Things We Don't Say
1979 Words
Lagos moved as if nothing had changed.
But inside Atlas Tower, everything had.
The whispers had grown quieter again, replaced by the low hum of ambition and deadlines. I told myself I’d adjusted — that I’d learned to live without the gravity of his presence. But the truth was simpler, and harder: I was still orbiting him. Just farther away.
He didn’t look at me the way he used to. Or maybe he did, and I’d just stopped trusting my own perception.
For two weeks, we spoke only when work demanded it. Our words were clipped, professional, shaped around tasks and schedules. No lingering, no pauses. Just precision.
Still, I could feel it — the current beneath the calm. The way silence stretched whenever we stood too close, how his hand would hover near mine when he passed a document, careful not to touch but not avoiding it either.
It was maddening, that restraint.
It was also the only thing keeping me sane.
---
The day the balance shifted again began like any other — a Monday wrapped in rain and the smell of wet concrete.
By 10 a.m., the team was preparing for a presentation to Atlas’s newest international partner. The kind of meeting that could shape careers — or end them.
I was reviewing the slides when a sharp voice cut across the room.
“Where’s the market forecast report?” Adaora’s tone was clipped, impatient.
“It’s on the drive,” I said. “Uploaded this morning.”
She frowned. “Then explain why it’s missing the updated figures from finance.”
“It shouldn’t be,” I replied, confusion knotting in my chest.
“Check again.”
I did. And my stomach dropped. The file had been replaced — an older version, incomplete. Someone had rolled it back.
Adaora smirked slightly. “Maybe you should focus less on office politics and more on accuracy.”
Before I could respond, a calm voice entered the tension.
“That’s enough.”
Kunle stood at the doorway, suit immaculate, expression unreadable.
The room fell silent.
He looked at me first — briefly, but long enough for me to know he’d read everything in my face. “What happened?”
I explained, careful, steady. He listened, then turned to the IT lead. “Recover the file history. Now.”
Within minutes, the truth surfaced. The rollback hadn’t come from my account. It had come from Adaora’s.
The silence that followed was the kind that burns.
Kunle’s gaze didn’t waver. “Amara, restore your version. You’ll present.”
Adaora’s face stiffened. “Sir, I—”
“Not a word,” he said quietly. “You’ve said enough.”
---
After the meeting, the corridor emptied quickly.
I stayed behind, saving backups, trying to slow my pulse. Then his voice came from behind me.
“Walk with me.”
I followed him through the executive floor — glass walls, quiet elegance, the hum of rain against the windows. He said nothing until we reached his office.
He didn’t sit. Neither did I.
“I told you not to let her get to you,” he said.
“She didn’t,” I lied.
His brow lifted. “You’re trembling.”
I looked down. My hands were shaking slightly, though I hadn’t noticed until he said it.
“I’m just tired,” I murmured.
He hesitated — then, for the first time in weeks, his tone softened. “You did well. Again.”
The words shouldn’t have meant much, but they did.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He studied me for a long moment. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’ve been working,” I said, managing a small smile. “It’s kind of my job.”
Something flickered in his expression — something that looked too much like guilt. “That’s not all you’ve been doing, Amara.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He leaned against the desk, exhaling. “You’ve been carrying too much weight. Trying to prove yourself in a place that doesn’t always play fair. That kind of pressure leaves scars.”
It wasn’t the words that undid me — it was the way he said them. Softly. As if he knew what it felt like to carry invisible bruises.
I met his gaze. “And you? You look like someone who stopped sleeping years ago.”
His lips curved faintly. “Maybe I did.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was tender. Fragile. The kind of silence that fills the space between two people who understand each other’s loneliness.
Then his phone rang, slicing through it.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at me — really looked — and said, “Don’t lose yourself here, Amara. No job is worth that.”
Something inside me twisted. “Maybe some things are.”
He didn’t reply. He just watched me, as if trying to memorize the exact version of me standing there — the one who hadn’t yet learned how dangerous belief could be.
Then he turned away and picked up the call.
I slipped out quietly, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
---
That evening, as I packed up to leave, I caught sight of him through the glass wall of his office. The city stretched behind him in shades of silver and dusk.
He was alone, staring at the skyline. One hand rested on the window, the other at his side.
For a moment, he looked nothing like the man who commanded rooms or silenced whispers.
He just looked… tired. Human.
And for the first time, I understood — maybe he kept his distance not out of indifference, but out of fear.
The kind of fear that comes when you find something you’re not supposed to want, but can’t unsee.
It rained the rest of the week.
