She.
She fell first.
He never fell.
But she wished he did.
He was her everything — her best friend, her soulmate, the one she would’ve followed into fire if he asked.
She loved him to the moon and back, and back again, and then some.
It was obsessive.
But it was freeing — at first.
To love someone so deeply that it became her reason. Her breath. Her name.
Everyone else she met was a candlelight.
He was the wildfire.
The inferno.
The sun that burned her, again and again, but never turned to see what blistered.
She saw him everywhere.
In Eze’s face.
In Femi’s laugh.
In Tony’s eyes.
In Matt — the way Matt made her feel safe.
But none of them were him.
No one was.
And maybe that was the curse.
She didn’t know if he liked her. Not truly.
He smiled sometimes, touched her shoulder, made her laugh till her stomach hurt — but then he called her sister.
That word. That word broke her.
It split something delicate down the middle. Something she never recovered.
But she stayed.
Smiled.
Nodded.
Loved him harder.
She waited —
hoping to be his one,
to be patient,
to be good,
to be worthy —
until she lost herself.
Until she couldn’t remember who she was before she fell into him.
She learned him like scripture.
He wanted to study law. She became an art student — something soft beside something firm.
He liked Spain. She learned the language. Dreamt of Madrid. Started eating tapas and saying gracias without irony.
He liked thick girls, Lagos babes with loud hips. She swallowed protein shakes. Did squats until her knees screamed. Pulled at her waist, sculpted herself until her body became performance art — for an audience that never looked.
She crafted herself into the girl he might one day want.
And still, he didn’t.
He talked about other girls — lightly, carelessly.
Girls with loud laughter and wild eyes.
Girls who weren’t her.
Never her.
Never.
She smiled.
Listened.
Died a little.
Still, he was her everything.
There was one night she remembers like religion.
They were seventeen. Watching a movie neither of them cared about.
He fell asleep on her shoulder.
And she didn’t move.
She sat still, barely breathing, afraid even her heartbeat might wake him.
He was warm. Heavy. Real.
She looked at him and thought:
This is what home must feel like.
She almost kissed his forehead.
Almost said, I love you.
Almost destroyed everything.
Instead, she let the moment pass.
He woke up.
Stretched.
Laughed.
Said, “Let’s eat,” like her entire world hadn’t just shifted.
It hadn’t — not for him.
The waiting turned her inside out.
She checked his posts first.
Made herself available when he called.
Wrote long paragraphs he barely read.
Laughed too hard at his jokes.
Watched his stories even when they hurt.
She prayed he’d see it one day.
See how she stayed. How she waited. How her entire existence bent toward his comfort.
But he never saw.
Or worse —
he did, and didn’t care.
People said she glowed.
That she was rising, blossoming, catching light.
They didn’t know it was all for him.
That her entire metamorphosis was a performance for an unbothered boy who never clapped.
She grew into her womanhood for him.
Polished herself for him.
Starved herself for him.
Softened and sharpened herself like a knife, praying one day he’d be the one who needed cutting.
But he kept looking elsewhere.
At women with louder eyes.
At strangers who had never bled for him.
And still, she stayed.
She went on dates.
Tried, really.
But every man was a mirror that reflected him back.
This one was too soft.
That one too perfect.
The next one reminded her of him until he didn’t — and that was somehow worse.
She kissed boys and tasted regret.
Touched arms and felt nothing.
Lay in warm beds and wept when no one was watching.
She dreamed of him.
In Spain.
In some apartment that smelled like rosemary and citrus.
He made her coffee and called her “mine.”
They kissed like it meant something.
She woke up soaked in sweat.
Heart galloping.
Hope screaming.
And then silence.
Crushing silence.
Her friends tried.
“You need to let him go,” Amaka whispered one night, handing her tissue after tissue.
She smiled, wiped her nose, nodded like someone healing.
But her fingers were already texting him.
She couldn’t stop.
She didn’t want to stop.
Because letting go meant admitting the years were wasted. Because she’d have no purpose anymore.
That she gave her whole heart to someone who never even noticed it beating.
He fell in love.
With someone else.
She watched it happen.
Post by post.
Caption by caption.
Slow death.
He changed his tone. His language. His whole face.
The way he looked at this new girl — full of reverence, of sweetness, of choice —
She had never seen that face directed at her.
Not once.
That broke her differently.
Permanently.
She dated someone new.
He asked her once:
“Have you ever been in love?”
She blinked.
Paused.
Smiled.
“No.”
He kissed her.
She let him.
But in the dark, she whispered the other name into her pillow.
Just to feel it on her tongue.
Just to pretend.
That it was different and just maybe…
She lived.
She succeeded.
She got degrees. Money. Compliments.
People clapped when she walked into rooms.
But some nights —
when it rained softly, or when she smelled a scent that wasn’t his but could’ve been —
she cracked open.
Softly.
Privately.
Completely.
She writes his name still.
In the back of notebooks.
In invisible ink.
In dreams.
She wonders if he ever knew.
If he suspected.
If he used it — her devotion — to steady himself when no one else stayed.
She doesn’t hate him.
That would be easier.
She just… aches.
In places no one can reach.
Some girls outgrow their first heartbreak.
Some girls move on.
She didn’t.
She became hers.
It shaped her bones.
Tuned her lungs.
Rewired her skin.
Her whole identity, stitched from the remnants of unspoken love.
She loved.
He didn’t.
The end.
Except it wasn’t.
It never would be.
~Emma🦋
It's never easy.
I rely liked the story. Your technique and style is wonderful. I'm happy to nominate you again.
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