WHEN THE PAST KNOCKS
1388 Words
🌸 Episode 2 –
Monday morning sunlight streamed through Ada’s window, warm and golden, chasing away the soft traces of last night’s dreams. For the first time in a long while, she woke up without the heaviness of sadness pressing on her chest. Her laptop still sat on the desk from the night before, the open document waiting patiently for her to return.
She sipped her tea and reread the story she’d started — her story. A quiet smile curved her lips. There was pain in every line, yes, but also truth, growth, and courage. Maybe this was her gift — not to write perfect stories, but honest ones.
The sound of her phone buzzing snapped her out of thought.
It was a message from an unknown number.
> Hi Ada, this is Tunde from the brunch event. I wanted to say I really enjoyed our talk yesterday. You mentioned struggling to publish your stories — I’d love to help if you’re open to it. No pressure, just offering support.
Ada’s heart skipped a small beat. She read it twice, smiling at the kindness in his words. No flirtation, no pressure — just genuine interest. She typed back carefully:
> Hi Tunde, thank you! That means a lot. I’m actually trying to find my footing again with writing. Maybe we can talk about it sometime.
Within minutes, his reply came:
> Absolutely. How about coffee this weekend? My treat.
Ada hesitated. Old fears whispered: Don’t get attached again. Don’t trust too soon.
But another voice — softer, braver — said, You’re allowed to meet new people. You’re allowed to live again.
She smiled.
> Sure. Saturday works.
The week went by quietly. Ada focused on her freelance writing gigs, juggling client projects while working on her personal piece every night. Slowly, she felt her creativity returning. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers again.
On Saturday morning, she spent far too long picking an outfit — not because she wanted to impress Tunde, she told herself, but because she wanted to feel good in her own skin. She settled on a soft yellow blouse and jeans, minimal makeup, and her favorite hoop earrings.
When she arrived at the café, he was already there, sitting by the window with a cup of cappuccino and his laptop. He looked up and smiled — that same calm, warm smile that had stayed with her since their first meeting.
“Ada,” he said, standing to pull out her chair. “You look… peaceful.”
She laughed softly. “That’s new. Thank you.”
They talked easily — about writing, books, and life in Lagos. Tunde listened more than he spoke, asking questions that made Ada think, laugh, and sometimes pause in reflection. He told her about his start-up, InkBridge, a platform helping Nigerian writers publish and monetize their stories globally.
“I started it after losing someone,” he admitted quietly. “Writing helped me heal, and I wanted others to have that space too.”
Ada studied him for a moment — the sincerity in his eyes, the steadiness in his voice. There was depth there, pain even, but also hope. She understood that kind of strength; it was born from breaking and rebuilding.
When they finally left, the sky was painted with the colors of sunset.
“I’m glad you came,” he said as they walked toward the parking lot.
“I’m glad too,” she replied softly.
And she meant it.
That night, Ada couldn’t sleep. She replayed their conversation over and over, not because she felt sparks of romance — not yet — but because she felt something rarer: peace. For once, a man’s presence didn’t drain her. It grounded her.
But peace can be fragile.
By Tuesday afternoon, her phone buzzed again — a name she never thought she’d see light up her screen again.
Daniel.
Her stomach dropped. She stared at the notification, frozen.
> I heard you’ve been writing again. Can we talk? Please.
Ada’s hands trembled slightly. For months, she had wished for closure, for an apology, for anything that would help her understand why he had broken her heart so carelessly. Now that he was reaching out, she didn’t know what she felt — anger, curiosity, fear… maybe all three.
She typed a single word and sent it before she could overthink:
> Why?
He replied almost instantly.
> Because I miss you. I made a mistake, Ada. I can’t stop thinking about you.
She dropped her phone and pressed her palms against her forehead.
How dare he? After disappearing when she needed him most — now he wanted to talk? To miss her?
The tears came, not because she still loved him, but because she remembered the girl who had once believed he was her forever.
That night, she didn’t write. She couldn’t. The old ache had returned, sharp and raw. But instead of calling him back, she wrote something else — a letter she’d never send.
> Daniel,
You broke me in ways I didn’t know were possible. But you also taught me that love without honesty isn’t love at all. I don’t hate you. I just can’t go back.
Not anymore.
When she finished, she closed her laptop, breathed deeply, and whispered,
“I choose me this time.”
Days passed, and Ada focused on work, avoiding the temptation to reply to Daniel again. Instead, she threw herself into a new project Tunde had suggested — writing a short series for InkBridge.
They met often to plan, usually over coffee or long evening walks. Tunde never asked about Daniel directly, but Ada could sense he knew there was a story behind her silences. He never pushed, never judged. He simply showed up — patient, kind, steady.
One evening, after a long brainstorming session, Tunde said quietly,
“You know, Ada… the way you write — it’s like you’re healing out loud.”
She smiled faintly. “Maybe I am.”
He nodded. “Good. The world needs that kind of honesty.”
For the first time, she looked at him a little differently — not as someone to hide from, but as someone who made her feel safe.
Weeks turned into months. Ada’s series became one of the most-read stories on InkBridge. Her audience grew, and with it, her confidence. She was finally earning enough to sustain herself fully as a freelance writer. More importantly, she was happy.
But life, as always, had its tests.
One rainy afternoon, she walked into a bookstore for a meet-and-greet event for authors. She was signing copies of her e-book when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Ada?”
Her heart froze. She turned.
Daniel.
He looked different — a bit thinner, his once-confident eyes now uncertain. He smiled softly. “You look… beautiful.”
Ada crossed her arms, her voice calm. “What are you doing here, Daniel?”
“I came to see you. I’ve been reading your work. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”
She studied him quietly. Months ago, those words might have broken her. Now, they meant nothing more than a memory.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
He sighed, taking a hesitant step forward. “I know I can’t undo the past, but I want you to know I’m sorry. I was scared. You deserved better.”
“I know,” she said softly. “And I finally believe that.”
She smiled — not bitterly, not coldly, but with peace. Then she turned and walked away.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The city lights shimmered against wet pavements, and Ada felt something she hadn’t in a long time — freedom.
That evening, she met Tunde for dinner. He noticed the look in her eyes immediately.
“Long day?” he asked.
“Closure,” she said simply.
He smiled knowingly. “That kind of day.”
She nodded. “But it feels… lighter now.”
He raised his glass. “To lightness, then. And to blooming again.”
Ada clinked her glass against his, her smile genuine and full. “To blooming again.”
For the first time, she wasn’t just surviving — she was living, growing, becoming.
And deep down, she knew this was only the beginning.
- Writer
