"Yemi, why are you pushing me away?" My voice quivers more than I'd like to admit as I ask.
There is a long pause between us before he responds. He takes a tumbler of whiskey from the table and slowly swirls it before bringing it to his lips, while I watch. The liquid burns down his throat, and his jaw tightens. The suffocating tension is evident.
His voice is colder than I've heard it in days when he declares, "I'm not pushing you away." Even in the tiny flat, he seems to be putting distance between us by turning his head away and peering out the window.
However, I am aware of the reality. I sense it in the atmosphere. He no longer looks at me the same way, and his touch has become fleeting and nearly robotic. We have always been bound together by an unbreakable link, but it is now beg
