The Love I Couldn't Let Go

chapter three

As the days passed, Mercy and I became almost impossible to separate.

What had started as simple visits to my room slowly turned into something that felt natural—like she had quietly become part of my everyday life in the hostel.

One afternoon, just after sunset,I just came back from school, I heard a knock on my door.

When I opened it, I saw Mercy standing there with a bag in her hand.

I looked at her, confused.

“You came with bags?” I asked.

She smiled in that calm way she always did and stepped inside.

“Yes.”

She placed the bag near the bed and looked around the room as if she had already made a decision.

“My roommate is becoming stressful,” she said. “And besides… your roommate is hardly ever here.”

That part was true.

My roommate rarely stayed in the room. Most nights she slept elsewhere or returned very late, so the room was usually quiet.

I looked at the bags again.

“You mean you want to stay here?”

Mercy sat down on the bed comfortably.

“Not just tonight,” she said, smiling. “I want to stay with you more often.”

My heart reacted before my words did.

There was something about hearing that which made the room suddenly feel different.

Warmer.

Closer.

I tried to hide my smile.

“So you’ve decided already?”

She laughed softly.

“I think I decided long ago.”

That afternoon, she arranged her things neatly beside mine.

A few clothes.

Toiletries.

Her charger.

Little personal items that immediately made the room feel shared.

It no longer looked like only my room.

It began to feel like ours.

From that day, Mercy started spending nearly every night with me.

At first, it felt unusual waking up and seeing someone else’s things beside mine.

But very quickly, I got used to it.

In the mornings, she often woke before me.

Sometimes I would open my eyes and find her sitting by the mirror fixing her hair.

Sometimes she would already be scrolling through her phone while waiting for me to wake up.

“Good morning, sleepy girl,” she would tease.

And I would smile because hearing her voice first thing in the morning had already become comforting.

Even ordinary things became special because we were doing them together.

We went to fetch water together.

Went downstairs together.

Returned from lectures together.

Even at night, before sleeping, we talked about everything—family, school, dreams, fears, people in the hostel, and memories from before we met.

Some nights the conversations became so long that sleep came very late.

Sometimes Mercy lay on one side of the bed while I stayed on the other, yet somehow we still ended up talking in whispers long after the lights were off.

The hostel outside remained noisy as usual—girls laughing in corridors, doors opening and closing, distant conversations—but inside our room, it often felt like we had created our own small world.

One evening, after arranging some clothes in the room, Mercy looked around and smiled.

“You know this room feels different now.”

“How?”

“Like home.”

Her words stayed in my chest.

Because secretly, I felt it too.

The room no longer felt empty when I entered.

Her presence had changed everything.

Even when she was not speaking, just knowing she was there gave the room warmth.

Soon, other girls in the hostel noticed.

“You two are living like roommates now,” someone joked outside one afternoon.

Mercy answered easily, without embarrassment.

“Maybe we understand each other better.”

And honestly, she was right.

Living together made us even closer.

I began noticing little things about her:

The way she folded her clothes carefully.

The way she hummed softly when she was relaxed.

The way she always tried to act strong even when tired.

And she noticed things about me too.

When I was quiet, she knew something was wrong.

When I smiled without speaking, she knew I was hiding thoughts.

The closeness between us became deeper every day.

And although neither of us had fully spoken about what was happening between us, something emotional had already started growing quietly in that shared room.

Because sometimes love does not begin with big words.

Sometimes it begins with simple things—

A second toothbrush near yours.

A bag placed beside your bed.

A voice saying good morning every day.

And the quiet comfort of someone choosing your room… again and again.