Episode 3: We Started Showing Up in Each Other’s Days
I still did not think I was falling in love.
That part matters.
I had met Tunde at a bus stop. Nothing planned. Nothing intentional. Just two people surviving Lagos mornings. I told myself it was ordinary, and for a while, that lie held.
Then life started repeating him.
We did not exchange numbers at first. We did not make plans. We did not acknowledge that anything was forming. We just kept meeting. Like the city was quietly setting us up and pretending it was coincidence.
Some mornings, he was already there when I arrived. Other days, I got there first and caught myself looking up each time someone approached. We never said we were meeting. We just kept showing up.
Our conversations stayed small. Work stress. Traffic. Bad bosses. Lagos being Lagos. Sometimes we said nothing at all. And somehow, that silence felt lighter than most conversations I had with people who knew me well.
I noticed things.
How he waited for me before flagging down a bus, even when others were rushing. How he remembered which days drained me the most. How he listened without interrupting or offering solutions I did not ask for. He noticed things too. The way I sighed when I was tired. The way I pretended I was fine when I was not.
Still, I kept it casual.
Nigeria teaches you to be careful with happiness. You do not name things too early. You do not assume tomorrow will look like today. So I stayed friendly. Safe. Noncommittal.
But safety started feeling like comfort.
And comfort, I was learning, can be dangerous.
One evening, as we walked toward the bus stop after work, someone behind us laughed and said, “You people don turn couple now.”
I stopped walking.
Tunde laughed it off easily. “We’re just neighbours in traffic.”
I laughed too fast. Too neat.
The comment followed me home. Sat with me while I ate. Stayed with me as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
What exactly were we doing?
The next morning, he was not at the bus stop.
That was when it hit me.
I did not even have his phone number.
Something shifted then.
Not panic. Not heartbreak. Just a quiet disappointment I could not explain. There was no number to dial. No way to check in. Just absence.
And I felt it.
When I finally saw him days later, relief came before logic.
“Busy week,” he said simply.
I nodded. “Very.”
We stood closer than usual. Not touching. Just aware. Like two people pretending they were not becoming familiar.
The words left my mouth before I overthought them.
“Next time you disappear,” I said, trying to sound casual, “how will I know you didn’t relocate or something?”
He looked at me, surprised. Then he smiled.
“You want my number?”
I shrugged. “Just in case.”
He pulled out his phone and handed it to me.
As I typed my name and number, my hands were steady, but my chest was not. It felt like crossing a line I had been pretending did not exist.
I handed the phone back.
“No pressure,” I added quickly.
He nodded. “Same here.”
The bus arrived too soon.
As we boarded separately, nothing looked different. Traffic was still loud. Conductors still shouted. Lagos was still Lagos.
But something had changed.
Because now, if he disappeared again, I would notice.
And worse.
I would have proof that I cared.