Ejiro's heartbeat

Waves

By the middle of the semester, the university had begun to feel less like a maze and more like a map—still complex, but at least familiar. Ejiro was starting to know where to go, when to ask questions, and who to avoid. Yet, for all the external navigation, she found the map inside her heart even harder to read.

Her feelings for Emeka had grown in silence. Their walks became more frequent, their talks deeper. He once brought her suya on a rainy day, and they sat under a leaking car shed laughing about the chaos of campus life. He never pushed. He never assumed. He simply showed up. And in a world that often felt loud and overwhelming, his presence felt like soft music playing in the background—easy to miss, but impossible to forget.

Still, Naomi’s warning lingered.

Ejiro had tried to dismiss it at first, chalking it up to gossip. But now and then, she’d see other girls waving at Emeka, some with long glances, others with teasing smiles. One girl once joked, “Emeka, na wa oh! Another fresh one?” as they passed Ejiro in the cafeteria. Her heart sank. She didn’t ask him about it—she didn’t know how. What would she even say?

Meanwhile, her academics were picking up. Group projects, surprise tests, and mounting assignments meant late nights and early mornings. Ejiro was no longer the quiet girl sitting lost in lectures. She answered questions. She even stood up to present once, trembling but proud when she finished.

Naomi noticed. “You’re changing,” she said one evening. “I like it.”

Ejiro smiled. “I think I’m finally finding my feet.”

But it wasn’t just academic confidence growing—it was something deeper. A voice inside her, once too shy to speak, had started whispering: *You belong here.*

One Thursday afternoon, Emeka invited her to a poetry open mic night. “I think you’ll love it,” he said. “You write, don’t you?”

She hesitated. “Not for people. Just for me.”

“That’s exactly who poets are,” he replied.

She went. The small hall was dimly lit, with bean bags scattered around and candles flickering softly in jars. Emeka read a piece about “invisible girls with loud hearts.” When he looked in her direction afterward, she wasn’t sure if he meant her—but she hoped he did.

After the event, they sat under the stars outside the hall.

“I’m not used to all this,” Ejiro confessed. “Attention. New feelings. Even trusting someone.”

“You don’t have to figure it all out now,” Emeka said. “I’m not rushing you.”

She looked at him, unsure of whether to believe his words or the warnings whispered behind his name. “But have you rushed others?”

The question came out before she could stop it.

He paused. “Yes,” he said honestly. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people. But I’ve learned from them. I don’t want to be that guy again.”

His honesty stung and soothed her at the same time.

She nodded. “Okay.”

Not yes. Not no. Just *okay*—a step forward, cautious but willing.

That night, she wrote in her journal again.

*Entry:*

*"Love isn’t lightning. It’s not the loud c***k. It’s the slow storm clouds that build and gather. You feel the air change before the rain even falls. I think I’m in the clouds now."*

Ejiro was learning that trust didn’t mean certainty—it meant choosing to believe even when your heart still had questions. She didn’t know where this thing with Emeka would end, but she knew one thing:

She wasn’t the same girl who had arrived shy and unsure. She was growing, blooming—one heartbeat at a time.