The rain returned the next morning, soft and gentle — the kind that used to make Amara smile.
But today, it only made her cold.
She opened her kiosk later than usual. Dimeji was already there, sitting on the bench, his sketchbook in his lap, untouched.
He smiled when she arrived. She didn't smile back.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Just tired."
Of what, she didn't say. But they both felt it — the space between them widening, invisible and sharp.
Over the next few days, their rhythm changed. Amara stopped waiting for him after closing. She spoke less. She no longer leaned over his shoulder to admire his drawings, no longer laughed at the crooked faces he sketched just to make her smile.
And Dimeji… he noticed.
He tried not to press. He brought her warm tea during rainy mornings. Left notes with tiny doodles. Painted her favorite earrings into a canvas he titled "Still Here."
But nothing seemed to reach her.
One evening, as she packed up, he spoke again.
"I miss you," he said simply.
She paused, her back turned. "I'm right here."
"No, you're not."
His words hung in the air, heavy with hurt and truth.
"You're thinking about Kola," he continued. "And that's okay. But I need to know… are you still with me, Amara?"
She finally turned around, eyes wide, voice quiet. "I don't know."
It was the most honest thing she could say.
"I care about you, Dimeji. But everything is moving too fast. I just need… time. Space. To think."
He nodded. Not because he wanted to — but because he respected her heart, even when it wasn't choosing him.
"Take all the time you need," he said.
That night, for the first time in weeks, he didn't walk her home. He didn't stay to watch the rain.
And Amara stood alone beneath the clouds, unsure whether she was letting go of her past — or pushing away her future.