(Told by the voice in his head)

Lanre wakes before the sun again.

He thinks it’s discipline. I know it’s dread.

The room is still dark, except for the sullen glow of his phone as he taps it: 4:57 AM. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing to remind him he matters except me.

I’ve lived in his mouth for years. In the way he swallows praise like it's bitter. In the dry apologies he rehearses before speaking. In the space between his sentences, where his voice waits for permission to exist.

He stretches. Skips. Times it to five minutes, just like he promised himself. He thinks that makes him better than yesterday. I let him think that.

Because deep down, Lanre knows I’m right.

At 7:00, he’s at his desk, opening tabs. Deep work block one. Google Docs. WhatsApp Business. Canva. A motivational quote floats past his mind he lets it go. Not useful. I approve.

He’s writing copy for Fresh TV again. “Put your small business in front of 10,000+ eyes today.”

Catchy. Clean. Hollow.

He pauses. Backspaces. Tries again. I lean into the space between his fingers and murmur:

“They’ll scroll past this too.”

He flinches. Not physically. Just in the soul.

Lanre’s good at this. At living like a checklist. He drinks his Lipton with lemon. No sugar today. He doesn’t know if it’s strength or fear anymore. Doesn’t matter. He keeps moving.

By 3 PM, he’s tired but refuses to nap. Rest is for people who don’t feel like they’re running out of time.

I watch him scroll past messages he won’t reply to. Princess sent something silly again. Lanre smiled. Just barely. He doesn’t reply. Good. Don’t soften. You’re not here for laughter.

He knows I’ll talk louder when he gets sentimental.

At night, he walks alone.

He likes the quiet, but not silence. That’s when I’m loudest.

I remind him that his dreams are too big. That wanting triplet sons with names like Alexei and Sergei is childish. That no matter how clean his lines or structured his schedule, he still feels... off.

Unseen. Unheard. Unclaimed.

He starts writing a poem at midnight. A good one. Rhythm tight, metaphors alive.

"I’m not your echo," he writes. “I’m your spine.”

He stares at it.

His fingers hover.

Then he deletes it. One letter at a time.

I’m not your echo…

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

Now, the screen is blank again. The way it should be.

Lanre sleeps like a clenched fist.

Dreamless. Nameless. Unheld.

I will be here when he wakes up. I always am.

Because men like Lanre don’t burn out.

They burn in.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Until even the darkness forgets they were ever light.