Cherreads

Chapter 2 - Part I: Petals in the Rain

Adewale stood at the edge of the old wooden bridge, the rain soaking through his clothes, yet he didn't move. Below, the river swelled with the storm, a murky torrent that promised to carry away anything it touched. In his trembling hand, he held a single red rose — the kind Oluwatoyin used to tuck behind her ear when she wanted to make him smile.He used to laugh when she did that. Back when love was light.It was ten years ago that they first met in the crowded lecture hall of the University of Ibadan. She'd arrived late, breathless and glowing, clutching a weathered notebook and apologizing to everyone she passed. Her seat was next to his. She whispered her name with a crooked smile — "Toyin" — and Adewale had stumbled over his own name in response.There was something about her — the boldness in her laughter, the softness in her eyes, the way she could sit in silence and yet make it feel like a song. He fell quickly, helplessly. And for a time, the feeling was mutual.They studied together, dreamed together, whispered into the night about escaping to Lagos and building a life far away from small-town expectations. When they graduated, they did just that — a one-bedroom apartment, two jobs, and barely enough time to breathe. But they were in love, and that was enough.Until it wasn't.Love began to change shape. It shifted with stress, with the weight of responsibilities, with the unspoken fear that they were becoming strangers. Toyin wanted to travel, to chase dreams that felt too wide for Adewale's grounded hopes. He wanted stability — a home, a child, a quiet life. She wanted the world.They fought, then apologized. Then fought again. He began to dread the sound of keys in the door. She began to dread his silence.Still, they stayed. Love, even when it hurts, has a way of binding tightly.Then came the miscarriage.It was early. Only seven weeks in. But Adewale had already imagined the baby's laugh, Toyin's hand on her belly, the scent of warm milk in the morning. When the bleeding started, she didn't even cry. She simply folded into herself, silent and unreachable.He tried to hold her, but her body felt far away.That night, he sat by her side, whispering that they would try again. That they were strong. That love was enough.But Toyin only stared at the ceiling.Part II: Cracks in the FoundationToyin didn't leave right away. She stayed, physically. She cooked. She worked. She slept beside Adewale. But she was gone in every other way. Conversations shrank to necessities. "I'll be late." "We're out of milk." "Lock the door."There was no more humming while she braided her hair. No more spontaneous dancing in the kitchen. Just silence — the kind that clung to walls like mold.Adewale tried everything.He brought home roses, the way he used to in the early days. She didn't even glance at them.He booked a weekend trip to Badagry. She cancelled last minute, citing work.One night, he cooked her favorite meal — yam porridge with smoked fish, the way her mother used to make it. She smiled, faintly. "Thank you." That was all.Later, he sat in the dark, the glow from the streetlamp painting long shadows across their ceiling. He felt like he was grieving someone still alive. And perhaps he was.Toyin had always been made of fire and wind — impossible to hold, beautiful in her chaos. He had tried to build a life around her, thinking love would be the glue. But love was becoming lead in his chest.And then, it happened.He came home early from work, his hands full of groceries, humming a half-forgotten song. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open.Toyin sat on the edge of the bed, her suitcase beside her.He froze."I'm sorry," she said, her voice steady, as if she'd rehearsed it a hundred times. "I can't breathe here."Adewale set the groceries down gently. "Toyin…""I thought I could stay. I tried. I swear I did. But I'm disappearing, Wale. Every day I wake up and feel like less of myself.""And what about me?" he asked, his voice cracking. "What about us?"She stood, her face crumpling for the first time in weeks. "That's the hardest part. I still love you. But love isn't saving us anymore."She left that night. The door clicked shut behind her, and with it, the chapter of their life together.Part III: Seasons Without HerIn the months that followed, Adewale became a ghost in his own life.He went to work. He ate. He slept. But joy was a stranger. The apartment echoed. Her laughter was gone. Her scent had faded from the pillow.He deleted her number but never forgot it.Friends came around at first. Then they stopped. Grief makes people uncomfortable when it lingers too long.One Sunday, he ran into her mother at church. The woman smiled at him sadly, held his hand too long. "She's in Abuja now," she said. "Working with a travel agency."He nodded, though the words gutted him. Toyin had always wanted to travel. She was finally doing it — without him.That night, he sat alone and wrote a letter he never sent.Toyin,I don't know how to stop loving you. I don't even think I want to. But it's so heavy, this love. It drags behind me like a shadow I can't shake. Some days I hate you for leaving. Most days I hate myself more — for not being enough to make you stay.If love is supposed to set us free, why does mine feel like chains?He folded the letter, placed it in a drawer, and closed it gently.He began to heal — slowly. He started volunteering with a children's home nearby. He learned to laugh again. But part of him remained closed, locked away with the version of himself that had loved Toyin with everything he had.Part IV: The ReturnThree years later, she came back.It was unexpected. A knock at the door on a Thursday afternoon. He opened it and found her standing there, umbrella in hand, a little older, a little softer."Hi," she said.He blinked. "Toyin.""I was passing through Ibadan. I thought… maybe…"He let her in.They sat at the table where they once ate dinner. She looked around the apartment. It was cleaner now. Less chaotic. Quieter."You look well," she said."You too."There was a pause — thick, heavy."I never stopped thinking about you," she admitted.He nodded. "Me neither.""But I don't want to hurt you again."He studied her. The way her hands trembled slightly as she gripped her mug. The way her eyes searched his face, looking for something familiar. He realized then: she was carrying her own version of the burden too."I've changed," he said. "And maybe you have too. But love… love isn't always supposed to carry us. Sometimes it breaks us open first."She looked down."I'm not asking for forever," she whispered. "Just a chance to talk. Maybe be friends. Maybe less than that. Maybe more."He reached across the table and took her hand.And for the first time in a long time, the rose didn't feel so heavy.

More Chapters