Leo did not sleep that night.
The garage was quiet in a way that felt unnatural, like a held breath. The tools lay exactly where he had dropped them hours ago, oil-stained rags still clinging to the edge of the workbench. Normally, the place soothed him. The smell of grease and metal had always meant control—problems he could fix with his hands.
Tonight, it felt like a cage.
He sat on the worn plastic chair outside the office, elbows resting on his knees, staring at nothing. Sophia's words replayed in his head like a scratched record.
"I just need time to think, Leo."
Time.
That was the same word she had used three months ago. And two months before that. And the month before.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it too fast, hope flaring before reason could stop it. The screen lit up with a notification—not from Sophia, but from the bank.
Transaction Successful: School Fees – Final Semester.
Leo let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.
So this was it. She was officially done.
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing. He remembered the day she had brought home her admission letter, screaming so loud the neighbors thought something terrible had happened.
"You did it, Leo!" she had cried, throwing herself into his arms. "We did it!"
We.
He had believed in that word with his whole chest.
Sophia sat in the passenger seat of the ride-hailing car, staring out at the city lights as they blurred past. Abuja looked different at night—cleaner, calmer, more forgiving. She hugged her handbag closer, fingers tightening around the strap.
Her phone buzzed.
Leo: Did you get home safe?
She stared at the message longer than necessary.
Then she locked her screen.
The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "Rough day?"
Sophia forced a smile. "You could say that."
She thought about Leo's garage—how small it suddenly felt to her. How cramped. How dusty. How… limiting.
She hated herself for thinking it.
But she couldn't unthink it either.
Her mind drifted back to the office she had toured earlier that day. Glass walls. Air conditioning humming softly. People dressed in clean shirts and polished shoes. Her name on a temporary ID card.
Miss Sophia Adeyemi.
She had felt taller there.
Important.
Visible.
And for the first time, she had looked at her future and realized Leo was not standing in it the way she had once imagined.
The next morning, Leo arrived at Sophia's place earlier than usual. He had not told her he was coming. He needed to see her. To ground himself in something real.
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, harder this time.
The door opened, and Sophia stood there in a silk robe, hair wrapped in a towel. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Leo?"
"I wanted to check on you," he said, forcing a casual tone. "You didn't reply last night."
She stepped aside. "Come in."
The apartment smelled different. Floral. Expensive. New.
Leo noticed the changes immediately—the throw pillows, the framed abstract art, the new couch.
"You redecorated," he said.
Sophia shrugged. "I needed a fresh start."
Something tightened in his chest.
He sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped together. "Sophia… talk to me. What's really going on?"
She sat opposite him, crossing her legs. The movement was confident. Practiced.
"I've just been thinking," she said carefully. "About us. About where I'm headed."
"And where do you think I'm headed?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"That's the problem, Leo," she said softly. "You're… steady. You're comfortable."
His jaw clenched. "And that's bad now?"
"No," she said quickly. "Not bad. Just… different from what I want."
"What you want," he repeated.
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them.
"I paid your fees," Leo said suddenly. "The last installment."
Sophia's eyes flickered. "I know. Thank you."
"You're welcome," he replied. "But don't say it like that. Like it's a favor."
She looked away.
"I did it because I love you," he continued. "Because I believed we were building something."
She swallowed. "And I appreciate that."
That word again.
Appreciate.
Not love. Not us.
"Say it," Leo said quietly.
"Say what?"
"Say you don't want me anymore."
Sophia stood up abruptly. "It's not that simple!"
"Then explain it to me like I'm not stupid."
Her voice rose. "You wouldn't understand!"
"Try me."
She faced him fully now, eyes shining—not with tears, but frustration.
"You don't get what it's like to walk into rooms where everyone looks down on you," she said. "To work twice as hard just to be taken seriously. I'm finally getting there, Leo. I can't—"
"Can't what?" he interrupted. "Bring your mechanic boyfriend along?"
The words hung heavy.
She flinched.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Silence crashed down again.
Sophia exhaled slowly. "I don't want to marry you anymore."
The sentence landed like a blow.
Leo stood up, but his legs felt unsteady. "Since when?"
"Since I realized I've outgrown this life."
This life.
Meaning him.
"So that's it?" he asked. "Four years. Everything we planned. Gone?"
She nodded, tears finally spilling. "I'm sorry."
Leo laughed then. A hollow, broken sound. "No. You're not."
She didn't argue.
That night, Leo closed the garage early.
He walked home instead of riding his bike, needing the pain in his legs to distract him from the ache in his chest. His phone buzzed again.
A message—from Sophia.
I hope you understand one day.
He deleted it without replying.
At home, he sat on his bed, staring at his hands. Oil-stained. Calloused. Hands that had fixed engines, paid tuition, built dreams.
Hands she no longer wanted.
For the first time in years, Leo allowed himself to ask a question he had avoided:
Who am I, if I'm not the man holding her up?
And for the first time, the answer didn't come.
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