Older, Wiser, Mine.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even smile. The day I got admitted into university wasn’t the kind of day you wrap in shiny memory paper and revisit with nostalgia. It was dry. Too dry for something that was supposed to be the highlight of a girl’s life. I remember sitting stiffly beside my dad in the car, my mum silent in the back seat, the windows rolled halfway down as the afternoon heat tried to find its way in. The school’s administrative building looked clean and modern, but sterile. Lifeless. Inside the office, the woman behind the desk handed my admission letter with a rehearsed smile. I stared at the paper, blinking, heart as unmoved as stone. My dad squeezed my shoulder, a gesture meant to be comforting. “You did it,” he said. Did I? It didn’t feel like it. All I could think was, At least I’ll finally leave the house. After three years of watching people move on—gain admission, graduate, get internships, become adults while I remained stuck in the same loop of JAMB forms and midnight prayers—something inside me had gone numb. Too numb to rejoice. Too tired to hope. The letter read Mass Communication. Not Law. Not what I applied for. “Law is full,” they had told us. “But if she performs excellently in her first year, we’ll consider the transfer.” I nodded politely. I was used to settling. Not because I was okay with it—but because I was tired. I’d fought too many invisible battles to argue with one more stranger. Three years. Three damn years of JAMB. Three years of filling forms, rewriting exams, praying through tears, and watching friends get admitted while I smiled through clenched teeth. Everyone moved forward like they were on conveyor belts of destiny while I sat in limbo. So when the offer came, even if it wasn’t Law, even if it was months after others had resumed, even if it felt like settling—at least it was something. At least I would leave the house. No more hearing: “Are you still at home?” “Have you tried another school?” “Maybe it’s spiritual.” “Why not learn hairdressing or something?” I had heard it all. So I took the offer and packed my bags. But it wasn’t the fairytale I imagined when I was little. There was no dancing in my room, no calling my friends to scream over the phone. In fact, none of my secondary school friends even reached out. They weren’t in my school, and they had long moved on. I resumed late—weeks after orientation had passed and everyone had already formed their cliques. The girls in my class moved like old friends, bonded by hostel gist and inside jokes I couldn’t understand. I was just… there. A shadow in a crowded room. The lectures were dry. The course, unfamiliar. My course mates? Nice enough, but our conversations never went past classwork and awkward hellos. I laughed when expected, nodded when necessary, and quietly walked back to my room alone after every class. No one really noticed. Except Zara. She wasn’t in my school either—she had moved to another city with her family when we were fourteen. But we still texted every single day. Her messages were soft, her presence a balm. We talked about books, about boys, about everything and nothing. But even with her, I never told the full truth. Not about the loneliness. Not about the weight on my chest. Not about how most nights, I stared at the ceiling and wondered if this was really all there was to life. I kept those parts buried. My first campus crush. He wasn’t flashy or boastful—he was just… smart. The kind of smart that wasn’t loud. He had this calm aura, always well-dressed in his fitted shirts and clean sneakers. I noticed how he always sat at the edge of the class, taking notes with intense focus. Girls liked him. Not the noisy ones—but the observant ones. The ones who saw past the surface. We had general courses together. I watched him more than I should have, mentally rehearsing conversations that never happened. So, when one of our lecturers paired students for assignments and Keith was assigned to tutor me, I thought maybe… just maybe… Our first meeting was underwhelming. He smelled faintly of smoke, his eyes slightly red like he hadn’t slept much. But when he explained the course content, I was impressed. I listened more to the tone of his voice than the actual words. Calm. Sure. And that was it. