Maybe we’re not a good fit after all. Maybe I got too fixated on the prospects of what we were becoming without understanding what it was we actually were becoming. Distant. The more I knew of you, the closer I felt to you. I kept drinking in your stories, your warped sense of humour, your memories, your pain and trauma. I often thought about how magnificent you were. How the scars on your soul could never be seen outside. How you never hesitate to speak up when you sense something’s wrong. I wanted to be bold like you, strong like you, and emotionally assertive. Perhaps I should have been more honest when we went through our checklists on our first date. All I knew was you were beautiful and I had to be with you. In all honesty, it all started out pretty casual. I went in open-minded, blindsided by the supernova you were. We’d been friends for about a year, a random run-in at the office. I thought you were pretty and polite but didn’t think anything beyond that till we found ourselves on a number of projects. Nothing heavy, nothing too detailed. Thinking about it, I could have reached out to anyone else but you stood out. There was something fresh, untapped about you. I was desperate to find out.
We’re three months in and I feel like I’m still struggling to catch up with you. This love thing is not for the faint-hearted. You never complain and I guess that’s what makes it worse for me; you’re a little too understanding that it’s borderline scary. I make it home a little after 7 today and you’re already at the door, patiently waiting. I wonder why you didn’t call but then again, you never do. Your face lights up once my car pulls up and even though I know you’ve probably been waiting for about half an hour, you do not express any form of indignation toward me. A little too understanding for sure. Before I can say anything, you go ahead to let me know dinner’s on the way. “Ordered from Yellowplate already by the way”. I shiver inside knowing fully well I’ll be expected to cover tonight’s bill yet again. Besides this slight inconvenience, I am relieved to know that the ravenous appetite to be stirred up after our first round will at least be appeased even though it burns a hole through my savings. All for love, I mutter to myself.
Your touch is gentle and satisfying. I don’t think I’ve been this open with my body with anybody yet you make it seem so easy. You don’t complain when I finish early again though my disappointment in myself immediately registers. You say it’s okay and even though I can hear the frustration in your tone, you giggle and say “it’s okay. I know you’re tired”. Before I can say anything else, the doorbell rings. Silently grateful for the interruption, I throw my clothes on and get our food. We don’t say much during dinner; you’re watching a show on your phone and I’m trying to distract myself from the noise in my head. As we kiss good night, I know this isn’t sustainable anymore.
We’re six months in now. I leave for school tomorrow and we’ve just had dinner. “So long distance, huh?” I say to you. You do not react, not initially at least. You go into the room without a word only to return moments later with a gift bag you hand over to me. As I unwrap these perfectly thoughtful presents, I get overwhelmed with emotion. How could I possibly leave now? I say thank you and you tell me you love me. I pause. You repeat those words at the same time I say we need to break up. Not the words you were expecting for sure. Your face is blank and I’m desperately reading it for any cues that could save my life. This is bad, I say to myself. Before I can say anything else, you mutter “What the fuck?” Like the Yoruba demon I am, I feign deafness and ask what you said. “I said what the actual fuck, Tola?” Here it comes I say to myself but you say nothing else. We sit in silence for the next hour. I’m too scared to say anything at this point. You’re livid and every part of you reflects this. At 8, you pick up your bags and drive off. I try to call at 8:30 when I was sure you’d be home. It rings free on the first attempt, but on the third consecutive attempt, your number is busy. I start to panic. I try texting but none of my messages deliver. I’m desperate and begin to explore every option from IG to Google Meet- unresponsive.
It’s well past midnight now and I accept that I’ve been blocked. My flight to London is in five hours but here I am lying in bed. My eyes wide open and my heart wracked with guilt and despair. This is what I wanted but I could not understand why I was in pain. Was it because you didn’t fight back? You couldn’t try to make it work? Heck, you didn’t even say a word to me. Was I that disposable? Were we not a good fit? Was I so fixated on my feelings that I was ignorant of yours? Was I wrapped up in the prospects of what we were becoming without understanding what it was we actually were becoming? Distant.
