There was a time I thought silence meant safety. That if someone stayed without promises, without labels, it had to mean something. That’s how he existed in my life, for years. Silent. Not intentional. Just there.

We met during IJMB. Strangers who found comfort in the same shade. He was quiet, but not in the mysterious, brooding way books make you believe. He was quiet in the way dust settles on a window: barely noticed until you try to see clearly through it.

I liked him first. A stupid, slow kind of liking, the kind you keep to yourself because even you can’t explain what it’s built on. He never liked me back. Or maybe he did, but in that male, minimalist way that never translates into anything concrete.

We hung out a lot after the program ended. In Abuja, the city where everyone’s either rushing, surviving, or both. He lived in Kado. I stayed in Gwarinpa. We’d meet at Jabi Park or random food spots where nobody asked questions about what we were.

It wasn’t a situationship. It wasn’t even friendship. It was just... something. A question without a question mark.

He never introduced me as anything. Never held my hand in public. But if I didn’t text back in a day, he’d call like I owed him money.

Once, during a stupid fight over something I can’t even remember, he said, “You were never my friend. Let’s not pretend.”

I didn’t respond. Just nodded, blocked him for a week, then unblocked him again. That’s how toxic things wrap themselves in normal.

Still, he came back.

One day, he asked, “Why don’t you come to my house anymore?”

I gave him the most generic answer I could muster.
But the real reasons?

1. I didn’t trust him, not after that one time he looked at me like I was a challenge to win.

2. I was seeing someone else. Someone who saw me.

3. Going to his house felt like walking into unfinished business. And I was tired of carrying question marks.

4. I didn’t want him touching me out of confusion. I didn’t want to hate myself for letting him.


But I didn’t say any of that. I just said, “I’ve been busy.”

A lie. But not entirely.

He went quiet for weeks after that. I figured he got the message.

Then one night, I got a DM.

The profile picture was of the two of them. Him in a clean navy blue native, her in something yellow, warm, soft-looking. They were smiling like people who had chosen each other.

Her message was almost too polite.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask, were you ever with Esosa? Like.. romantically? I saw some old chats.”

I stared at the message for minutes. My throat tightened.

I replied, “No. Never.”

Because it was true. I was never his. He never kissed me. Never made room for me in the part of his life that had names and meaning.

She replied, “Thank you ❤️”

I couldn't sleep. Not because I was jealous. But because I realized how deeply I had been edited out of someone’s story.

I had been a ghost in his life. Present, but unacknowledged. Needed, but never defined.

Days later, he called.

“You didn’t reply my last text,” he said, casual as ever.

“I didn’t think it needed one.”

He was quiet.

“She saw our chats. Got paranoid,” he said. “She doesn’t mean anything.”

I paused, then said, “Must be nice, being someone’s choice. I was always guessing with you.”

“She doesn’t get me like you do.”

I exhaled. “That makes two of us. I didn’t get you either. I just tolerated you. There’s a difference.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask what I meant.

I hung up.

I didn’t wait for him to call back. I didn’t scroll through old messages. I didn’t overthink what I said. For once, I wasn’t the one waiting to be chosen.

I felt free.

Not because he left.
But I finally did.