The kind of rain that turned Lagos into a watercolor painting — blurred lights, silver skies, the world moving slower than usual.
At first, I thought the silence between Kunle and me had returned for good. But then, small things began to shift.
The following morning, I found a message in my inbox.
Subject: Forecast Review
From: Kunle Adedayo
Body: Solid work on the presentation. You held your ground.
That was it. No greetings. No sign-off. Just words that carried more warmth than they should have.
I read them three times before closing my laptop.
---
Friday came quietly, and the city moved with that tired, pre-weekend rhythm — traffic jams, half-hearted laughter, the distant hum of Afrobeats from car radios.
I stayed late at the office, finishing reports no one had asked me to finish. Maybe I just didn’t want to go home yet. My apartment felt too empty lately, too far from everything that mattered.
At 9:12 p.m., my phone buzzed.
> KUNLE: Still at work?
ME: Just wrapping up. You?
KUNLE: Still here.
ME: Figures.
KUNLE: There’s a café downstairs. Meet me there before you leave.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard for too long before I typed:
> ME: Okay.
---
The café inside Atlas Tower was small and quiet after hours, its glass doors open to the rain-slick courtyard. A few soft lights glowed against the stormy dark, and faint jazz played through ceiling speakers.
He was already there when I arrived — seated by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. The sight of him like that — unguarded, almost casual — tugged at something inside me I didn’t know how to name.
“Long day?” I asked, taking the seat across from him.
He gave a low hum. “Long week.”
The waiter appeared. Kunle nodded toward me. “Whatever she’s having.”
“I haven’t ordered yet,” I said.
“I know,” he said, a faint trace of amusement touching his mouth. “You look like someone who needs tea. Not coffee.”
He wasn’t wrong.
When the waiter left, silence filled the space between us. It wasn’t awkward this time. Just quiet.
“I didn’t think you stayed this late anymore,” I said.
“Sometimes it’s easier,” he replied. “Fewer eyes. Fewer expectations.”
“Do people expect too much of you?”
His gaze met mine. “Always.”
The words came out so softly, I almost missed them.
For a moment, the air around us shifted. The city noise dulled, the rain turned into background music, and all I could hear was the low steadiness of his voice — the honesty in it.
I wanted to ask a thousand things:
What keeps you awake at night?
What made you build walls so high you can’t even see over them anymore?
But I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “You carry it well.”
He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the problem.”
---
When our tea arrived, he stirred his absentmindedly, watching the steam rise.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asked suddenly.
“Atlas?”
“Lagos.”
The question caught me off guard. “Sometimes. But it feels like the kind of place that never lets you leave completely.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re right. No one ever really leaves Lagos. You just change your view of it.”
I tilted my head. “What’s yours?”
He looked out the window at the blurred lights, the way rain traced patterns down the glass. “A city of masks. Everyone pretending to be something they’re not. Some pretending to be strong. Others pretending they’re not broken.”
“And you?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Which are you pretending to be?”
His eyes flicked back to mine. The silence that followed was charged, too full.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said quietly.
Something in my chest pulled tight. I wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, to offer something — comfort, maybe, or understanding — but I didn’t.
We were still us. Still walking that thin line between what was allowed and what wasn’t.
---
The rain eased around ten. We left together, stepping into the cool night air.
The city shimmered — neon signs reflecting on puddles, the sound of traffic distant but constant.
He offered to walk me to my car, and I didn’t argue.
For a long moment, we just stood there — side by side, watching the rain drip from the eaves of the building.
“Thank you,” I said finally.
“For what?”
“For reminding me why I came here.”
He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “And why did you?”
I met his gaze. “To be seen.”
Something softened in his features — the barest shift, but I felt it.
“You are,” he said quietly.
Three simple words.
But they sank deep.
It wasn’t a declaration.
It wasn’t even a promise.
But it was real. And that was enough.
We stood there a little longer, the silence stretching comfortably between us. The city buzzed around us, unaware of the quiet, fragile thing taking root beneath its noise.
Finally, I said, “Goodnight, Kunle.”
He gave a slow nod. “Goodnight, Amara.”
And as I turned to leave, I heard him add softly — almost to himself —
“Be careful with hope. It’s addictive.”
I smiled without looking back. “Maybe that’s what makes it worth it.”
The night air felt lighter somehow as I walked away — like the rain had washed something clean between us.
And though we said nothing more, I knew something had shifted.
Maybe it wasn’t love.
Maybe it wasn’t even certainty.
But it was something.
And for now, that was enough.
- Writer
