It started with a simple message.
> Hi, Splendour. I hope you got home safe.
That night, I smiled at my phone for longer than I should have.
His messages came gently, like rain — never too much, never too late.
He asked about my day, my studies, the little things that no one else seemed to notice. And slowly, the distance between us began to shrink.
Days turned into weeks.
The more we talked, the more I wanted to know him — not just his words, but the spaces between them.
Then one afternoon, he texted:
Lunch? Just the two of us.
I hesitated at first, then typed back before my heart could stop me.
Yes.
We met at a small restaurant near the park. The air smelled of fried rice and laughter, and the sunlight made everything feel softer. He was already seated when I arrived, his phone in hand, but his face lit up the moment he saw me.
"You look… different today," he said.
"Different good or different bad?"
He smiled. "Good. Definitely good."
Lunch was simple plates half-eaten, conversations spilling over with laughter. He told me about his dreams, his fears, his favorite songs. I listened, mesmerized by the way his words carried sincerity. When I spoke, he listened too, like my voice was something worth remembering.
At one point, I caught him staring at me — quietly, like he was memorizing the way I smiled. My breath caught.
"What?" I asked.
He shook his head slowly. "Nothing. I just realized you make the world a little quieter."
I laughed softly, not knowing what to say. My heart was fluttering again — that same restless rhythm that began in the church
That evening, after I got home, my phone buzzed.
> I had a really good time today.
Me too.
Can I call you?
And that's how it started — the late-night calls that stretched past midnight, our voices blending with the hum of the night. We talked about everything and nothing. He made me laugh until I cried, and when the silence came, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was safe.
One night, while everyone in my house was asleep, I lay on my bed, the phone pressed to my ear.
"Are you still awake?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Why?"
"Because you haven't said goodnight yet."
He chuckled, low and warm. "Then I guess I shouldn't."
There was a pause — one of those pauses that feels heavier than words.
"Splendour," he said slowly, "Can I see you tomorrow?"
I should have said no. I should have thought about what my mother would say if she knew. But all I could manage was a quiet, breathless, "Yes."
The next day, we met again — at the park this time. The sky was gold with sunset, and children were still playing in the distance. We sat on a bench, talking about nothing important. He kept glancing at me, and I pretended not to notice.
When I finally met his eyes, the world seemed to still.
He leaned a little closer, and for a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Can I tell you something?"
"What?"
"I haven't stopped thinking about you since that Sunday."
Something inside me broke open. My pulse drummed in my ears.
Before I could reply, his hand brushed mine — gentle, hesitant — and the world faded into silence.
I didn't move away.
He leaned closer, our faces inches apart. I could see the faint tremor in his breath, the softness in his eyes.
And then — slowly, carefully — his lips met mine.
It wasn't rushed, or wild, or perfect.
It was warm, fragile, and real — the kind of kiss that said this is the beginning of something we can't undo.
When we finally pulled apart, I was trembling.
He smiled, touching his forehead lightly against mine. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, Splendour."
Neither did I.
But as I walked home that evening, hiding my smile from my mother's curious eyes, I knew one thing for sure:
Love had found me — quietly, beautifully — and I wasn't ready to let it go.