Episode 5 – When Hearts Learn to Speak
1144 Words
The afternoon sun poured through Ada’s curtains, warm and golden, settling over her desk like a quiet reminder that life kept moving. It had been three weeks since she returned from London, and Lagos still felt like a dream she was learning to wake up to.
Her days were full again — interviews, press calls, and meetings with her publisher. Bloom Again had become a name whispered with admiration in circles she never thought she’d reach. But in the still moments between the rush, Ada found herself thinking of Tunde more often than she admitted.
He’d been her calm through the noise — calling when she forgot to eat, teasing her about being a “celebrity author,” and reminding her that fame didn’t mean she had to stop being Ada.
She smiled at the memory of his words:
> “Don’t let the world turn your scars into performances. Keep them as lessons instead.”
It was such a Tunde thing to say — simple, grounding, sincere.
The Unexpected Visit
That evening, Ada was halfway through writing a blog post when she heard a knock. She wasn’t expecting anyone. When she opened the door, Tunde stood there — holding a small brown paper bag and wearing that effortless smile that always made her feel safe.
“Guess who brought your favorite suya?” he said.
Ada laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “You and your food bribes. Come in.”
He dropped the bag on her counter, the spicy aroma instantly filling the apartment. “You’ve been locked in here all week,” he said. “I figured I’d rescue you from your own mind.”
Ada rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest gave her away. “You make it sound like I’m a prisoner.”
“You are,” he said, sitting casually on her couch. “A prisoner of your laptop.”
They both laughed. It felt good — natural — like breathing.
Over suya and chilled malt, they talked about everything and nothing: Lagos traffic, Tunde’s company expansion, and how Ada’s mother was still calling to remind her about marriage at least twice a week.
“I told her I’m focusing on my career,” Ada said, mock-serious.
“And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘Career won’t hug you at night.’”
Tunde burst out laughing. Ada joined him, clutching her stomach.
For a while, laughter filled the apartment — the kind of laughter that healed what words couldn’t.
Quiet Moments
Later, they moved to the balcony. The city glowed beneath them — car horns in the distance, the smell of rain hanging in the air.
Tunde leaned on the railing beside her, both of them wrapped in silence that didn’t need breaking.
“You know,” Ada began softly, “sometimes I still wake up scared that everything I’ve built will just… vanish.”
Tunde turned to her. “You built it on truth, Ada. Truth doesn’t vanish — it grows.”
She looked at him, eyes shining with something unspoken. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”
He smiled faintly. “Maybe I just listen better than most.”
For a moment, the world around them blurred — just two souls, breathing the same quiet air.
Then Ada whispered, “Thank you… for being here. Always.”
Tunde didn’t reply right away. He just looked at her, really looked at her — the strength in her voice, the softness in her eyes. When he finally spoke, it was barely above a murmur.
“Always, Ada. You don’t even have to ask.”
The Book Fair
A week later, Ada was invited to a local book fair in Victoria Island. Her publisher insisted she attend, and Tunde offered to drive her.
“I’ll be your unofficial bodyguard,” he’d said.
The event was vibrant — authors, readers, artists, all buzzing with creative energy. Ada signed copies, posed for photos, and gave a small talk about her journey. When she spoke about healing and forgiveness, she spotted Tunde at the back of the crowd, watching her with quiet pride.
After her session, he handed her a bottle of water and smiled. “You were incredible.”
Ada grinned. “I still get nervous before speaking.”
“You couldn’t tell,” he said. “You owned that stage like you were born there.”
Later, as the fair ended, rain began to fall — sudden, heavy Lagos rain. Everyone scattered for cover, laughing and shouting. Ada and Tunde ran together, drenched, until they found shelter under a nearby tent.
Her curls stuck to her face, and his shirt clung to his shoulders. They both burst out laughing, breathless and soaked.
“See your life,” she teased, brushing rain from her cheeks. “Bodyguard indeed.”
He laughed. “Hey, I got you out of the rain. That counts.”
As they stood there, shoulders almost touching, Ada felt her heart stumble — that soft, quiet ache of something beautiful she couldn’t name.
For a fleeting second, she wanted to reach out — to hold his hand, to say what her heart already knew. But she didn’t.
Some feelings were too pure to rush.
When Hearts Learn to Speak
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind replayed the laughter, the rain, the look in his eyes.
She opened her journal and wrote:
> “Love doesn’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes, it comes like rainfall — quiet, gentle, and unexpected.”
Her phone buzzed — a message from Tunde.
> Tunde: “Did you get home safe?”
Ada: “Yes. Still can’t believe we got caught in that rain.”
Tunde: “Worth it. Haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.”
Ada: “Same here.”
(pause)
Tunde: “Goodnight, Ada. Don’t overthink, okay?”
Ada: “No promises. Goodnight, Tunde.”
She smiled, placing her phone beside her. For the first time in a long while, her heart felt full — not with romance, not yet, but with something softer.
Something that told her she was ready to feel again.
Morning Light
The next morning, Ada stood by her window watching the sunrise. The city came alive beneath her — noisy, messy, alive.
She thought about how far she’d come — from heartbreak to healing, from silence to storytelling. She didn’t know what tomorrow held, but she knew this: love didn’t have to hurt to be real.
Somewhere across town, Tunde looked at his phone — at Ada’s last message — and smiled.
He didn’t need to rush. Love like this didn’t demand; it simply existed.
And in the quiet spaces between words, between fear and hope, between friendship and something deeper — both of their hearts were learning how to speak.
- Writer
