The rain had returned to the city — not the heavy, angry kind, but the soft drizzle that whispered memories across rooftops and dusty streets.
Amara still opened her kiosk every morning, though her smile had grown smaller. The neighbors noticed. Customers asked fewer questions. And in the quiet moments between frying and serving, she would glance at the bench across the road… empty now, every day.
Until one morning, it wasn't.
She didn't notice him at first — the hooded figure sitting under the broken awning beside the barber's shop. He wasn't sketching. Just watching.
And when she did glance up, their eyes didn't meet — because he looked away first.
Dimeji.
He looked thinner. Paler. Like the rain had carved him hollow. But his eyes still held the same storm — the one that once made her feel like the world could be softer than it seemed.
He came back.
But he didn't speak. Not yet.
Each day, he returned. Always sitting from afar. Always gone before sunset. He never came close to the kiosk. Never touched his sketchbook.
He watched her serve customers. Watched her laugh politely. Watched her linger alone at the end of the day, her eyes drifting toward the sky as if waiting for a voice she no longer trusted would return.
And still, he said nothing.
Because the question wasn't whether he still loved her.
It was whether he could love her without fear.
One evening, as the clouds turned gold behind the skyline, he saw something that stopped his heart.
Kola.
Pulling up in his sleek car. Stepping out. Offering her a paper bag. Smiling that same charming smile.
Amara didn't smile back.
She took the bag, nodded once, and turned away. Kola hesitated, as if expecting more. But she had already disappeared into the kiosk.
Dimeji felt something loosen in his chest.
But he still didn't go to her.
He needed more than a sign.
He needed to know she'd choose him — not because he returned —
but because she never stopped waiting.