Older, Wiser, Mine.

Chapter Nine: Like I deserve it

Amara

“I like you, Amara.”

The words hang in the air like a soft wind chime—delicate, unexpected, but strangely comforting.

He says it so simply. No begging. No tension. Just… truth.

And for a second, I forget how to breathe.

I should say something back. I should smile or joke or at least acknowledge it with a nod. But instead, I look out the window and whisper, “Please don’t ruin it.”

Wande blinks. “What?”

I turn to him, heart beating faster than I want it to. “Whatever this is… please don’t ruin it. Don’t pretend to like me just because I seem different. Or broken. Or safe.”

He studies me. His eyes don’t wander. They don’t search my body. They stay on my face like that’s the only part of me that matters.

“I don’t want perfect, Amara,” he says slowly. “I want real. And if real comes with cracks, then I’ll hold them gently.”

No one has ever said something like that to me.

Not without expecting something in return.

Not without trying to own me.

I bite my lip to keep it from trembling. My throat tightens. I want to cry, but I won’t—not here. Not now. Not in front of someone who’s still learning how much I’ve already bled just to look whole.

So I breathe.

And I nod.

That’s all I can give right now.

And thankfully, Wande doesn’t ask for more.

⸻

The days that follow feel… strange.

Strange in the way peace feels when you’ve only ever known chaos.

He doesn’t message me twenty times a day or get upset when I don’t reply immediately. He checks in, but not obsessively. Listens, not to respond, but to understand.

The silence between us never feels heavy. If anything, it’s soft. Gentle. Like a pause, not a punishment.

One afternoon, he sends me a voice note—nothing dramatic, just him talking about his day, telling a joke that makes me giggle. I play it twice. Then three times. Just to hear the sincerity in his voice.

I don’t know if this is the start of love.

But it’s definitely the end of pain.

⸻

Zara notices first.

“You’re smiling with your eyes again,” she says one morning as we walk to class.

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. They used to smile before all the nonsense. Then they stopped. But now… they’re smiling again.”

I blush and roll my eyes, but deep down, I know she’s right.

It’s not about Wande entirely. It’s about me. The way I’m slowly rebuilding myself, one decision at a time.

I don’t check Melvin’s socials anymore. Don’t stalk Keith’s status. Don’t wait for apologies that never come.

I’m busy. Not pretending-to-be-busy. But actually busy.

With school. With healing. With learning who I am outside of who I’ve dated.

⸻

But just when I think I’m finally safe from the past…

Melvin calls.

And I answer.

I don’t know why. Maybe out of habit. Maybe curiosity. Maybe that small part of me that still wants to prove I’m doing just fine.

His voice is low, soft, almost apologetic. He talks about how he’s been praying. How he’s changed. How he misses “us.”

“There is no ‘us,’” I say gently. “There hasn’t been for a while.”

“But I still love you, Amara.”

I close my eyes.

“I don’t believe you,” I whisper.

Silence.

Then he sighs. “Is there someone else?”

Why does that matter now?

I don’t answer.

He hangs up before I can.

I stare at the screen long after it goes black.

But this time, I don’t cry.

I don’t even shake.

I just put the phone down and keep reading my textbook, because exams are coming and my peace isn’t up for negotiation.

Not anymore.

⸻

Wande walks me home a few days later after an evening class. The road is quiet, scattered with students heading in different directions. The breeze is cool, carrying the scent of earth and burnt corn from a nearby stall.

We don’t talk much. But it’s the good kind of quiet.

As we reach my hostel gate, he turns to me. “You know I’m not in a hurry, right?”

I nod, heart fluttering.

“I’m not here to rush you. I’m here to respect you.”

Those words? They settle deep in my bones.

I reach up and hold his hand for the first time. No fanfare. No anxiety.

Just a small, soft act of connection.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“For what?”

“For being kind. Like I deserve it.”

His thumb grazes mine.

“You do, Amara. You always have.”

⸻

That night, I write in my journal for the first time in months.

“I’m still healing. But maybe healing doesn’t always look like being alone. Maybe it sometimes looks like letting someone hold your hand without holding your heart hostage. Maybe it looks like new beginnings that don’t erase the past but promise something better than what broke you.”