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t smile too long. He didn’t notice me beyond academics. Maybe that’s why I started avoiding him. Crushing in silence was easier than the quiet rejection of being invisible.. Maybe that’s why I created a one-sided beef in my head. Just so I could stop crushing on him. But oh well… that’s not the end for me and Keith.. Dora, my childhood friend, kept in touch, but she wasn’t at the same university. She didn’t know what it felt like to be surrounded by strangers, to feel like everyone around you had their life together while you were still fumbling to figure out what you were even supposed to be doing. I tried to tell myself it would get better, that things would fall into place. But the days went by in a blur, each one feeling heavier than the last. And then came Melvin. He wasn’t new. He had always been around. Dora—my longtime friend since I was thirteen—introduced me to Melvin years ago. He was her family friend. I’d seen him a few times at her house, and he would occasionally text me. Harmless chats. Sometimes funny. Sometimes dry. Melvin had been hinting at his feelings for me since I was in secondary school. But I never took him seriously. He just wasn’t my type. Maybe I was too naive to read between the lines then, or maybe I just didn’t care to. But when I got into school, he texted more. Called more. Showed interest that felt intentional. He wasn’t in the same school as me. He was in a government university—far from mine—but he kept up with me like someone who had been waiting for his chance. At first, I found comfort in his calmness. He was soft-spoken. Not pushy. Just there. Steady. We started talking more frequently. He asked how school was going. What I ate. Who I sat beside in class. I laughed at his jokes and told him about annoying lecturers. Slowly, I began to lean into the familiarity. He became more intentional—checking in, texting more. Maybe I was vulnerable, maybe I just needed a distraction. So when he asked if I wanted to hang out, I said yes. Our first date was at the cinema. Just us. Just silence and snacks and shared glances. We watched Madame Web in that cold, dark hall, side by side but still unsure. We didn’t kiss. We barely even touched. But there was something comforting about it—about being seen, being chosen. After that, we went on a couple of other dates. And slowly, I let my guard down. Eventually, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes. I was eighteen. He was twenty-one. I was a virgin. He wasn’t. I told him early on that I wasn’t ready for s*x. He said he respected that. He smiled and held my hand like it was no big deal. But it was. Because slowly, that respect began to unravel. The first time I visited him at his campus, it felt like an adventure. He met me at the bus stop, his face lighting up when he saw me. He took my bag, held my hand, and led me through the bustling campus to his off-campus apartment. It was small but cozy, with posters on the walls and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. We spent the day talking, laughing, and watching movies. He cooked for me—noodles and eggs—but it tasted like a gourmet meal because he made it with care. We sat on his bed, legs intertwined, sharing stories and dreams. As the evening wore on, we cuddled under his blanket, the TV casting a soft glow in the room. His arms wrapped around me felt safe, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm against my back. But then, his hands started to wander. I gently moved them away, reminding him of our earlier conversations. He sighed, pulling me closer. “Babe, I love you. I respect you. But it’s hard, you know?” I nodded, trying to understand. He continued, his voice low. “Sometimes, I feel like you don’t trust me. Like you’re holding back.” I turned to face him. “It’s not about trust. I’m just not ready.” He looked away, jaw clenched. “I’m a man with needs. It’s frustrating when you keep pushing me away.” I felt a lump in my throat. “I’m not pushing you away. I’m setting boundaries.” He stood up, pacing the room. “Do you even like me? Or are you just playing games?” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Melvin, please don’t do this.” He stopped, looking at me with a mix of anger and desperation. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know how to handle this.” I sat there, feeling the warmth of the day dissipate, replaced by a cold tension. That night, I slept on the edge of his bed, facing the wall, tears silently streaming down my face. I didn’t tell Zara everything. Not at first. Just small pieces of the truth when it got too heavy. She reminded me that I was enough. That love wasn’t meant to feel like manipulation. But my heart still ached. And that’s probably why I didn’t run when Jay came along. ⸻ I first saw him at a student event—a mock wedding hosted by one of the departments. Jay played the groom. He wasn’t flashy. But he had presence. Tall. Chocolate-skinned. A jawline that could cut glass. And a smile that made people pause. He laughed easily, the kind of laugh that pulled others in. Our eyes met briefly across the room—just a flicker—and I looked away. I wasn’t looking for anything. But a few days later, while I was home for the weekend, a mutual friend texted me. “Hey, Jay wants to get to know you. Can I give him your number?” I stared at the message for a long time. Then I replied, “Sure.” I wasn’t excited. But maybe I was curious. Maybe I wanted to be reminded that not every man came with conditions. Maybe I just wanted to be seen again… without being picked apart. Maybe I just wanted to feel like myself again.