BEFORE THE SKY BREAKS

Chapter 2(cont'd)

And even when people say nice things—compliments, praise, admiration—it’s like my heart doesn’t know how to receive them. I smile and say thank you, but deep down I wonder if they’re just being kind, or if they’d still mean it if they really knew me.

I compare myself more than I should. Not just physically, but emotionally, intellectually… spiritually. I wonder if I’m enough. If I’m worth choosing. If I’m lovable without shrinking, or pleasing, or performing.

And maybe the hardest part? I don’t always have the words to explain what I’m feeling. I just know that sometimes I walk into rooms and instantly feel smaller. Like I have to prove I deserve to be there. Like I have to earn air.

But I’m trying.

I’m learning that healing doesn’t happen all at once. It comes in moments—like standing up for myself in class, or saying “no” without overexplaining, or wearing that one dress that makes me feel something close to beautiful.

I still have days when I feel invisible, but I’m slowly learning that being quiet doesn’t mean I’m lesser. That softness isn’t weakness. That I don’t have to be loud to be worthy.

I don’t have all the answers yet. But I’m starting to believe—just a little—that maybe I am enough. Even when I don’t feel like it. Even when my reflection lies.

After a while, I got really good at pretending.

I smiled when I was supposed to. Nodded in conversations even when I felt lost. Laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny, just so no one would ask, “Are you okay?” Because honestly? I wouldn’t have known how to answer.

I still hung out with Zara and Ini. Still walked to class with them, sat beside them during lectures, shared shawarma on late lecture nights. But even in all that togetherness, there were moments I felt painfully alone—like I was standing on the outside of something beautiful with my face pressed against the glass.

They didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, they tried to pull me closer. But insecurity is a strange thing. It’s not loud or dramatic. It doesn’t announce itself. It just lingers quietly in the background, whispering, “You’re not like them. You don’t belong here.”

I started overthinking the tiniest things—how I spoke, what I wore, how much space I took up. I’d replay whole conversations in my head at night, wondering if I sounded stupid. Wondering if I talked too much. Or not enough. Wondering if my presence was a burden people tolerated out of politeness.

Some mornings I’d wake up and just stare at the ceiling, weighed down by the thought of being “seen” again. I’d stare at my wardrobe for too long, trying to find something that wouldn’t make me feel invisible—but also wouldn’t draw too much attention. I wanted to be noticed, but not watched. Wanted to be loved, but feared what would happen if someone saw all the hidden things I hated about myself.

And God, the self-comparisons. They crept in even when I didn’t want them to. I’d catch Zara taking selfies with her full lashes and bold lipstick and think, I could never pull that off. I’d hear Ini telling a story so effortlessly and wonder, Why can’t I be that free?

But I stayed. I kept showing up. Even on days when I wanted to crawl into myself and disappear, I chose to show up.

There was a quiet strength in that. Not confidence—not yet. But a choice. A small one, but a real one.

I was still scared of not being enough. Still battling the voice that said I was too quiet, too plain, too forgettable. But every day I sat with that fear and still lived, still laughed—still loved in my own quiet way—I was fighting back.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like sometimes. Not a transformation. Not a loud breakthrough. Just surviving. One gentle, messy, invisible victory at a time.

It was late—past midnight—and everything outside my window had gone still.

The kind of still that presses on your chest.

There were no roommates shuffling around, no background chatter, no distractions. Just me, in my little room, wrapped in my oversized T-shirt and sitting cross-legged on the bed with my back against the cold wall.

No lights, just the soft glow of my reading lamp casting shadows across the floor. I should’ve been asleep. But my thoughts wouldn’t let me.

They rarely do.

I stared at nothing, then at everything—my table, my mirror, the corner where my bag lay slumped like it was exhausted too.

And then I heard myself whisper, “Why do I feel like I’m never enough?”

I didn’t mean to say it out loud. But once I did, it was like something cracked open inside me.

“I try so hard to be okay. To smile. To act like I’m not always comparing myself to everyone around me,” I murmured, voice soft like I was afraid of waking up my own shame.

