“What are you going to miss the most?”
“About you?” I ask.
“Yes. About me.” She answers.
“Come on, be more specific.” She begs in her singsong voice.
I clear my throat, “Your voice.” I say in a slightly more serious tone than I intend.
I move my feet around, careful not to look at her.
“What exactly about my voice.” She presses.
The way it dances around, as smooth as silk, never quite settling, caressing my senses and lingering, long after we’re apart.
That’s what I meant to say. Instead I shake my head and frown. “You don’t always have to fish for compliments Uju.”
“Oh,” she says, her forehead burrowing and her small mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “I get it. I’d be mad if I were you too.”
Except I’m not mad. I’m furious, boiling over with anger and hopelessness. I should never have promised them. I should never have given them my word. I shouldn’t care about what ‘they’ think.
Yet I do, I care so much it hurts.
This is what I should tell Uju, that it’s because I care I’m leaving. Instead, I push myself off the tree I’m leaning on, the glare of the sun blinding me momentarily, my back already to her.
I expect her to beg, to run after me and tell me how wrong I am, how we can make it work. But she doesn’t. I want to turn back, to wipe the tears I’m sure I’ve caused. The tears I selfishly hope I caused.
Maybe she doesn’t love me like I do her. Maybe it’s better for her if she doesn’t.
Please stop me, I whisper. But she doesn’t.
I don’t know which hurts more, leaving or being allowed to leave.
He’s going to leave. I know it so does he. The only question is when. At least we have today, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.
Only think about now, cherish each moment because you know it might be the last one.
Ebuka doesn’t know that I know. They told me yesterday that he had promised to leave. They asked me what type of a man who claims to love me would do such a thing; would tell them one thing and do another so easily. I told them a man out of options.
After that they shut up. Only for awhile I’m sure. Tomorrow is another day.
When I see him, I’m filled with so much excitement, so much joy. How can they not see how much I love him? Part of me keeps asking if it’s real. Maybe the reason why it’s so epic, so beautiful and out of this world is because it is out of this world – because it’s not real.
Like a shooting star, a fleeting moment in my so far standard issue life. When I see him, I know today is the day. I had imagined our ending in many ways, but not like this.
His hand feels velvety in mine, each callous a reminder of how different our backgrounds are, of how hard he’s worked to find me.
He removes his hands slowly, each finger unlocking in slow motion. I watch him leave without a word.
My body trembles with unbearable grief as silent tears travel down my face. I stretch my hands to stop him but it’s too late. I’m met with emptiness.
“Turn back.” I whisper. Just turn back I silently beg as the distance between us increases, but he doesn’t.
Maybe he doesn’t love me like I do him. Maybe it’s better for him if he doesn’t…
Moyosore Laditan is a medical doctor and loves writing to show people it’s a small world and that they’re not alone in their experiences.
In her words, “if by the smallest chance my writings make someone else laugh, cry or bring out a reaction (hopefully positive) then I will sleep better, knowing I have made a difference in another’s life.” She blogs on Tumblr via moladitan.
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