Dimeji hadn't planned to be there.
He hated restaurants like The Pearl — too polished, too artificial, too much glass trying to hide too little truth. But that night, he was invited by an old friend showcasing artwork upstairs. He almost didn't go.
But fate has a cruel sense of humor.
He had just stepped off the elevator when he saw her — Amara, seated across a candlelit table, laughing. She looked radiant, glowing in a dress he'd never seen before, her eyes bright, her smile soft.
Across from her: Kola.
Dimeji's heart stopped.
He ducked behind one of the pillars, his hands trembling. He shouldn't be watching — but he couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
He saw the wine.
The way Kola leaned in, confident.
The way Amara didn't pull back.
Then — the bracelet. The box.
And the smile on her face before she stood.
To Dimeji, it looked like a yes.
He didn't hear the words. He didn't see the hesitation in her eyes. All he saw was the person he had waited for — painted, protected, loved — choosing someone else.
He walked out into the night, the city lights blurred by tears he refused to admit were there. His chest ached in a place no sketch could ever capture.
He didn't go home.
He didn't answer her calls.
He disappeared.
---
Amara returned to the house the next morning. The door was unlocked. The walls were still lined with her smile. But Dimeji was gone.
His sketchbook was missing. So were his brushes.
On the table sat a single canvas.
Unfinished.
Her face, blurred — as if the artist couldn't decide who she really was anymore.
And scrawled across the bottom in red paint:
> "I painted what I hoped. But maybe I never really knew you."
Amara sank to the floor, clutching the canvas, the weight of misunderstanding pressing down like the heaviest rain.