Chapter 5: The Conversation That Almost Happens
659 Words
Ama’s phone buzzed again, dragging her attention away from the spreadsheet she was trying not to overanalyze. She stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
It was Kojo.
Can we meet today? Just 10 minutes?
Her chest tightened. Relief and dread collided, twisting in her stomach. Ten minutes could change everything—or nothing at all.
She typed a reply, deleted it, typed another, then finally sent: Sure. My office or yours?
He answered almost immediately: My office. Now?
Ama swallowed. Yes, now. Why? She didn’t know. She grabbed her bag and smoothed her dress, but nothing could smooth the tension coiling in her chest.
When she arrived, Kojo was standing by the window, looking out. The afternoon sun cut lines across his face, highlighting the slight furrow in his brow. He turned as she entered, eyes calm but unreadable.
“Ama,” he said softly. “Sit.”
She obeyed, heart hammering, words lined up in her mind. She wanted clarity. Validation. Recognition. Something that would finally settle the constant hum in her chest.
“I…” she began, but the sentence faltered.
Kojo waited. Polite. Patient.
“I just wanted to understand...” She stopped. The words felt too small. “...I just wanted to know if I… mattered.”
He blinked, and for a moment, Ama thought she had gone too far.
“Of course you matter,” he said finally. “Ama, you always matter.”
The words should have landed like a parachute, soft and protective. But they didn’t.
They landed somewhere else. Somewhere cold.
Ama’s throat tightened. “Then… why was I not leading the project? Why… why did it feel like my part didn’t matter?”
Kojo hesitated. His fingers drummed the desk, the movement subtle, human. “It wasn’t about you. It was… timing. Circumstances. Logistics.”
Ama felt the old ache flicker again, sharper this time. Timing. Circumstances. Words designed to soothe without actually touching the wound.
“I see,” she said quietly.
A pause. Silence thick enough to carry its own weight.
“You’ve done everything right,” Kojo continued, leaning back slightly. “You’re solid. That’s why I trusted you to support. Not everyone can handle this without faltering.”
Ama wanted to argue, to say that support wasn’t enough, that she wanted to lead, to be chosen fully. But the words wouldn’t come. They sat heavy in her chest, lodged like unripe fruit.
Instead, she nodded. “Thank you.”
It wasn’t gratitude. It was an acknowledgment. A way to survive the moment without crumbling.
Kojo smiled faintly. “You’re amazing, Ama. Don’t let this weigh on you.”
Ama left the office, closing the door behind her with careful deliberation. Her steps were slow, measured, as if each one had to carry the weight of unsaid things.
Outside, the city moved at its usual reckless pace. Horns blared. People laughed. Phones buzzed. But Ama felt a quiet separation from it all, like she was moving through a world that didn’t quite recognize her heartbeat.
Esi found her by the coffee cart in the lobby. “You look like you just ran a marathon without moving an inch.”
Ama laughed, hollow. “I think I almost had a conversation.”
“Almost?”
“Yes. Almost the one that mattered. But not quite.”
Esi tilted her head, studying her. “You’re not the only one who almost says what they need to. The difference is you notice it.”
Ama sipped her coffee slowly, feeling its warmth. She wanted to feel lighter, but the ache had stretched into something wider. It was no longer about the meeting, Kojo, or the project. It was about her. The expectations she carried, the validation she waited for, the quiet habit of outsourcing her worth to someone else.
She didn’t have a solution yet.
All she had was awareness.
And sometimes, awareness is the first necessary step toward change.
- Writer
