Almost Forever by Athansede Senami Oyinkansola

The group of girls paused near the aisle, still laughing, blocking the view of half the row. Other students shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to stare too obviously, but Ayo could see the small ripple they caused. Even in a crowded hall, some people carried themselves like the room belonged to them. Ayo sank back slightly against the wall, adjusting his glasses. He hated how his eyes kept dragging back to her—the one in yellow. Her laughter hadn’t left his ears yet; it played over and over like a melody he was trying to figure out. What’s wrong with you, Ayomide? he muttered inwardly. You came here to study, not to be staring at girl’s blouse. Still, his gaze betrayed him. The bold one—the tall girl—was complaining again. > “Ha! We reach here early, see as dem don carry all the fine seats finish. Na back we go end up o.” The round-faced friend responded dreamily: > “Ehn, but that boy in front dey fine sha. If na back we dey sit, at least we still dey see him head from far.” They all burst into laughter again, except the quiet one, who rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. Yellow blouse—her—just shook her head, smiling as though she had heard these antics a thousand times before. Her smile reached her eyes. Ayo’s chest tightened again. He adjusted his seat, pretending to focus on the notes he was scribbling even though orientation hadn’t started yet. His biro hovered above the page, tracing meaningless lines. He thought about standing up and leaving. Orientation wasn’t compulsory, after all. But then—what if she sat close by? What if she asked him something? He swallowed, annoyed at himself. He wasn’t the type to notice girls like this. People usually noticed him only when they needed help with assignments or exam tips. He was the dependable one, the quiet one. He had built an entire wall around himself made of textbooks and silence. And yet… one laugh had slipped through. He shook his head, trying to snap out of it. His father’s voice returned, stern and unbending: “Ayomide, you’re not like other boys. Remember why you are here. No distractions.” But this didn’t feel like distraction. It felt like gravity. The girls finally spotted an empty stretch of seats two rows ahead of him. They began shuffling into place noisily—bags dropping, wrappers crinkling, chairs screeching against the concrete floor. Ayo let his pen drop, watching the way she moved, graceful but unbothered, as if completely unaware that she had caught anyone’s attention. He wanted to know her name. He wanted to hear that laugh again up close. He hated himself for wanting it. Ayo's internal struggle intensified as the girls settled into their seats. He chided himself for being so easily distracted, for allowing a mere laugh to penetrate his carefully constructed walls. His father's words echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of his responsibilities, his purpose. He was here to study, to excel, to make something of himself, not to be captivated by a girl in a yellow blouse. Yet, his eyes couldn't help but drift back to her. She was now engaged in a hushed conversation with her friends, her expressions animated, her smile occasionally flashing like sunlight through leaves. Ayo found himself inventing scenarios in his head, imagining ways to strike up a conversation, to hear her voice directed at him. He even rehearsed a few opening lines, discarding each one as too awkward, too cliché. The weight of his self-imposed expectations pressed down on him. Hey was Ayomide, the serious student, the dependable friend, the quiet observer. He wasn't the type to approach a girl he barely knew, to risk rejection, to expose the vulnerability he had so carefully concealed. But the pull towards her was undeniable, a force that threatened to unravel his carefully constructed identity