One year later.
The harmattan breeze had just begun to sweep through the campus, dry and sharp, tugging gently at scarves and eyelashes. Emmanuel stood at the edge of the old faculty garden, where the flowers they once admired together were now a bit overgrown. He could still remember Funmi's laughter there—the way it rippled through the air like wind chimes. But it had been months since he last heard that sound.
He hadn't expected to see her again—not after the way they said goodbye. It wasn't harsh. It was tender. But it had finality.
And yet… here she was.
"Hey," came her voice, quiet but unmistakable.
He turned slowly. Funmi stood by the path, hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes unreadable but familiar. Her hair was longer now. She looked older, more grounded—but still entirely her.
"I didn't think you'd come back here," Emmanuel said, his voice low.
"I wasn't sure I would, either," she replied. "But something brought me."
They both looked at the garden, the old concrete bench still slightly cracked from when they used to sit there after class.
"I heard you started your internship in Lagos," she said.
"Yeah. Clinical pharmacy. Intense... but fulfilling."
He smiled a little, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"What about you?" he asked.
"I graduated early. Did my NYSC in Enugu. Came back to check on Mum. She's stable now. Still weak... but she's hanging in there."
He exhaled in relief. "That's good to hear."
There was silence again. The kind that used to be comforting, but now stretched a bit longer than it should.
"I kept the letters," Funmi said suddenly. "All of them. Even the ones you never gave me."
Emmanuel blinked. "How did you—?"
She smiled. "You're predictable. You always fold them the same way. I found them in my old bag… months later. I read every single word."
He swallowed hard. "I didn't think they mattered anymore."
"They did," she said. "They do."
They both sat down on the bench. The silence softened again, no longer awkward, just full of things neither knew how to say.
"You know," Funmi began, "for a long time, I kept thinking about what we could've been. If I hadn't pulled away… if you hadn't gone abroad. But now… I think maybe we became exactly what we were meant to."
Emmanuel looked at her, his voice almost breaking. "Even if that means we're not together?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Because even apart, you taught me love wasn't something that dies. It just… changes."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting those words sink in.
"I never stopped loving you," he admitted. "Not in the way I used to… but in the way that stays. Quiet. Steady. Kind."
Funmi nodded. "I know. Me too."
---
Later That Evening
They walked through the campus, just like they used to, talking about small things: the new Dean, the power outages, a funny thing a patient said. It wasn't like old times—but it wasn't painful either. It was… peaceful.
"I met someone," Funmi said after a pause.
Emmanuel's breath caught. But he didn't flinch.
"Oh?"
"He's gentle. Different. Not you. But kind."
Emmanuel nodded. "I'm happy for you."
She looked at him, eyes glistening. "Are you seeing anyone?"
He shook his head. "No. Not seriously. There were people… but no one felt like home."
Funmi reached out and held his hand—not as lovers, but as people who had loved deeply and were saying goodbye again. A softer kind of goodbye.
"You were my first real love," she whispered.
"And you were mine," he replied. "And maybe that's all we needed to be."
---
Two Weeks Later
Emmanuel sat at his desk, writing again. This time, not a letter to Funmi. This time, it was a journal entry for himself:
> Some love doesn't end in marriage. Some love doesn't last a lifetime. But that doesn't make it any less real. I've learned that healing isn't forgetting. It's remembering without hurting.
And now I can.