“But I’m tired. I’m tired of walking into rooms and wondering if anyone notices me. If I even leave a mark, or if I’m just… there.”

My throat burned.

“I envy girls like Zara sometimes,” I admitted, blinking back tears. “She’s bold. Free. She doesn’t need to shrink herself to feel safe. She doesn’t second-guess every word before she speaks. And Ini—Ini is so warm, so easy to love. People gravitate to her. I always feel like I have to earn people’s attention, and even then, I still feel invisible.”

The tears started. Silent, heavy.

I pulled my knees to my chest and let my head rest there.

“I don’t know how to love myself without conditions. I only feel worthy when I’m useful. When I’m needed. And even then, I still wonder if it’s real.”

I sat with that truth. Let it echo.

Then, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to argue with it. I didn’t try to fix it.

I just listened to myself. Like I mattered.

Like my pain mattered.

Because even if no one else could hear me… I could.

And somehow, that felt like a beginning.

Not a solution. Not a turning point. But a beginning.

A soft, quiet one.

The kind that doesn’t make a sound—but changes everything.

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months and finally the semester’s exams were fast approaching, to be honest I surprised my self when it came to how well I was thriving at school, each test came and I triumphed over every question almost like it was nothing to me, most the motivation stemmed from how I felt, it came from wanting to make Baba proud, so my mother could see me achieve what she couldn’t, it came from me wanting to show yusuf that hard work did pay off and he too could do anything he set out his mind to do, I didn’t over think the sleepless nights and all the midnight candle I burned, it was all for a good cause, although I was happy to round up with exams a part of me felt a bit sad because end of exams meant semester break and that meant we’ll have to home and it wasn’t that I didn’t want to go home or I didn’t want to see my family, school was really fun of course not the lectures, the people I had met made every moment exciting, I had found my tribe, they made me feel safe.

“Left to me I wouldn’t go home” Zara said rolling her eyes “my mom can be so intrusive sometimes, here I get to make the rules myself and break them If I wish to but back home, in my mom’s words IT’S MY HOUSE AND MY RULES, IF YOU ARE TIRED THEN GO, if only she knew how I can’t wait to get my apartment”

Asabe’s brows shot up, and she let out a short laugh.

“Wait—Zara, you’re telling me your mom doesn’t let you go out like that?” she said, twisting on the bed to face her properly. “It’s literally the end of the semester!”

Zara sighed, dramatic and playful. “She said, ‘Just because school is closing doesn’t mean you should be flying around like a bird.’”

She even mimicked her mom’s voice, and they all burst into laughter.

Ini nearly choked on her drink. “Ah! That woman no dey tire?” she said, wiping her mouth. “You’re not fifteen anymore, babes!”

“Tell her that,” Zara said, rolling her eyes. “One small ‘I’m going out’ and next thing I’m getting a full sermon on the dangers of life.”

Asabe shook her head, grinning. “Wow. So if we plan one girls’ night out now, we have to send an official letter to her?”

Zara laughed, “More like UN peacekeeping permission slip.”

The room buzzed with laughter again, but underneath, Asabe couldn’t help feeling a little stunned. “No, but seriously,” she added, resting her chin on her palm, “I thought by now she’d have eased up small. Like, we’re grown. It’s not secondary school anymore.”

“I don’t think it’s about age for her,” Zara said. “She just doesn’t trust anything outside the gate.”

Ini shook her head. “Me I can’t lie, I’m low-key grateful for the freedom I have. My mom calls to check in, but she doesn’t micromanage me like that.”

Asabe nodded slowly, thoughtful for a moment. “Same. I mean… I have my limits too, but nothing that extreme.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that comes after laughter fades and real thoughts sneak in.

“Still,” Asabe added with a small smile, “If we’re planning anything to celebrate this semester ending, we better start drafting that UN letter.”

The laughter had faded, leaving the room quieter now. The fan above hummed softly, mixing with the distant sound of footsteps in the hallway.

Zara leaned her head back against the wall and sighed. “Sometimes, I really envy you two,” she said, her voice gentler than before. “You both seem to have a lot more freedom. Me, I still have to ask permission to breathe.”