The Hands I Trusted [Episode 5]

What finally broke me wasn't the bruise on my arm.

I covered that with my gele before my cousin's wedding in Ikorodu. Everyone complimented how beautiful I looked. Aunties smiled, photographers asked me to pose, and strangers told me my skin was glowing. Nobody noticed the makeup hiding the exhaustion beneath my eyes. Nobody knew I had cried the entire ride there.

It wasn't even the lies anymore.

By then, I had become strangely familiar with them. Every late-night excuse. Every "my phone died." Every promise that tomorrow would be different. I learned to swallow disappointment like medicine, convincing myself that love required patience.

What truly broke me was realizing I was the only one fighting for a future that existed only in my head.

Every Tuesday afternoon, I sat in Mrs. Adebayo's small therapy office in Surulere. The room smelled faintly of lavender, and the old air conditioner hummed quietly in the corner. I paid ₦15,000 every session because I desperately wanted to understand why I couldn't let go.

While I was learning how to breathe again, Tunde was posting pictures with Bisi.

He watched every Instagram story I uploaded.

He saw the quotes about healing.

He saw the photos from therapy.

He saw me slowly disappearing.

And still...

Nothing.

No apology.

No explanation.

Not even a simple, "Are you okay?"

That silence hurt more than every argument we'd ever had.

Sometimes I found myself asking impossible questions.