Ama sat in the gallery's back office long after Jordan had gone.
The hum of the street outside filtered through the half-closed blinds, mixing with the echo of his voice in her head.
"I'll be back… this time, I'll fight."
She clenched her jaw and opened her sketchpad, flipping through it roughly until she landed on a drawing. Pencil lines. A face. His face.
She hadn't meant to sketch him again—not after all this time. But memory had a way of bleeding through her fingertips when she held a pencil too long.
The night he left came rushing back.
It was December. Cold. The kind of cold that crept into your bones and stayed there.
She remembered standing outside the airport, scanning the crowd.
He never showed.
No call. No text. Just an aching silence and a voicemail that said, "I'm sorry."
It broke her in a way nothing else had. He hadn't even given her a reason.
And now, seven years later, he thought he could walk in and rewrite that ending?
Ama snapped the sketchbook shut.
Just then, the door creaked.
Not again.
But it wasn't Jordan.
It was Maya, her assistant and closest friend.
"You okay?" Maya asked softly, stepping in with two cups of hot chocolate.
Ama gave her a tight smile. "Define okay."
Maya sat beside her, handing her a cup. "Jordan Eze came in here like a scene from a Nollywood flashback."
Ama chuckled dryly. "You saw him?"
"I was across the street. Watched him pace back and forth for five minutes before walking in."
"Still dramatic," Ama muttered.
"But fine," Maya added.
Ama shot her a look.
"I'm just saying. He aged well. And the way he looked at you... girl."
Ama sighed. "Please don't romanticize it. He left me when I needed him most."
"And you've never dated anyone since."
"That's not the point."
"It kind of is."
Ama stared at her cup for a moment. "What if I let him in again, and he disappears again?"
Maya reached for her hand. "Then you survive again. But at least you'll know. At least it'll be your choice, not a ghost chasing your heart."
Ama swallowed hard. She hated when Maya was right.
She looked back at her sketchpad. At the faint shadow of the man she once loved. Still maybe loved.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
This time, it was a delivery boy.
"Package for Ama Zarah Okeke."
She signed and opened it.
Inside was a small box—and a note.
"You once gave me a brush and said, 'Create something that matters.' I failed then. But let me try now. Saturday. 7pm. The rooftop of the old arts theatre. Please.
– J."
Ama stared at it.
He remembered the brush.
He remembered her.
And against her better judgment, her heart skipped.
Just once.