The Distance Between Us
1305 Words
The Abuja gala shimmered like a scene out of a billionaire fantasy. Beneath a high, glass-domed ceiling, the banquet hall pulsed with soft gold and violet hues that danced off crystal chandeliers. Laughter rang in elegant ripples. A quartet played near the velvet-draped stage, their music weaving between clusters of tech moguls, oil princes, and digital dreamers. Waiters floated around with trays of champagne and caviar, their black suits tailored to invisible precision.
Mike stood beside his display booth, rigid in a deep navy tuxedo. His tablet rested on the sleek black podium beside him, looping his pitch deck—clean animations, market analysis, revenue potential. His startup had been gaining traction for months, and this night was meant to be his big break.
But his hands were cold. Not from nerves, but from the absence of something—someone.
He looked down at his watch for the tenth time in twenty minutes.
Danika.
Back in Lagos, miles away, she sat atop the rooftop of their small apartment building. A worn blanket was wrapped around her shoulders, her arms folded over her knees. The night air was cool, brushing softly against her skin, carrying the distant hum of traffic. She should’ve been asleep. Or maybe watching one of those low-budget romantic dramas she liked to criticize but always cried over anyway.
But she wasn’t.
She was thinking.
Of him.
Danika stared at the moon, pale and indifferent. The stars felt like old friends who had drifted away with time.
Her phone was clutched in her hand. She opened it, stared at the blank message box for a while, and finally typed:
You deserve this moment, Mike. I’m proud of you.
She inhaled, held it. Her thumb hovered over the send button. Then, after a long pause, she typed more:
Just don’t forget why you started.
She hit send.
And waited.
Mike’s phone buzzed just as he reached for a glass of water, moments before he was scheduled to speak to the panel of venture capitalists who had flown in from the UK.
He glanced at the screen and saw her name.
Danika.
The moment he read her message, something shifted in his chest. It wasn’t just the familiar ache. It was heavier tonight, more profound. Guilt, maybe. Or longing. Or that invisible pull that only she could summon.
He closed his eyes for a second and let the memory flood in.
Her laugh that first night at the pool party. The way her lips had curled into a smile, hesitant, sweet. The joy in her eyes when he convinced her to dip her feet in the water. Her clumsy splash. The shriek. How he had laughed until he couldn’t breathe.
Then came the hard days. The day she came home with red eyes, clutching a letter from the court—her mother had nowhere to go. Mike had held her in silence, letting her tears soak his shirt. No words. Just presence. Just warmth.
And he remembered the night she dropped her phone in water. The panic. The frustration. Without a second thought, he handed her his iPhone. Told her to keep it. She had protested. But he insisted. "You need it more than I do,” he’d said, smiling.
That was love. Not the flowers. Not the dates. But the moments in-between. The quiet sacrifices.
And yet… here he was, in a room full of future billionaires, feeling like a fraud.
“Mr. Bamidele?” one of the investors approached with a pleasant smile. “Are you ready?”
Mike blinked and pocketed his phone. “Yes. Let’s begin.”
He delivered his pitch with flawless confidence. He hit every statistic, outlined every advantage, every strategic rollout. His voice never wavered. His product? Solid. The interest? Immediate.
A senior investor extended his hand. “Let’s talk terms. Conditional, but promising. We like your energy.”
Mike forced a smile. “Thank you, sir.”
The man handed over a sleek black card. “We’ll finalize by next week. You’re going places, son.”
Mike bowed slightly in gratitude. But as he turned away, walking back through the sea of laughter and champagne, he felt nothing but a dull, aching hollowness.
Danika waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. A full hour.
No reply.
The screen remained still. Silent.
She smiled to herself. Not bitterly. Not angrily. Just… resigned.
“He’s busy,” she whispered aloud, more to the sky than to herself. “Of course he is.”
She stood up, folding the blanket and placing it on the chair beside the water tank. As she walked back into her apartment, each step felt heavier than the last.
Inside, the apartment was dim. She didn’t bother with the lights. She passed the couch, the small table, the television Mike had saved up to buy. All reminders of him. Of them.
In the bedroom, she lay on the bed without changing. Her eyes stared at the ceiling. Empty. Tired.
A knock tapped softly on her door.
“Come in,” she called, not even lifting her head.
Her mother opened the door gently. “You’ve been quiet,” she said, stepping in, her voice kind, but knowing.
“I’m just thinking,” Danika murmured.
“About him?”
A pause. Then a small nod.
Her mother sat beside her and rubbed her shoulder. “He’s a good man,” she said softly. “But so are you a good woman. A whole one. Don’t forget that, Danika.”
Danika closed her eyes. “What if I’m asking too much?”
“You’re not. Wanting to be seen, even from afar, is not asking too much.”
Danika turned to face her mother. “He’s chasing his dream. I don’t want to be the reason he hesitates.”
Her mother smiled faintly. “And who’s chasing yours?”
That question echoed in the silence after her mother left.
Mike returned to the hotel around midnight. His tie was loose, and his feet ached. His phone buzzed again—notifications from business contacts, LinkedIn messages, calendar reminders.
But not her.
No new messages from Danika.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of success pressing against his ribs like a vice. He stared at the card the investor had given him. It gleamed under the lamp. That small, metallic font held a future he’d always prayed for.
But at what cost?
He opened his gallery. Photo after photo of them filled the screen—her feeding him ice cream at a beach stall in Badagry, selfies with messy faces after painting the apartment, a shot of her curled up asleep on the couch, still holding a book she never finished.
His fingers hovered over the call button.
But he didn’t press it.
Instead, he texted:
“Got the deal. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”
He stared at the message for a full minute. Then deleted it.
And lay back on the bed, wondering why success tasted so empty.
The next morning, the Abuja sun poured through the hotel windows, indifferent to human ache. Mike walked out of the ballroom after a follow-up meeting, his steps echoing against polished marble floors.
He’d just closed the initial deal.
Conditional investment: secured.
Networking: achieved.
Future: set.
But as he stepped into the morning air, the Abuja skyline spread before him, beautiful but distant. Cold.
And all he could feel was the unbearable space between his dream and his heart.
Because somewhere in Lagos, on a quiet rooftop or maybe lying in bed with her back turned to the light, was a woman who once made him believe that love could be simple, even in a complicated world.
And he was beginning to realize that no deal, no investor, no five-star hotel suite would ever make up for losing her.
- Writer
