The "Wall" between us 🧱

“Too Close to Ignore” 🔥

l didn’t see it coming.

One second, I was walking out of the lecture hall, my mind somewhere between unfinished assignments and the orders I still had to deliver… and the next—

A hand wrapped around my waist.

Firm. Warm. Certain.

My breath caught instantly.

“What are you—”

I didn’t even finish my sentence before I was pulled slightly back, my body brushing against his. My heart slammed hard against my chest, and for a second, everything around me disappeared.

“Relax,” Umar’s voice came low beside my ear. Calm. Steady. Way too close. “You were about to walk straight into him.”

I blinked, finally noticing the guy who had just passed hurriedly in front of me. He was carrying a stack of heavy wooden stools from the arts block, swaying dangerously. If Umar hadn’t moved, those stools would have been my introduction to a hospital bed.

Umar didn’t let go immediately. For a heartbeat—maybe two—his hand stayed anchored to my waist. I could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my shirt, a grounding weight that made the rest of the bustling KASU campus fade into a blur of distant voices and shuffling footsteps. The scent of him—sandalwood and something crisp, like rain hitting the dry Kaduna earth—filled my senses.

“You need to look where you’re going, Maya,” he murmured. His voice had that low, rhythmic quality that always seemed to hum right under my skin. “The world doesn't pause just because you’re deep in thought.”

I stepped back, the loss of his touch feeling strangely like a cold breeze. I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, my fingers trembling just enough for me to hope he didn't notice.

“I was... I have a lot on my mind. Lab reports for Chemistry, and I have three deliveries to make before my 4:00 PM lecture,” I stammered, adjusting the strap of my heavy bag.

Inside that bag was the weight of my double life: a textbook on organic chemistry and five packs of Frozen Collagen 2-in-1 whitening gummies. My online business was thriving, but it was a constant mental marathon. Every time I looked at Umar, I felt the two halves of my world colliding. He was the son of a respected family, steady in his faith, always wearing his pristine white kaftan or jalabiya that made him look like he belonged in a different, more peaceful century.

And then there was me. Maya. The girl in slim-fit trousers and a cardigan, constantly checking her phone for credit alerts and tracking numbers, trying to bridge the gap between a degree in Chemistry and a future that didn't involve standing in front of a chalkboard for the rest of her life.

He fell into step beside me, his long strides effortless. “The skincare business?”

“It’s not just a 'business,' Umar. It’s my hustle. Those oral care kits and gummies don’t sell themselves. I have students waiting at the faculty gate.” I started walking faster toward the science block, my pace quick and defensive. I needed distance. Distance was safe. Distance didn't make my heart do erratic gymnastics.

“I didn't say it wasn't important,” he said, his voice level. “But your safety is more important than a delivery. You were a centimeter away from a concussion.”

l stopped abruptly near the library walkway, turning to face him. The frustration of the day—the failed titration in the lab earlier, the customer who complained about shipping fees, the looming Physics CBT—all of it bubbled up.

“Is it? Because sometimes I think you’re just a distraction I can't afford!”

The words were out before my brain could catch them—sharp, cold, and entirely too honest.

“Is it? Because sometimes I think you’re just a distraction I can't afford!”

As soon as the last syllable hit the air, the world around us seemed to go mute. The distant chatter of students near the library, the honking of a car near the faculty gate—it all died away. My heart didn't just drop; it felt like it stopped beating entirely.

Did I just say that? Out loud?

Umar’s expression shifted instantly. It wasn't an explosion of anger; it was something far worse. It was the way his eyes—usually so warm and steady—suddenly shuttered, like a light being blown out in a dark room. He stepped back, his hand dropping from the pillar as if the very air between us had turned to ice.

Maya, you i***t, I screamed at myself internally. He just saved you from a concussion, and you’re calling him a distraction? But it was more than that. By calling him a "distraction," I had admitted the one thing I had been trying to hide: that he was occupying my mind. That he was the reason I was failing to focus on my deliveries. That he was the reason my Chemistry notes were full of doodles instead of formulas. I had basically told him, “I like you so much it’s ruining my life,” but I’d said it like it was a crime he was committing against me.

