You're not sick. You're just confused."
That's what Mama said the first time she caught me staring too long at Adaeze's lips.
They said it was a phase. A bad thought. Something I could pray away.
So I did. I prayed until my knees bruised. Fasted until my stomach growled like demons lived in it. I memorized verses, scrubbed my soul, whispered "I'm sorry" every time I saw a pretty girl smile.
But nothing changed.
The thoughts stayed.
The feelings grew.
So I learned how to hide.
At school, I laughed when the other girls talked about boys. I smiled when they teased me about being too quiet. I said "maybe one day" when they asked if I had a crush.
At home, I lowered my eyes, folded my hands, and tried to be the daughter Mama could love.
> "Amara, come downstairs! Someone wants to meet you!"
Mama's voice rings like a bell — sharp, expectant, unbending. I swallow the lump in my throat, smooth my skirt, and whisper one last prayer.
"Don't let me disappoint her today."
---
The boy sitting in the living room smells like too much cologne and speaks with too much confidence. His name is Ebuka. Mama's smile is wide, desperate.
"She's shy," she tells him, laughing like it's charming.
He tries to make me laugh. I try to pretend. My fingers dig into my palm beneath the table.
His eyes are kind, but I feel nothing. No spark. No nerves. No flutter.
I force a smile anyway. Mama looks proud. And that hurts more than anything else.
---
Later that night, I lie awake in the dark. My room is quiet, but my thoughts are loud.
> You did good today.
You acted normal.
You're getting better.
Then why does it feel like I'm disappearing?
I roll onto my side and stare at the wall. My heart feels too big for my chest. Too full of something I'm not allowed to name.
I remember Adaeze's laugh, the way her hand brushed mine in the corridor, the way her voice said my name like a song.
My cheeks burn.
I bite my pillow to stop myself from crying out loud.
> God, what's wrong with me?
I press my hands to my chest, like I can push it all down — the longing, the fear, the truth clawing its way out.
And somewhere deep inside, a whisper stirs.
A
voice that doesn't sound like mine.
> You can't keep running forever.