Tolu didn't respond to Zara's texts.
Not the apology. Not the explanation. Not the "please talk to me."
Three days passed in silence.
Zara felt it like a bruise—deep, aching, invisible. Malik tried to reassure her, but his own smile was strained.
At work, people noticed. The way Malik lingered near her desk. The way Zara's eyes followed him across the room. Whispers bloomed like wildflowers.
They weren't hiding anymore. But they weren't celebrating either.
On Wednesday, Tolu finally called.
"Come over," she said. "We need to talk."
Zara went alone.
Tolu's apartment was quiet. No music. No wine. Just two mugs of tea and a couch that suddenly felt too wide.
"You hurt me," Tolu said, no preamble.
"I know," Zara whispered.
"I thought we told each other everything."
Zara looked down. "I was scared. Of what it meant. Of what you'd say."
Tolu's voice cracked. "I would've said I'm happy for you. If you'd trusted me."
Zara blinked back tears. "I didn't want to lose you."
"You didn't," Tolu said. "But you made me question if I ever really had you."
They sat in silence.
"I love him," Zara said finally. "I didn't know it until it was too late to pretend."
Tolu nodded slowly. "Then stop pretending. Be honest. With me. With everyone."
Zara reached for her hand. "I will."
Later that night, she told Malik everything. The conversation. The tears. The promise.
He pulled her close. "So we're not hiding anymore?"
"No," she said. "We're not."
And for the first time, their love felt like something they could carry in the open.
Even if it was heavy.
Even if it was real.