Chapter 12 – The Silence Between Apologies
621 Words
Chapter 12 – The Silence Between Apologies
Amara’s Point of View
The morning started like every other—dull, grey, and soft with the smell of disinfectant. But something shifted inside her the moment she handed a mother her newborn child. The woman had cried, clutching the baby like oxygen.
Amara smiled weakly.
She didn’t cry anymore—not out loud. But her soul? It wept in quiet spaces between heartbeats.
Back in her temporary bedroom, she stared at her phone. Still no messages from Jide. Not a single call.
> So that’s it?
No fight, no begging, no effort?
Maybe she expected too much from a man who had nothing to give. Maybe his silence was her final answer.
Yet... she kept checking.
A wound can scab over, but the ache? It lingers like perfume on old clothes.
---
Jide’s Point of View
Jide had stopped attending meetings. His company ran on autopilot now. What was the point of success if the one person who made life full wasn't there to celebrate it?
He had money. Cars. Properties.
And nothing.
He drove past her favorite flower shop today—the one with the yellow tulips. She loved tulips because they were simple. Bright. Honest.
He parked without knowing why. Walked in like a man possessed.
“Do you still deliver?” he asked the florist.
They did.
He wrote the note slowly, his hand trembling:
> “I saw these and thought of you. I hope you’re finding happiness, even if it’s not with me. — Jide.”
He stared at the words.
Then crossed out the last sentence.
Instead, he wrote:
> “I miss you, Amara. Every single day.”
---
Meanwhile in Ibadan
The delivery came while Amara was helping Ifeoma prepare yam porridge. The knock startled her. When she saw the bouquet, her hands froze.
The envelope had his handwriting.
That neat, stubborn script she’d memorized on love notes and forgotten birthdays.
She opened the card. Read it once.
Then again.
Her throat tightened, but she didn’t cry.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Not again.
Not with half-efforts and late realizations.
Not with the man who watched her unravel and still chose someone else every single time.
---
Jide’s Mother Pays a Visit
“Amara was good for you,” his mother said, seated on his couch with a quiet but firm voice. “You let a good woman go.”
“I know,” Jide muttered.
She sighed. “Adaora called me last week, still trying to get invited to our family events.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I cut her off. Too late, I know.”
“Some mistakes come back to haunt us. Others come with second chances... if we’re lucky.”
He looked up sharply. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying if you love Amara, go to her. Show up. Fix it with action. Words won’t be enough anymore.”
---
Amara – That Night
She stared at the flowers for a long time. She didn’t throw them out.
She put them in a vase by her window.
Then she sat down and wrote a letter.
> Jide,
I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t even know what I want from you.
I’m tired. I’m healing. And I’m trying to find who I was before your love made me forget myself.
Maybe I’ll reach out one day. Maybe I won’t. But for now, I need peace. And distance.
She didn’t send it.
She folded it neatly and slid it under her pillow. Because some truths are not for anyone else to read.
They’re just for survival.
- Writer
