Dimeji never remembered how he got to the bus park.
One minute, he was standing in the cold outside The Pearl, watching the woman he loved lean into the past. The next, he was on a rickety bench in an unfamiliar town, his sketchbook clutched against his chest like a wounded bird.
He rented a small room above a mechanic's shop. No windows. Just peeling walls and a fan that groaned louder than his thoughts.
For days, he didn't paint.
He just stared at the blank pages, waiting for the images to return. But all he saw was Amara's face — and not the one he used to sketch lovingly. No. This one flickered between two memories:
The girl who once danced in the rain with him…
And the woman who smiled across candlelight at the man who had broken her before.
Was it his fault?
Had he held her too gently? Loved her too quietly?
Or had he simply fallen for someone who still had unfinished pages?
He replayed everything — the way she'd gone silent, the way her eyes no longer searched for his, how she said she needed space but never said stay.
And yet…
There was doubt.
A part of him — the part that painted her laughter without ever hearing it — whispered:
> What if you were wrong?
What if she hadn't chosen Kola?
What if the dinner was closure… not a beginning?
He hated that hope. Hated how it clung to him even as his heart cracked under its weight.
One night, after three weeks of silence, he opened his sketchbook again. Not to draw her. But to write.
> I left because I thought I lost you.
But maybe I ran because I never believed I deserved you in the first place.
If you're reading this, then maybe I've found the courage to come back.
And if I never send it… then maybe that's all the answer you need.
— Dimeji
He stared at the page, breathing heavy, hands stained with charcoal and uncertainty.
And somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled again — soft, familiar.
The rain was calling him home.