My first month at City 105.9 FM felt like living inside someone else's life.
I was the youngest staff in the room. On my first day, I got lost three times, spilled coffee on the receptionist's desk, and greeted the station director with a cheery "Good morning!" — at 2 p.m.
But I kept showing up.
I hosted short news bulletins, edited community reports, and ran errands for senior presenters. Slowly, they started saying my name differently — with respect, not just recognition.
My segment — "Street Diaries" — became popular. I interviewed taxi drivers, single mothers, struggling students. Their voices were raw, real, and full of life. And in telling their stories, I found mine growing stronger.
But at night, when the city went quiet, I missed him.
Tunde.
I missed how he used to look at me like I was the whole story. I missed our mango tree. I missed his stupid jokes and the way he always ordered extra suya, even though he claimed he was dieting.
We spoke occasionally. Mostly on weekends.
"Guess what?" he said once. "I've started working with a media company. Freelance stuff. Editing video campaigns."
"That's amazing, Tunde!"
"I'm trying to make something of myself," he said. "So that when I stand beside you, I feel worthy."
"You were always worthy," I said.
There was a pause. Then his voice came back, softer.
"Are you happy, Mercy?"
I thought for a moment.
"Yes," I said. "But it's a quiet kind of happy. Like soup that still needs pepper."
He laughed.
"Then keep cooking, chef."
Weeks passed. Then months.
We didn't talk every day. Life made sure of that. His projects got busier. I took on more airtime. Sometimes when I called, he didn't pick. Sometimes when he called, I was in the studio.
Slowly, a silence grew between us. Not painful. Just... real.
We weren't in the same world anymore.
And distance doesn't lie.
One evening, after a long broadcast, I was walking home when I saw his message.
Tunde: "We need to talk. Something happened."
My heart thudded.
I called him immediately. He picked on the second ring.
"Are you okay?"
Silence.
"Tunde?"
He sighed. "I didn't plan for it to happen."
"What?"
"There's this girl. From work. We were collaborating on a project... I guess we got close."
My blood turned cold.
"What do you mean by 'got close'?"
He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
I sat down on the nearest bench. My whole chest felt hollow.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want to hurt you."
"You didn't want to hurt me, but you did. That's the thing."
"I was lonely, Mercy. You were far. And she was just... there."
"And I wasn't?"
"You were in a different world — one I couldn't enter."
I bit my lip hard. "So you replaced me?"
"No," he said quickly. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't love. It was a mistake."
"And now what?" I asked. "Do you want to fix us — or bury us?"
"I don't know," he said. "That's why I called."
I almost laughed. Almost.
"You know the problem with love?" I said, my voice shaking. "It doesn't come with a manual. But it does come with choices."
"I know."
"Then you made yours."
I ended the call.
I didn't cry.
Not that night. Not the next day.
I went to work. Smiled at people. Did my job.
But something in me had shifted. Like a glass that cracked — not enough to shatter, but enough to never be whole again.
A week later, I played his voice message again:
"I didn't mean to lose you, Mercy. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. But I got scared. And I failed. If you can forgive me… I'll do better."
I deleted it.
Then I opened my notebook and wrote:
"I forgive you. But I won't return. Because healing is also a kind of love — the kind we give ourselves when someone else forgets how."
Months passed.
I moved into a small flat. Mama came to visit, bringing smoked fish and tears of pride.
I hosted a show that got national attention. My voice traveled farther than I ever thought it would.
But I never forgot Tunde.
Not because I couldn't move on — but because some loves live in you like echoes. Not loud. Just... there.
I dated again — a writer who quoted too much poetry, a photographer obsessed with lighting angles. None of them were him. But I didn't want him anymore.
I just wanted peace.
And one day, it came.
Not through a man. Not through an award.
But through a 15-year-old girl named Hannah.
She called into my show.
"I love your voice," she said. "You give me hope. I want to be like you.
That night, I sat on my bed and cried.
Not because I was sad.
But because I finally understood:
I had become the girl I once dreamed of.