Days passed. Then a week.
Tunde didn't call. He didn't text. He didn't come to class.
At first, I told myself I didn't care.
I buried myself in lectures, joined a Mass Communication discussion group, and even volunteered to anchor a campus radio segment — Voices of Tomorrow. That studio became my hiding place, where I could speak without anyone seeing the crack inside me.
But every time my phone buzzed, I still hoped it was him.
It never was.
One night, I sat outside the hostel under the moonlight, biting roasted groundnuts and thinking about Mama. She would've told me to pray, to hold my heart gently — not too tight, not too loose.
"Don't give your heart to someone who holds it like a burden," she used to say.
I remembered how soft Tunde's voice had been when he said he liked me. How his hand fit into mine like a puzzle piece I didn't know I was missing.
Where did all that go?
"Mercy?"
I turned.
He stood there like a ghost from a dream — eyes unsure, voice low.
"Can we talk?"
I nodded, not trusting my mouth to behave.
We walked down the path beside the hostel, past the silent security post, toward the open field. The moon above us followed like a quiet witness.
"I messed up," he began. "I should've reached out."
"You think?" I said, sharp.
He winced. "I know. I was scared."
"Of me?"
"Of losing you."
I stopped walking. "Tunde, you did lose me. The moment you acted like I didn't matter."
"I didn't mean to. That girl at the canteen — Sharon — she's not important. But my dad wants me to be close to her. He has this dream of me marrying into her family. Politics. Power. He thinks she's a good match."
I stared at him. "So what am I? A bad match?"
"No," he stepped closer. "You're real. That's the problem."
His voice cracked. "You make me want more. Want to be better. That scares my dad. He thinks poor people are... temporary. Like struggles you outgrow. He'll never approve of you."
I crossed my arms. "And where exactly do I fit in your father's politics?"
"I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Then why'd you disappear?"
"Because I didn't know how to fight him and keep you."
"And now?"
He took my hand — slowly, gently. "Now I know I can't lose you just to make someone else comfortable."
I searched his face. He looked tired — not just in his body, but in his soul, like he'd been fighting invisible wars.
"Tunde," I said quietly. "I don't need you to fight your family. I just need you to stand beside me. Truthfully. No half-heart. No hiding."
He nodded. "I can do that. I want to."
"Then let's start over," I whispered. "No lies. No ghosts."
And just like that, we found our way back to each other.
The weeks that followed were golden.
We studied together again, laughed again, shared plantain chips like nothing had broken. Tunde opened up more about his life — how his dad wore silence like a weapon, how his mother smiled through pain like it was part of her makeup routine.
"I don't want a life built on pretending," he said one evening.
"You already have real," I replied, pressing my hand to his chest. "Right here."
We talked about dreams — his of being a filmmaker, mine of becoming a radio journalist.
"I want to tell stories that matter," I said. "About girls like me. About how survival is a full-time job."
He smiled. "Promise me something."
"What?"
"That no matter where life takes us, you won't shrink. Don't let love be the reason you forget yourself."
I laughed. "Who said anything about love?"
He grinned. "I did."
We sat in silence — not empty, just peaceful. Like the kind of quiet where your soul catches its breath.
That was the moment I knew I was falling. Not just for his charm or his touch, but for the way he saw me — whole, not lacking.
But peace, I've learned, is often just the pause before another storm.
The first crack came during mid-semester break. He invited me to visit his house.
I hesitated. "Your parents will be there?"
"Yes," he said, unreadable.
"Tunde…"
"I want them to know who you are. I want you to see where I come from too."
I agreed. Maybe I shouldn't have.
His house sat in a quiet estate — the kind with private security, trimmed lawns, and dogs that looked like they studied abroad. His mother greeted me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. His father didn't smile at all.
"So… this is the girl," he said, scanning me like I was a résumé with typos.
"Yes sir," I said, keeping my voice polite, my pride tucked behind my ribs.
"What do your parents do?"
"My mother sells vegetables," I replied. "My father left when I was six."
He raised an eyebrow like he'd predicted that answer before I spoke.
His wife cleared her throat. "Do you plan to work after school?"
"Yes ma."
She smiled. "That's nice."
But her tone said, How brave of you to dream above your level.
I sat there feeling like a girl misplaced — not in my skin, but in their world. Every glance was a quiet reminder: I didn't belong.
That evening, Tunde walked me to the gate.
"I'm sorry," he said. "They're... complicated."
"No," I replied. "They're rich. And scared."
"Of what?"
"Of what they can't control. And that includes me."
He squeezed my hand. "Are you okay?"
I nodded. "But I won't come here again. Not until I'm walking in as more than 'the girl from nowhere.'"
He looked pained. "Mercy…"
"It's not about you. It's about me. I need to earn their respect my way."
He pulled me into a hug. "Then I'll be right here. Waiting."
I believed him.
I wanted to believe in us.
But some battles aren't loud. Some come quietly — in the silence, in the shame, in the slow erasure of who you are.
And deep down, I knew: the real battle hadn't even started yet.