I saw the muscle in his jaw tighten. The hurt flickered there, raw and pointed, before he masked it with that calm, disciplined dignity that always made me feel so small.

“A distraction?” he repeated, his voice lower than usual, vibrating with a weight that made my eyes sting.

“Umar, I—I didn’t mean it like—"

“No, you did,” he cut in softly. He didn't raise his voice, but the quietness of it was devastating. “You mean that when you look at me, you see a problem to be solved. A hurdle in the way of your business. A ‘distraction’ from the life you’ve planned out so carefully.”

I wanted to reach out. I wanted to grab the sleeve of his kaftan and tell him that he was the only thing making sense in my chaotic world. I wanted to apologize until my throat was sore. But my tongue felt like lead. How do you apologize for the truth? How do you tell someone, “I’m hurting you because I’m terrified of how much I want you to stay”?

I watched him take a long, slow breath, pulling his shoulders back. He looked so far away in that moment, even though he was standing right in front of me. The wall wasn’t just between our religions or our families anymore—I had just laid the first brick of a wall between our hearts.

The air in the Chemistry lab felt heavier than usual the next day. It wasn't just the lingering scent of sulfur and ethanol; it was the silence. Umar was there, hunched over a titration flask at the far end of the bench, his movements precise and mechanical. He hadn’t looked up when I walked in. He hadn’t even offered the small, polite nod that had become our unspoken morning ritual.

My phone buzzed in my pocket—another credit alert from a customer—but for the first time in months, the sound didn't bring me that hit of dopamine. All I could think about was the look in his eyes yesterday. Distraction. The word felt like a bruise I kept pressing just to see if it still hurt.

I checked my reflection in the glass of a fume hood. I looked like I hadn't slept, which was true. I’d spent half the night staring at my skincare inventory, wondering if I should just delete his number and focus on the "hustle" like I told him I would. But every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hand on my waist.

"Maya," the lab instructor’s voice barked, snapping me back. "If you stare at that beaker any longer, it might actually start the reaction itself. Get to work."

I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. From the corner of my eye, I saw Umar’s hand pause for a split second before he continued swirling his flask.

I grabbed my burette, my hands shaking. I needed to fix this. I couldn't breathe in this silence. But how do you approach a man like Umar in a room full of people when you’ve already told him he’s an obstacle?

As the lab session ended and students began packing their bags, I saw my chance. He was cleaning his workstation, his back to the room. I walked over, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Umar," I whispered.

He didn't turn around immediately. He finished wiping the bench, his movements slow and deliberate. When he finally faced me, his expression was a blank wall. "Yes, Maya? Do you need help with the calculation?"

"No," I said, my voice cracking. "I... I need to say something. About yesterday."

He slung his bag over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine for the first time. They weren't cold, but they were guarded—protected. "You said enough yesterday. You have deliveries to make, don't you? I wouldn't want to get in the way of your business."

"Please," I stepped closer, lowering my voice so the lingering students wouldn't hear. "I'm a mess, okay? I sell products to make people feel beautiful because half the time I feel like I'm falling apart. I called you a distraction because... because it’s easier than saying you’re the only thing that makes me want to stay here when I’m exhausted."

A flicker of something—softness, maybe?—crossed his face, but he didn't move.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words finally tumbling out. "I'm so sorry, Umar. You aren't a distraction. You're the best part of my day, and that's what scares me."

The silence stretched between us, thick and charged.

"You're scared," he repeated, his voice losing some of its edge.

"Terrified," I admitted.

He looked down at his feet, then back at me. A small, almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the kind of smile that made my knees feel like water. "You're a very difficult person, Maya."

"I know," I breathed, a tiny laugh escaping me.

"Go," he said, nodding toward the door. "Deliver your gummies. But... don't walk into any stools on the way out."

I felt a rush of relief so strong I almost reached out to touch his arm. I caught myself just in time, remembering where we were. "Does this mean we're okay?"

"It means," he said, picking up his books, "that the wall is still there. But maybe... maybe we can start looking for a door."

Next time on The Wall Between Us: A weekend trip to the Kaduna Central Market for business supplies goes wrong, and Maya finds herself calling the one person she promised not to bother.