Episode 9 – “The Distance Between Words”
1439 Words
The morning air in Lagos felt different that week — charged, hurried, full of things Ada couldn’t quite name.
Her life had begun to move faster than she expected.
Emails. Interviews. Invitations. Her articles on emotional healing were being shared across platforms. Her phone buzzed constantly — editors asking for her input, event planners requesting her presence, even readers sending letters of gratitude.
It was everything she had dreamed of, yet it came with an ache she hadn’t anticipated — the ache of not having enough time to breathe.
And lately, not enough time for him.
The Missed Calls
It started subtly — one missed call here, one rescheduled coffee there.
Tunde would send a message:
> “Free this evening?”
She’d reply hours later,
> “Just got home. Exhausted. Rain check?”
He’d send a thumbs up or a gentle, “No worries, superstar.”
It always came with a smiley face. But she could read what wasn’t written.
There was warmth still — but also a new, thin layer of distance.
Some nights, she’d lie in bed, scrolling through their old messages — their easy banter, their quiet jokes, the voice notes that once filled the spaces between their days.
She’d smile. Then sigh.
Because somehow, the rhythm that used to feel effortless now required effort.
The Interview
One Friday afternoon, Ada sat across from a journalist from LifeLines Magazine. The woman’s recorder blinked red, her pen moving quickly.
“You’ve become something of a voice for emotional healing in Nigeria,” the interviewer said. “Where does that strength come from?”
Ada smiled softly. “From breaking, I guess. From learning that sometimes what hurts you most teaches you what love truly is.”
The interviewer nodded, impressed. “Beautifully said. And is there someone who inspired that healing journey?”
The question hung there. Ada hesitated. Daniel’s name crossed her mind first — then faded, like smoke.
Tunde’s name came next — not loudly, but like a whisper she couldn’t ignore.
She smiled faintly. “There was someone who reminded me that gentle doesn’t mean weak… and that healing isn’t about forgetting the pain, but learning how to live through it.”
The interviewer smiled, scribbling notes. “That sounds like love.”
Ada looked down. “Maybe it was.”
The Silence That Grows
Tunde had noticed too. The texts were shorter now. The phone calls, rarer.
He’d read her new articles — proud of her, of course — but sometimes, as he scrolled through glowing comment sections, he’d catch himself wondering: Where do I fit in this new chapter of her life?
He never said it aloud. That wasn’t his way.
Instead, he poured himself into work — long hours, quiet nights, a few outings with friends that didn’t feel the same.
When Ada did call, her voice carried a different kind of energy — bright, but distant.
She’d tell him about meetings, deadlines, travel plans. He’d listen, smile, encourage her.
But sometimes, after hanging up, he’d sit in the dark for a while — phone in hand, thumb hovering over her name, wanting to say, I miss you, but typing instead,
> “Take care, yeah? Don’t overwork yourself.”
She’d reply with a heart emoji.
It was enough. But not really.
The Trip
When Ada’s agency invited her to a mental wellness conference in Ghana, she almost declined — until Tunde encouraged her to go.
“You’ve earned this,” he said over the phone. “Go, shine. The world needs your voice.”
“Will you come?” she asked without thinking.
He chuckled softly. “I wish I could. But my schedule’s mad next week.”
“Oh.” She tried to hide her disappointment. “I understand.”
“Hey,” he added gently, “just promise you’ll tell me everything when you get back.”
She smiled. “Promise.”
The Ocean and the Sky
Ghana was beautiful — warm waves, wide skies, colors that felt like freedom.
Ada stood by the ocean one evening, watching the sunset melt into gold and crimson.
She thought about how far she’d come — from heartbreak to healing, from fear to purpose.
And yet, as the waves brushed her feet, she realized something unsettling:
She had found her strength again, yes… but somewhere along the line, she had begun to lose her softness.
She missed laughing with Tunde until her sides hurt.
She missed the way his calm steadied her storms.
She missed… him.
The ocean whispered, Then why are you waiting?
She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over his name.
Then she hesitated.
What would she even say? “I miss you”? “I’m scared of losing what we haven’t even defined”?
The words didn’t come. So she just stood there — heart full, phone still, letting the tide wash over her silence.
Meanwhile…
Back in Lagos, Tunde was working late. The office was quiet — just the hum of computers and the rain tapping the windows.
He glanced at his phone. No messages from Ada.
He thought of calling, then changed his mind. She’d be tired. She always was these days.
Instead, he opened one of her recent essays online. The headline read:
> “Healing Is Not an End, But a Beginning.”
He read slowly, smiling at her words. But when he reached the final paragraph, his chest tightened.
> “And sometimes,” she had written, “the hardest part of healing isn’t letting go of pain — it’s accepting the love that comes after it.”
He sat back, exhaling softly. He wondered if those words were about him.
And if they were, what did they mean now?
Home Again
Ada returned to Lagos two days later, her mind still full of ocean air and reflection.
Her apartment felt both familiar and foreign — like a place that had waited patiently while she became someone new.
There were flowers on her table — soft white lilies, her favorite.
No note, just a small card with one line in neat handwriting:
> “Proud of you. —T.”
Her heart caught in her throat. She held the card like something fragile.
That night, she drafted a message.
> “The lilies are beautiful. Thank you. I missed you.”
She typed it. Read it. Then deleted “I missed you.”
It felt too heavy, too soon, too honest.
She sent only:
> “The lilies are beautiful. Thank you.”
He replied within minutes:
> “You’re welcome. I knew you’d need something calm waiting for you.”
Her fingers lingered over the keyboard. She wanted to say, You were what I needed waiting for me, but instead, she locked her phone and stared out the window.
The city lights glowed below, indifferent and beautiful.
The Message That Never Sent
Weeks passed. Life went on. Success piled higher.
But some nights, Ada would open her phone and draft messages she never sent.
> “Do you ever think about how quiet it’s gotten between us?”
“I miss when we didn’t have to plan our laughter.”
“Tunde, I think about you more than I should.”
Then she’d delete them all.
Because what if saying them changed everything — or worse, what if it changed nothing?
The Last Call (for Now)
One rainy evening, Ada’s phone rang. It was Tunde.
“Hey, stranger,” he said softly.
She smiled, curling up on the couch. “I was just thinking about calling you.”
“Were you?” His voice was gentle, almost teasing.
“I was. I… I’ve been meaning to tell you how grateful I am. For the flowers. For always being there.”
“Always,” he said, after a pause. “Even if it’s quieter these days.”
Her chest tightened. “You noticed that too?”
He laughed softly, but it wasn’t the carefree laugh she knew. “Yeah. But it’s okay. We’re both growing, right?”
“Right,” she whispered.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then he said, “Just… don’t lose your softness, Ada. It’s what makes your strength worth it.”
She blinked fast. “I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
They said goodnight. The call ended.
But Ada stayed there, holding the phone to her chest, eyes closed, wishing she had said what her heart had whispered all along: Don’t drift too far.
Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle — like the world itself was sighing with her.
- Writer
