Splash Of Fate

The morning had begun with a promise Spark couldn’t keep. The first thing she noticed was the heavy silence. No alarm, no buzz, no digital chirp reminding her she was already behind. She stirred in bed, half-buried beneath tangled sheets, hair spilling in messy waves across the pillow. A muted strip of sunlight pushed through the curtains, striking her cheek—and with it came the memory that clawed her awake: the interview. Her eyes snapped open. “Oh no, no, no…” Spark scrambled upright, blinking hard, her body sluggish from the hours she’d poured into finishing her project the night before. She hadn’t even meant to stay up that late. One moment she was typing, fueled by determination; the next, she was rubbing her eyes and realizing it was almost dawn. She fumbled for her phone, the screen glowing cruelly with the digits of time. I’m late. Panic jolted her into motion. Sheets were thrown aside as she half-stumbled, half-sprinted toward the bathroom. A shower would waste precious minutes, but she couldn’t afford to look like a wreck. She twisted the knob; water rushed, steam curling—and she plunged in. As the water hit her skin, Spark muttered under her breath—a steady stream of prayers and curses. “Why today of all days…? This could be my chance. My way out. Please don’t let me mess this up.” She pictured herself in that office: clean blazer, firm handshake, confident smile. She could almost see the approving nods of the interviewers. But life, she had learned, rarely matched her rehearsed dreams. She dressed in a rush, hair still damp, pulling on a shirt that didn’t quite match her skirt. Her bag was crammed with documents, a pen slipping out of the side pocket as she dashed down the stairs. The streets outside were bustling with early risers—hawkers setting up stalls, taxis honking, the air buzzing with the promise of a hot day. Spark squeezed into a crowded bus, clutching the overhead bar as the driver lurched forward. She tapped her foot impatiently with every stop. Her thoughts churned restlessly. The internship wasn’t even guaranteed employment, but it was something. A step. A c***k of light in the wall she had been pressing against since her parents’ death. She closed her eyes briefly, trying not to think of them now—not when her chest still tightened at the memory of their laughter, the way the world had caved in after the accident. She shook the thought away like dust. Focus. As the bus slowed near her stop, she moved toward the door. The air smelled of rain from the night before, streets still slick. She lifted her foot to step down— And a car tore past. Water, muddy and cold, splashed up in a cruel arc, drenching her from waist to ankle. Her gasp turned to fury. “Are you blind?!” she shouted, spinning toward the sleek black car. “Can’t you see where you’re going? You can’t even say sorry? You have no manners!” The tinted window hummed downward. There he was. A man, impossibly composed, with piercing blue eyes that cut through the morning haze. Spark froze for half a second, startled by the unexpected beauty of his face. But her annoyance burned hotter than awe. “Why did you have to splash me?” she snapped, hands thrown out. “I’m on my way to an interview! How do you expect me to go looking like this?” The man leaned slightly toward the window, calm and unreadable, a storm behind his gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see the puddle.” His voice was smooth, low, weighted. Spark brushed him off with a glare. “Sorry won’t fix this.” She turned sharply, her wet shoes squelching with each step as she stomped away. The nearest boutique gleamed with polished glass and silver racks. Spark pushed the door open, dripping onto the spotless floor. The attendant gave her a once-over, nose wrinkling. “I just need something plain,” Spark muttered, moving quickly between hangers. Shirts, skirts, blazers—all elegant, all expensive. She lifted a price tag and almost dropped it. “What kind of daylight robbery…” Her frustration bubbled over. “I didn’t come here to shop,” she whispered harshly. “I just need to survive this interview.” She turned toward a cheaper rack and bumped into someone. Her heart skipped. The same blue eyes. The man from the car. She stumbled back, heat flooding her face—not from admiration, but sheer irritation. “You again? Are you following me?” His lips curved faintly, though not quite a smile. “It wasn’t intentional.” “Then stay out of my way,” Spark snapped, storming toward the exit. She didn’t want to admit how her pulse quickened, how those eyes lingered in her mind even as she slammed the door behind her. The interview room smelled of air conditioning and expensive coffee. Spark sat stiffly in a chair among applicants who looked far more put together. She kept her eyes on her phone, scrolling through nothing, trying to drown her nerves. A man passed her seat, and for a moment she felt the weight of a gaze. She didn’t look up. “Miss Spark?” the receptionist called. She rose, smoothing her blazer, and stepped into the room. The panelists greeted her warmly, but she felt the cracks beneath her composure. Every question dragged like heavy chains. Her answers were good—maybe even sharp—but when they asked about her degree status, her throat closed. Still processing her master’s. Not yet done. Their polite smiles told her enough. By the time she walked out, the weight of rejection pressed down like lead. Back in her apartment, Spark sat on her bed, peeling off her borrowed blazer. She had spent her last naira on it. The sting of wasted effort hurt worse than the interview itself. She forced herself into the kitchen, hands moving mechanically to cook something small. Food tasted like nothing. Her phone buzzed. Tyson’s name lit the screen. “Come on,” his voice coaxed. “There’s a get-together tonight. Don’t tell me you’ll rot in bed.” “Tyson, I’m not in the mood,” Spark said, rubbing her forehead. “You’re never in the mood. That’s why you need this.” Against her will, she laughed softly. He always knew how to nudge her out of her shell. “Fine. But only for a little while.” That evening, Spark stood before her mirror, holding a dress against herself. The deep blue fabric shimmered faintly in the light. Silver jewelry glinted at her collarbone. For the first time that day, she almost felt like herself again. When Tyson’s car pulled up, she rushed out, heels clicking. “Hurry up, young beauty!” Tyson teased, holding the car door open. “Do I look okay?” she asked, breathless, needing his reassurance more than she wanted to admit. “You always look great,” he said simply. Something in his tone steadied her. At the party, laughter and music filled the air. Spark let herself be pulled into the rhythm, swaying with Tyson, her heels tapping—until—snap. The heel broke, and she stumbled. Tyson’s arms caught her easily, steady and warm. The crowd noticed. “Hey, Tyson, is this your girlfriend?” someone called. Spark flushed, laughing nervously. “No, no, stop playing!” The night spiraled into games—Truth or Drink. Spark tried to hide behind her glass, but the questions kept coming: about her love life, her ex, the scars she never wanted to reopen. Tyson’s answers hinted at feelings she wasn’t ready to face. By the time she stormed out, tears stung her eyes. Tyson caught up to her outside. “Spark, what’s wrong? I thought we were having fun—” “You think reminding me of my past is fun?” she cried, voice cracking. “I’m not made of stone. I’m still hurting.” He tried to hug her. She shoved him away. “Just let me be,” she whispered, tears spilling freely. For the first time in a long time, Spark felt both surrounded and utterly alone.