wake up and find her on the balcony again, sipping tea, watching the sunrise, soft and silent in the dawn.
But each morning, the bed remained untouched beside him.
And the ghost of her warmth refused to return.
He sat at the kitchen table, untouched coffee going cold beside a stack of untouched messages. Every time he unlocked his phone, her last words haunted him:
> "You don’t get to need me now. You made sure of that."
Those words had broken him more than any slap could have.
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Amara’s Point of View
Ibadan was quieter than Lagos. Slower. Peaceful in a way she wasn’t used to. She could hear her own breath now. Her thoughts. Her pain.
She was staying with Ifeoma, her childhood friend and nurse, who'd opened her home without asking questions.
“You look thinner,” Ifeoma said one morning. “You’re eating, right?”
Amara nodded, forcing a smile. But the truth was, food had lost its taste. Sleep was fitful. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Jide’s eyes—cold and confused the night she left.
He didn’t beg.
He didn’t even reach for her.
That had been the final confirmation.
He hadn’t loved her… at least not enough.
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Back in Lagos
Adaora was still in Jide’s life, but only on paper. After the truth of her manipulation surfaced—the faked miscarriage, the anonymous threats, the lies—Jide cut her off cold.
She threatened to expose him. He didn’t flinch.
“I’ve already lost everything,” he told her calmly. “There’s nothing else you can take.”
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One Month Later
The charity gala Amara had once begged him to attend with her was tonight.
He went alone.
She was supposed to be honored for her contributions to the women’s health fund. The host acknowledged her absence with a respectful nod—but the room felt emptier without her laugh, without her poise, without the grace that lit up every event she touched.
He stood by the wall, glass of untouched champagne in hand, and watched her ghost walk through the crowd in his mind.
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Somewhere in Ibadan
Amara had started volunteering again—at a small clinic where no one knew her name or her pain. The women called her “Nurse Hope.” She liked that.
She had not cried in four days. A record.
Until today.
Someone asked her casually, “Are you married?”
She smiled. “No.”
But her voice broke anyway.
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Back in Lagos – Jide’s Journal Entry
> Day 34.
I saw your red scarf in the laundry today. I didn’t move it.
It still smells like your perfume.
I know now—love doesn’t just disappear.
It waits for the truth.
And the truth is, I failed you.
> Day 35.
I miss your silence. Even that had more peace than my world now.
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One Final Scene – Flashback
A year ago. Their anniversary.
Amara had gotten them couples spa tickets. He missed it—stayed late at work, tangled in a meeting that Adaora “accidentally” scheduled at the same time.
She never complained that night.
She simply served dinner, smiled… and excused herself to bed early.
He didn’t follow her.
And he would never know how long she lay there that night, silently mourning a man who was alive—but already lost to her.
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