The days began to blur — grey skies, quiet glances, the rhythm of longing wrapped in silence.
Every morning, Dimeji arrived early, before the city stirred, just to catch a glimpse of Amara unlocking her kiosk. He watched her sweep the dust, arrange her pans, hum softly to herself.
And every time she looked up — he looked away.
She noticed him, of course. How could she not?
The way he stood beneath the awning when it rained. The way he walked the long way around her kiosk but always passed by. The way her chest tightened every time she thought she heard his footsteps behind her… only for them to fade.
They were close — heartbreakingly close — but something kept them apart.
Pride. Fear. Doubt.
A trinity that ruins most love stories.
One morning, she left a note under the bench where he once sat.
A single line:
> "If you're waiting for me, stop hiding."
He found it. Folded it gently. Kept it in his sketchbook.
But still, he stayed away.
That evening, Amara saw a familiar shape at the edge of the market, near the place where the broken streetlamp flickered in the mist.
Dimeji.
She froze.
He didn't move. Just watched her — a hundred words in his eyes, none on his lips.
And then a bus passed between them — just for a second —
But when it cleared,
he was gone.
She ran after him, heart in her throat, but he had vanished.
That night, the city was quiet.
No rain. No thunder. Just the soft hush of a world holding its breath.
Amara sat outside her kiosk, hugging her knees. The street was empty except for the moonlight spilled on the pavement.
She whispered to the night, "Why won't you come back to me?"
And just two streets away, Dimeji leaned against a wall, eyes closed, hearing every word.
But still…
He didn't move.
Not yet.