Amaka was not a morning person. She was the kind of woman who needed at least one hour, two cups of coffee, and ten minutes of staring into nothingness before speaking to another human being. Yet, here she was, walking into the office before sunrise, dressed like the cover of a fashion magazine and cursing her decision to take the job that brought her face-to-face with her emotional mistake in a tailored suit.
Chuka.
Her heels clicked like tiny soldiers announcing war as she marched through the empty corridors of the company she had once imagined building a life in. Back then, she had dreamed of corner offices, successful projects, and shared takeout dinners with Chuka that ended in cuddles. Now she had the corner office, the successful projects, and a deep craving for takeout, but instead of cuddles, she had awkward meetings with a man who now said things like "Let us talk."
She reached her office, threw her bag on the chair with unnecessary force, and mumbled to herself, "If this man tries to discuss feelings again today, I swear I will develop temporary amnesia and forget English."
Her computer booted slowly, like it too was tired of pretending everything was okay. As her inbox loaded, she spotted the meeting invite titled Strategy Review. She clicked it open and blinked.
One-on-one with Chuka.
Of course. Who else? It was not like she had anything better to do with her mental peace.
Meanwhile, across the building, Chuka was in his office rehearsing lines like he was auditioning for a Nollywood romance movie. "Amaka, I just want to talk." No, too dramatic. "Amaka, can we go back to being… colleagues?" Too boring. "Amaka, I still dream of your jollof rice." Too personal. He sighed and rubbed his temples.
Chuka had not planned to fall apart emotionally this week, but life had a sense of humor and his was now the punchline. He had barely slept, mostly because every time he closed his eyes, his brain played flashbacks of Amaka calling him out in that gentle yet terrifying way she had mastered.
He needed to talk to her again, not as her boss, not as the man who had ghosted her emotionally, but as the fool who finally realized what he lost. He wanted to be honest. He also wanted to stop waking up in the middle of the night saying, "Why did I say that?" aloud to nobody.
By noon, Amaka was ready, not emotionally, but her outfit was sharp, her brows were perfect, and her sarcasm was fully loaded. She stepped into the meeting room, found Chuka already seated, and mentally prepared herself not to throw the tablet at his head.
"Thank you for coming," he said with his professional voice.
"It was on my calendar," she replied, sliding into her seat like a queen taking her throne.
"Still, I appreciate it."
She tapped her tablet like it owed her money. "Let us talk budgets. The marketing team is spending like they think the company prints money."
Chuka nodded, trying to stay focused. But Amaka's perfume, a wicked mix of distraction and regret — kept creeping into his nose. She pointed at some numbers. He nodded again. She looked at him. He blinked.
"Chuka, are you following or just pretending?"
"I am following," he said quickly. "I just like the way you highlight cells. Very assertive."
Amaka stared at him. "That is the weirdest compliment I have ever received."
He shrugged. "I am rusty."
They moved through the presentation with occasional sarcasm and passive-aggressive bullet points. At some point, Amaka suggested cutting back on influencer partnerships.
"Do we really need to pay someone to smile next to our product and say 'soft life'?" she asked.
Chuka chuckled. "You are not wrong. One of them tagged the wrong company last month."
Amaka rolled her eyes. "Perfect. Let us pay people to promote our competitors."
Eventually, the conversation drifted to silence. Not an awkward silence, but the kind that usually comes before someone says something unnecessary.
"I miss this," Chuka said.
Amaka looked up. "Miss what? Spreadsheets and passive aggression?"
"No. Talking to you like this. Without walls."
She snorted. "Chuka, there are so many walls between us, I need a visa to visit this conversation."
He smiled, but it was laced with something heavy. "I was a fool. You gave me your heart and I gave you time slots and excuses. I am sorry."
Amaka tilted her head. "Did you rehearse that in front of a mirror?"
"Only three times," he admitted.
She burst into laughter, which surprised them both. "At least you are consistent."
"I know I cannot undo the past, but I am trying to fix the future. Even if it is just the part where we work together and do not make HR nervous."
Amaka stood and gathered her things. "Here is the thing, Chuka. I came here to work. I did not come to reenact a dramatic love story where the woman forgets how the man made her cry because he suddenly learned how to say sorry."
He nodded, looking humbled. "I understand."
She paused at the door and turned to him. "Also, stop calling meetings just to talk. If I open one more invite that says 'strategy' and it is just you being emotionally confused, I will bill you for therapy."
As she left, Chuka called after her. "I will bring snacks next time."
She waved him off without turning. "Make sure they are not the dry ones from the boardroom."
That evening, Amaka drove to her sister Ifunanya's apartment. If anyone could help her process the madness that was her emotional flashback week, it was her overly dramatic, jollof-loving sister.
Ifunanya opened the door in a face mask and bunny slippers. "You look like you had a meeting with regret itself."
Amaka dropped her bag. "Close. I had a meeting with Chuka."
"Oh no. Did he try to quote poetry again?"
"No, but he did compliment my spreadsheet skills. I think he is broken."
They ate rice on the couch and watched a random TV show where someone was falling in love with their mechanic.
"I mean, who falls for someone who changed their tires?" Amaka muttered.
Ifunanya raised a brow. "You fell for someone who ignored your texts for two years. Love does not care about logic."
Amaka sighed dramatically. "I need holy water and a raise."
"Or a vacation. Or revenge."
"Too expensive. I will stick to rice."
Back in the office the next day, Chuka stood in his office rehearsing again. This time it was, "Would you like to grab coffee and discuss that ridiculous email from the finance team?" But he stopped himself. Maybe today he would just let her work. No more pop-up meetings disguised as emotional therapy.
For now.
Amaka, seated in her office, stared at her inbox. No invite from Chuka. No emotional haiku in disguise. Just silence.
She frowned slightly. "So now he gives me space? This man is emotionally unpredictable."
She opened a spreadsheet, sighed, and began typing.
In the building's quiet air, two people tried to function like normal adults. They buried feelings in budget lines, masked confusion with professionalism, and reminded themselves that heartbreak was not something you fixed in a boardroom.
Still, between sarcastic emails, shared coffee, and side glances during meetings, something was shifting. It was not forgiveness. It was not romance. It was something else. Something dangerously close to hope.
And as Amaka typed a sarcastic comment in the margins of a shared report, she paused and smiled.
Maybe, just maybe, the office was big enough for emotional mess and professional magic. Or maybe she just wanted to see what snack Chuka would bring next time.