Chapter Seven: Lines and Boundaries

Adelani walked home briskly, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in her chest. 

Alexander had unsettled her. Not just with his words, but with the way he had looked at her like he had already decided something about her, like he had seen the hidden parts of her and was waiting for her to acknowledge them, too. 

She didn't like it. 

Or rather she didn't like that she did. 

Her hands clenched around the strap of her bag. This was ridiculous. He was just a man. A former professor. A wealthy, older, very British man who probably viewed her as some interesting puzzle, a diversion from his perfectly structured life. 

Her mind strayed against her will to the way his hair had looked under the streetlights, the soft silver streaks blending into the darker strands. She had never been with a man who wasn't Nigerian, but for a fleeting, dangerous moment, she wondered how his hair would feel between her fingers. 

She shook her head sharply. Get a grip.

He was attractive. Fine. She could admit that. Objectively speaking, she had eyes. 

But men like him men like Alexander St. John didn't just want women like her. They tried them. Sampled them. Collected experiences the way they collected books and fine art. He was bold, charming, completely at ease in the world in a way she had never been. 

And she was a reserved, church-raised Nigerian woman with traditional parents who would never understand why she was even entertaining this train of thought. 

Not that she was. 

Not really. 

A sharp gust of wind blew against her, yanking her back to the present. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, but the cold wasn't the problem. 

Dayo was. 

She hadn't let herself think about him much over the years. But tonight, the memories slipped through the cracks. 

His easy laugh. The way he used to touch her chin when she was annoyed with him, as if he could smooth the irritation away. The way she had let herself believe, really believe, that they were meant for each other. 

She had been so certain. 

But certainty hadn't saved her. Certainty hadn't stopped him from walking away. 

You always did prefer the edges of a room to the center.

The anonymous message replayed in her head, and the uncomfortable thought crept in—what if it was him? 

What if Dayo had found her, the way Alexander had? 

What if he was watching, too? 

Her pace quickened. 

She needed to get home. She needed to close the door on this night, on these thoughts, on all of it. 

But deep down, she knew this wasn't over. Not even close.

Adelani woke up the next morning determined to do what she did best compartmentalize. 

Men, cryptic messages, and intrusive thoughts about Alexander's hair could all be filed away under Distractions I Do Not Need Right Now.

Instead, she threw herself into routine. 

Mornings at the library were quiet, predictable. She spent her time shelving books, assisting patrons, and exchanging polite nods with colleagues who saw her as efficient but unremarkable. That was how she preferred it. Work was a space where she didn't have to be anything more than competent. No one probed, no one questioned, and no one stared at her like they were figuring out how she worked unlike certain former professors. 

Church was much the same. She attended services, listened dutifully to sermons, and endured well-meaning aunties who insisted on praying for her future husband. She smiled when expected, nodded at the right moments, and left without lingering. 

And then there was the account. 

Her anonymous Twitter remained the one place where she allowed herself honesty. She typed without hesitation, letting the thoughts spill out freely in a way she never could in real life. 

" People talk about healing like it's a straight road. It's not. Some days, you wake up feeling new. Some days, you wake up feeling like the person who broke you just left the room."

" There is nothing lonelier than realizing the life you want is not the life your family prayed for you."

Her followers responded as they always did affirming, understanding, unknowingly keeping her company in a way that felt both real and unreal at the same time. 

But she wasn't always brooding. 

Some days, she indulged. 

A spa day, booked quietly and enjoyed alone, letting strangers knead out the tension she refused to acknowledge. 

A secret ice cream run, tucked into a corner booth with her phone on silent, enjoying the simple pleasure of something sweet melting on her tongue. 

Moments that were hers and hers alone. 

Still, no amount of normalcy could delay the inevitable. 

The Independence Day celebration was coming up, hosted by the Nigerians in Norwich community. A gathering full of food, music, and, undoubtedly, exhausting conversations about who was married, who was expecting, and when it would finally be her turn. 

Adelani considered skipping. But she already knew she wouldn't. 

There was something about being in a room full of Nigerians the loud laughter, the animated debates, the rich smells of jollof rice and fried plantain that made her feel like she belonged, even when she didn't. 

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn't quite ready to let go of that. 

Even if it came with questions she didn't want to answer.