The Distance Between Us
1662 Words
Silence has a sound.
I never believed that until Kunle stopped calling me into his office.
The days that followed blurred into routine — reports, emails, strategy briefings — all stripped of the undercurrent that used to hum whenever his gaze found mine.
Now, it was as if a curtain had been drawn between us.
He still came to meetings, still spoke with that same cool precision, but his attention slid past me like I’d become invisible.
And maybe that was the point.
Maybe this was his way of restoring order.
The whispers had calmed after the incident with Adaora, but not completely. In a place like Atlas, gossip didn’t die — it adapted. And the story had changed shape again.
Now, they said I had lost his favor. That I’d “flown too close to the sun.”
I told myself I didn’t care. That I’d earned my position through merit. But some part of me — the quiet, irrational part — missed the tension. Missed the way silence used to mean possibility.
Now it only meant absence.
---
The first time I saw him that week was on Wednesday.
He was coming out of a meeting room, flanked by two board members. His jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up, his face unreadable.
He glanced at me once. Just once. Enough to remind me how dangerous one look could feel.
Then he walked past without a word.
Something in me clenched.
Funmi, who’d seen the entire exchange, leaned over the partition. “You know what they say, ehn? When rich men start keeping quiet, something’s brewing.”
I gave her a look. “You’ve been watching too many dramas.”
She grinned. “And you’ve been living in one.”
I laughed despite myself, but it didn’t reach my chest.
Because what she didn’t know — what no one could know — was that his silence hurt more than any rumor.
---
By Friday, I decided I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter.
When I heard he was meeting clients at the Eko Pearl office that afternoon, I offered to deliver the presentation documents myself.
It wasn’t exactly part of my job, but no one questioned me.
The driver dropped me off in front of the glass tower, the city heat pressing against my skin like a second heartbeat.
Inside, everything gleamed — white marble floors, mirrored elevators, the faint scent of citrus and money.
I found him in one of the private lounges, talking to two investors. His posture was perfect — every movement deliberate, every smile calculated.
He saw me. A flicker. Barely visible.
I handed the file to his assistant, but before I could turn to leave, his voice cut through the air.
“Amara.”
I froze.
He excused himself from the conversation and stepped toward me. “A word?”
I nodded, following him into a quiet corner near the window.
He didn’t waste time. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I came to deliver the files.”
“You could have sent someone.”
“I wanted to make sure they arrived safely.”
His jaw tightened. “Amara.”
There was a warning in his tone — the kind that sounds like care disguised as command.
“I’m doing my job,” I said softly.
“Good,” he said. “Keep doing that.”
Then, more quietly, “Nothing else.”
The words stung more than I expected.
I wanted to ask why. I wanted to say this isn’t nothing. But the look in his eyes — a mixture of restraint and something fragile — stopped me.
Instead, I nodded. “Understood.”
He exhaled, the sound barely audible. “Go back to the office.”
“Yes, sir.”
And then I did — walking away even though every part of me wanted to stay.
---
That evening, Lagos looked different.
The traffic lights flickered through the rain, painting the streets in red and gold. I sat in the back of a keke, the wind tangling my hair, trying to make sense of the ache in my chest.
This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To be seen as competent. Professional. Untouchable.
So why did it feel like something vital had been taken away?
When I got home, I dropped my bag on the couch and stood by the window, watching the city breathe beneath the night.
The air smelled of rain and exhaust, but somewhere beneath that was something softer — something that reminded me of him.
Maybe distance was necessary. Maybe it was the only way to survive this.
But as thunder rolled over the horizon, I realized something he’d probably known all along.
Distance doesn’t always weaken a connection. Sometimes, it sharpens it — turning longing into a quiet kind of madness.
By the next week, the silence had become a rhythm.
Work. Reports. Meetings. My life had narrowed into numbers and deadlines, each day folding into the next. I told myself I was fine — that the ache in my chest was just habit.
But habits have a way of revealing what the heart refuses to admit.
Friday evening, Funmi dragged me out after work. “Babe, you’ve been looking like someone whose heart owes her salary,” she joked, looping her arm through mine. “Come, let’s breathe small.”
We ended up at a rooftop lounge in Victoria Island — soft lights, jazz humming low, Lagos glittering below like spilled gold.
For the first time in weeks, I felt almost normal.
Until I saw him.
He was across the terrace, standing with two men from Atlas and a woman I didn’t recognize — tall, elegant, wearing a crimson dress that shimmered under the lights.
She laughed at something he said, touching his arm lightly. He didn’t move away.
My heart stuttered.
Funmi followed my gaze, then sighed. “Ah. So that’s why you’ve been quiet.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she said. “But, Amara… maybe it’s time you accept what this is.”
“And what is that?”
“Something dangerous,” she said softly. “You can’t win a war when the battlefield belongs to him.”
Her words landed like truth disguised as comfort.
I forced a smile. “He’s my boss, Funmi. That’s all.”
She raised a brow. “If you say so.”
But I couldn’t look away.
The woman leaned closer to him, her laughter low and intimate. He smiled — that rare, unguarded smile that I’d seen only once before, in a moment that didn’t belong to either of us.
I wanted to leave. To forget. But when he looked up and our eyes met across the crowd, the world fell silent.
For a heartbeat, everything else disappeared.
Then he blinked, the mask sliding back into place. He said something to the woman beside him, turned, and walked toward the exit.
And before I could stop myself, I followed.
---
The hallway outside was quiet, lined with glass and soft lighting.
He was standing by the elevator, alone, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hadn’t touched.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking at me.
“Neither should you.”
He turned then — slowly, as if weighing every second before facing me. “You followed me.”
“Maybe I needed air,” I said.
“Is that what this is?”
I took a step closer. “Why are you avoiding me, Kunle?”
His jaw tightened at the sound of his name. “You’re imagining things.”
“Don’t do that,” I whispered. “Don’t pretend this doesn’t exist.”
He exhaled, a sharp, uneven sound. “It can’t exist, Amara.”
“I know.” My voice trembled. “But that doesn’t stop it.”
Silence. Heavy. Electric.
The elevator chimed, but neither of us moved.
He set his glass down on the marble ledge, the sound soft, deliberate. “You think I don’t feel it?”
My breath caught.
“I do,” he said quietly. “Every time you walk into a room. Every time you look at me like that. And that’s exactly why I have to stop.”
The honesty in his tone cut deeper than any distance ever could.
I wanted to tell him I understood. That I wasn’t asking for anything he couldn’t give. But the words refused to come.
Instead, I said, “You’re doing a terrible job of pretending you don’t care.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Go home, Amara.”
I shook my head. “Tell me to stop.”
He didn’t.
The air between us felt alive — charged with everything neither of us could say.
Finally, he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne — dark, clean, unmistakably him.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he said.
“I didn’t ask for anything,” I whispered.
He smiled faintly, sadness hidden in the curve. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”
The elevator doors opened again. This time, he stepped in.
“Goodnight, Amara.”
And before I could respond, the doors closed between us.
---
Outside, the rain had started again — soft and unhurried, the kind that blurs the city lights into watercolor.
I stood there for a long time, letting the night wash over me.
He was right. This couldn’t exist.
But denial had never made feelings disappear. It only made them quieter, deeper — like roots growing in secret.
As I walked toward the street, Lagos stretched around me, alive and endless. Somewhere in that chaos, his name pulsed beneath my ribs — a heartbeat I couldn’t silence.
And for the first time, I wondered if distance wasn’t the enemy.
Maybe it was the only thing keeping us from falling apart completely.
- Writer
