Chapter 5: Cracks in the Silence

They made memories like people made playlists—intentionally, lovingly, and on purpose.

There was the rainy Saturday they got stuck in the lecture hall after everyone else had run for cover. Emmanuel had taken off his hoodie, laid it on the floor like it was a royal picnic mat, and they talked for hours about nothing and everything while rain drummed on the roof like a heartbeat. That was the day Funmi first called him "Manuel."

Then there was the time they danced under the streetlight outside Emmanuel's hostel while his roommate played Asa's "Bibanke" through the window. Off-beat, barefoot, and bold—Funmi had laughed so hard, she cried.

They had secret hand signals across lecture halls. They had inside jokes that made their friends roll their eyes. They even had a notebook they passed between them, scribbling silly drawings, poems, and affirmations—calling it The Forever Book.

It was beautiful. Effortless. The kind of love that made strangers smile when they passed by.

But somewhere between the laughter and the letters, something shifted.

It started small.

Funmi didn't reply to his messages as quickly. Emmanuel stopped walking her to class every morning. They both blamed exams, stress, group projects—anything but each other.

She began noticing things. The way Emmanuel would suddenly hide his screen when she came close. The way he stopped telling her about his writing. Even the way he smiled had changed—more forced, like something behind it was caving in.

He noticed things too. Her tone when she laughed at his jokes wasn't the same. She kept her phone on silent, and sometimes when it buzzed, she didn't even glance at it. He told himself not to read into it, but it stuck in his mind like a loose thread he couldn't stop pulling.

Then came the weekend they were supposed to attend a birthday party together. Funmi didn't show up. No call. No explanation. Emmanuel had waited, staring at the gate like some boy in a romance film who never got the ending he rehearsed in his head.

On Sunday night, she texted:

> Sorry. Needed space.

He stared at the message for ten full minutes before replying:

> Space from what? Us?

No response.

On Monday, they passed each other in front of the cafeteria. She looked tired, eyes dull like someone who hadn't slept. He wanted to pull her into a hug, ask her what was wrong, fix it all.

But she walked right past him.

That night, he couldn't sleep. He sat by the window of his room, replaying every moment they'd shared—every look, every kiss, every inside joke. He wondered where it went wrong. Wondered if it was something he said. Something she felt and never voiced. Or maybe love just… unraveled, like thread from a shirt sleeve. Slow. Quiet. Cruel.

Then came the moment neither of them would forget.

They had agreed to meet near the library steps after lectures. Emmanuel arrived twenty minutes late—again.

This time, Funmi was already standing, arms crossed, her face unreadable.

"I waited," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry," he replied. "Group meeting ran over."

She studied his face like she was looking for a lie, even if she didn't want to find one.

"That's been happening a lot lately."

Emmanuel sighed. "Funmi, please don't start. It's not like I'm doing it on purpose."

Her jaw tightened. "You think I want to be this girl? The one who complains when you're late? Who sounds like she's keeping score?"

"Then don't be," he snapped—instantly regretting it.

She stepped back slightly, as if the words had nudged her.

There was a long silence.

"You know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I used to think love like ours couldn't crack. Now I'm just hoping it doesn't shatter."

He didn't know what to say. His mouth opened, then closed. He reached for her hand, but she stepped away.

"I think we need a break," she said.

His stomach dropped.

"What does that even mean?"

"It means…" she hesitated, voice shaking, "I don't know who we are anymore."

And with that, she turned, walking down the steps without waiting for him. The sky was growing dark, the moon not yet risen.

And Emmanuel... just stood there.

Heart in his throat. Eyes stinging.

Watching the girl who once danced under streetlights disappear into the night.