The Visit

The day arrived quietly no fireworks, no booming announcement. Just a soft sunrise over Lagos, a buzz of city energy, and Danika's hands trembling as she rearranged her room for the fifth time.

Mike was coming.

In a matter of hours, he would walk through her door, and all the love they had built across miles, missed calls, and unsent texts would finally have a body again. A heartbeat. A presence.

Danika stood before her mirror. She wasn't sure why she felt nervous. They had talked every day for weeks. They had cried, confessed, even laughed through moments of doubt.

But seeing him again felt... different.

It wasn't just about the butterflies.

It was about the weight of all they'd endured.

At Jibowu terminal, Mike stepped off the bus with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a head full of gratitude.

Lance had hugged him tight before he left Abuja. "Tell her I said she's a queen. And don't mess this up," he'd joked.

Now, as he stepped into Lagos heat and noise, the smell of roasted corn mixing with exhaust fumes, Mike smiled.

He hadn't seen her since before the gala.

Since before the silence.

Before the almost-ending.

And yet, here he was not chasing the version of love he thought he needed, but walking toward the version that had survived the fire.

Danika was waiting at the front of her shop.

Hair in a loose wrap, wearing the dress Mike had once said made her look like a sunset.

He stopped when he saw her.

Not because she was more beautiful than memory though she was.

But because he realized he still loved her more than he knew.

"Hi," he said, almost shyly.

She smiled, slow and real. "You came."

"I said I would."

She stepped forward and hugged him.

Not the kind of hug that said "I missed you," but the kind that said, "I'm home."

The hours after were filled with small talk and soft silences. She made him rice and peppered stew. He fixed the laggy Wi-Fi in her shop. They took a walk through the neighborhood, hand in hand, pointing out things they'd only ever described over the phone.

When they sat that evening on her rooftop, watching the sun dip low, Mike reached into his bag and pulled out a jar.

Written on it:

"Better Than Before"

He handed it to her. "Our dream jar. First deposit's inside."

She opened it. A ₦500 note.

"Small," he said. "But it's something."

Danika looked at him, eyes brimming. "It's everything."

That night, before bed, Danika whispered as she lay beside him on the couch:

"We're not perfect."

"I know."

"But we're still possible."

Mike smiled into the darkness. "And sometimes, possible is all love needs."