IN ANOTHER LIFETIME

Pride and Silence

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks into a full month.

No calls. No texts. Nothing.

At first, I thought maybe he was just busy. Dami had always been the type to take on too much — helping his mum with her shop, volunteering at his church, trying to build something out of his small photography gigs. But by the third week, the silence started to sting.

I kept checking my phone like a fool, unlocking it every few minutes as if his name would suddenly appear on the screen. It didn’t.

Every time I saw “No new messages,” it felt like a small rejection — the kind that doesn’t break you all at once, but slowly chips away at you until you start questioning yourself.

I told myself I wouldn’t text first.

I told myself, If he really wanted to talk, he would.

It was a battle of pride now — one I didn’t even realize I was fighting until it was too late.

Still, at night, I’d scroll through our old chats. Reading through the voice notes where he’d tease me — “You this stubborn girl, you’ll stress your future husband oh” — or the random memes he’d send just to make me laugh. I missed those small, silly moments. I missed him.

But instead of texting, I turned that ache into anger.

“So he can’t even check on me?”

“After everything, he just ghosted?”

I vented to my flatmate, Amaka, who kept saying, “Tara, just call him now. Life’s not that deep.”

But to me, it was that deep.

I didn’t want to be the only one chasing.

I didn’t want to look desperate.

So I waited. And waited.

There were nights when I’d pick up my phone, type out a message — “Hey, just checking in. You’ve been quiet.” — then stare at it for minutes before deleting it.

It became a cycle.

I’d think of him.

Miss him.

Type. Delete.

Sleep. Regret. Repeat.

The silence started to feel heavy. Even songs that reminded me of him became unbearable to listen to. That one Ed Sheeran song — “Photograph” — made me cry once, and I just sat there, wondering how we went from talking every day to strangers avoiding their phones.

Then one night, I dreamt of him.

We were back home, sitting outside his mum’s shop, eating roasted corn and laughing about nothing in particular. He looked at me, smiling that same soft smile he always had, and said,

“Tara, don’t stay angry too long. Time is shorter than you think.”

I woke up with tears on my pillow.

That morning, I almost called him. My heart told me to. My pride told me not to.

Guess which one I listened to?

I went to work, distracted all day. During lunch, I checked his social media — nothing new for almost two weeks. No stories, no posts. That was unlike Dami. He always had something to share — a quote, a photo, a random funny video.

I tried not to overthink it. Maybe he was just taking a break from social media. Maybe he was fine.

But that evening, while scrolling, I saw a post from one of his close friends:

“Rest easy, my brother. Still can’t believe this.”

I froze.

You know that feeling when your body suddenly feels cold, like your heart forgot how to beat for a second? That was me.

I kept refreshing the page, thinking maybe it was about someone else. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding. But then, more posts started to appear. More messages. More RIPs.

“RIP Damilare.”

“Gone too soon.”

“Still can’t believe you’re gone.”

My phone slipped from my hand.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”

I called his number immediately. Once. Twice. Three times. It rang once and then went straight to voicemail. I called again, hoping it was some cruel prank. It wasn’t.

Amaka found me sitting on the floor, clutching my phone, crying like the world had ended.

Because, in that moment, it had.

I hadn’t called.

I hadn’t texted.

And now, I never could.

All those days of silence, of waiting for him to reach out, of letting pride win — suddenly felt meaningless.

He was gone.

And I’d have to live knowing my last words to him were, “You’re too dramatic.