I didn't drive fast when I left her house. I didn't blast music or roll the windows down. I drove in silence, hands tight on the steering wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead like if I looked anywhere else, everything would spill over.
My phone buzzed.
I didn't look at it.
For the first time, I didn't want her voice in my head.
Every red light felt longer than it should've been. Every passing car looked like it could be him. I replayed the moment over and over—the boots on concrete, the towel in my hands, the way she never panicked. That's what scared me the most.
This wasn't her first close call.
By the time I got home, the sun was dropping low, casting long shadows across the driveway. I sat in my car for a while before going inside, just breathing, trying to convince myself I was still in control.
I wasn't.
That night, sleep didn't come easy. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Heard his voice. Felt that pressure in my chest all over again. When I finally drifted off, it wasn't rest—it was escape.
The next morning, my phone was full of missed calls and messages.
From her.
We need to talk.
You left too fast.
Everything is fine.
Don't start acting weird now.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering, then locked the phone and tossed it on the bed.
At work, things felt off immediately.
People looked at me longer than usual. Conversations stopped when I walked into rooms. My boss's office door was closed—and that almost never happened. I told myself I was imagining it, but fear has a way of sharpening your senses.
Around midday, she walked past my office.
No smile.
No glance.
Nothing.
That hit harder than I expected.
A few hours later, HR called me in to "go over responsibilities" tied to my new position. No accusations. No questions. Just policies, expectations, boundaries—spoken slowly, carefully.
Like warnings.
When I left that meeting, my hands were cold.
That evening, I went back to my friend's house.
He opened the door, took one look at me, and said, "You didn't listen."
I didn't argue.
We sat in silence for a while before he spoke again.
"You can still walk away," he said. "But the longer you stay, the harder it gets. Sin don't stay quiet forever—it starts making noise."
I nodded, staring at the floor.
"I thought I was winning," I said quietly.
He shook his head. "Nah. You were just being delayed from losing."
That night, I prayed for real—not for protection, not for favors, not for opportunity.
For clarity.
And for the first time, I felt something crack inside me.
Because I knew the truth now.
This wasn't about temptation anymore.
It was about choice.
And sooner or later, I'd have to make one.