Older, Wiser, Mine.

Chapter Eight: Crossroads

The day after I end things with Melvin, the sky feels clearer.

Not because the sun is shining brighter—it isn’t. The clouds still hang heavy with harmattan dust, the wind still stings against my cheeks—but because, for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like I’m suffocating in someone else’s version of love.

I’m learning how to breathe again.

Wande doesn’t rush anything. He’s been around—quiet, patient, consistent. We talk every evening now. Sometimes it’s just a “How was your day?” and other times it’s hours of voice notes and laughter that lull me to sleep.

It’s strange how easy it feels. How light.

He doesn’t pry, but he notices everything.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he says one evening. “Want to talk about it?”

And I do.

For the first time, I talk about Melvin—not just the way things ended, but the way they really were. The manipulation. The emotional rollercoasters. The nights I cried myself to sleep because I didn’t know how to make him happy. How I shrank in silence, just to avoid another argument.

Wande listens.

He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to excuse Melvin, doesn’t say “But not all guys are like that.”

He just listens.

And then, softly, he says, “You deserved better. You still do.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until the tears reach the corners of my lips.

⸻

A week later, Wande asks to see me.

It’s a quiet Saturday, and I’m buried in course notes, trying to pretend that school isn’t slowly draining the life out of me.

“I want to take you out,” he says. “Just something simple. Nothing fancy.”

I hesitate. The last time a guy said that, it ended with me curled up in bed for three days, regretting ever showing up. But something about Wande is different.

So, I say yes.

He picks me up just outside campus. He doesn’t make me wait. He doesn’t text, “I’m almost there” when he’s still forty minutes away. He’s just… there.

We drive to a quiet food spot on the outskirts of town. It’s not loud. No flashy décor. Just wooden benches, grilled catfish, and chilled drinks. It feels like something out of a Nigerian love story—warm, imperfect, real.

“You look peaceful,” he says, watching me with that soft gaze that always makes me look away too quickly.

“I feel… free,” I admit. “Not entirely, but getting there.”

He smiles. “Freedom looks good on you.”

⸻

Later that evening, we sit in his car in silence. The radio hums low in the background, and the wind whistles gently through the open windows.

He turns to me.

“I like you, Amara.”

I freeze.

It’s not like I didn’t know. His actions have been louder than any confession. But hearing it out loud… it shakes something loose inside me. Something I didn’t even realize I was still holding on to.

But I’m not ready.

Not yet.

I turn to face him, my voice barely above a whisper. “Can we take it slow?”

He nods. “We’ll go at your pace.”

And just like that, I exhale.

⸻

Back at my hostel, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.

Melvin is gone.

Keith is a fading memory.

And Wande… Wande is something new. Something different. He’s not perfect, but he makes me feel safe. Like I can be soft without being punished for it. Like my scars don’t make me less lovable.

I close my eyes and press the wildflowers he gave me between the pages of my journal.

This time, I’m not rushing.

I’m choosing me.

I’m choosing healing.

And maybe—just maybe—I’m choosing a love that doesn’t hurt.