Chapter 10 v when love holds on

If time could be bribed, Amaka would have spent her every last naira buying just one more week.

Or even a day.

But the clock had no mercy—not for her. Not for the growing love between her and Caleb.

From the moment they shared that first dance at Zara's wedding, something inside her had shifted. She found herself waking up with a smile, glancing at her phone for his morning texts before even stretching. Caleb was becoming her safe space. Not because he promised fireworks, but because with him, even silence felt like home.

Their days together were filled with more than just hanging out—they were building a quiet intimacy. Not rushed. Not forced. Just honest.

They explored hidden cafés tucked into corners of the city, the kinds with rustic wooden chairs and jazz playing low in the background. Caleb would always order something different from her—just so she could "steal a bite," he'd say with a grin. She never admitted it, but she liked how well he'd come to know her.

On Sundays, they walked barefoot along the shores of Elegushi beach, sometimes talking about life, sometimes saying nothing at all—just holding hands as the waves lapped at their feet.

One evening, they danced in the parking lot of a closed mall because Caleb's favorite song came on the radio, and he couldn't resist twirling her around, despite the curious stares.

Amaka laughed like she hadn't in years. Genuinely. Freely. Loudly.

He called her his "beautiful distraction."

She called him "peace."

—

As her departure date approached, their hangouts became more intentional. Caleb planned every minute like it was their last—because in a way, it was.

A night before she was to leave, he surprised her with a private beach dinner.

Fairy lights strung along the palm trees danced in the breeze, and the table—set on soft sand—was surrounded by rose petals and flickering candles. The sea whispered nearby, moonlight tracing a silver path across its waves.

Amaka wore a flowing wine-red dress that danced with the wind, her hair pulled back, revealing the pearl studs Caleb had gifted her two days ago. Caleb, in his linen shirt and rolled-up sleeves, looked at her like she was both sunrise and sunset in one body.

They sat down, laughed over spicy jollof, clinked glasses of sparkling juice, and made soft jokes about long-distance love.

But beneath it all, there was tension. Tender, aching, inevitable.

When they were done eating, he walked her along the shore. She took off her shoes. He carried them.

Their conversation was light—until it wasn't.

"I hate this part," Caleb muttered, pausing as the tide curled around their ankles. "The part where I have to act like I'm okay with watching you go."

Amaka stopped walking.

Her eyes met his, glassy.

"Caleb…" she began, but her voice cracked.

He didn't let her finish. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her gently yet protectively, like if he held her tightly enough, time might freeze.

"I'm not letting you go, Amaka," he whispered into her hair. "You may be flying off, but my heart's flying with you."

She buried her face into his chest and laughed through her tears. "Why are you like this?"

"I'm in love with you, that's why."

Her breath caught.

"I'm willing to fight distance, timezone, and whatever else tries to come between us. Just… don't doubt me. Don't doubt this," he said, cupping her face.

"I won't," she whispered. "I feel safer with you than I've ever felt with anyone."

They stood like that—just the sea, the stars, and their breathless hearts.

Then came soft kisses, slow goodbyes, reluctant steps back to her apartment. They didn't say much in the car. They didn't need to. Their silences had become fluent in meaning.

At her door, she lingered.

"Pick me up early tomorrow," she whispered.

"I'll be outside before the birds wake up."

She smiled and turned to go.

But before she could close the door, he pulled her back gently and kissed her one last time for the night.

"Sleep well, nurse of my dreams."

She chuckled. "You and these cheesy lines."

"You love it."

She nodded. "I do."

They parted.

Or so they thought.

Because somewhere else, not far off...

*A knock echoed against a door.*

Amaka's door.

She froze mid-step as she approached from the bathroom, towel in hand.

It was past 11 p.m.

She opened cautiously.

A man stood there. Weathered. Eyes familiar yet tired.

"Amaka…" he said.

Her breath hitched.

"…Daddy?"

—

Amaka's fingers loosened around the doorknob.

For a moment, her brain refused to process what her eyes saw. The man before her stood with hesitant dignity—older, greyer, but unmistakably the man who had to disappeared from her life years ago. Kene's and Amaka's father.

"Daddy?" she repeated, this time more like a whisper than a question.

"Yes, it's me," he said, voice gravelly from age or emotion—or both.

She didn't move. The air between them was thick with silence, too many unsaid words packed into the space of that single doorway.

"I know I don't have the right to just show up," he continued, "especially not tonight, of all nights. But I… I had to see you. I had to tell you I'm sorry."

Amaka's heart thundered against her chest. Memories came rushing back—memories of long nights spent listening to Kene reassure her everything would be okay… when even he had nothing to hold on to. The nights she'd cried herself to sleep, wishing for a father who'd never returned.

"What do you want?" she asked, trying to steady her voice, but failing.

"To explain," he said softly. "To beg for forgiveness. And to know my children… before it's too late."

Amaka's breath caught.

The pain in his eyes wasn't performative. It was raw. Real. The kind that life carves into a man who's haunted by his own decisions.

She didn't open the door wider, but she didn't close it either.

Behind her, her packed suitcase sat near the couch. Her flight was just a few hours away. Her heart felt like it had been placed on a scale—one side carrying years of abandonment, the other the flicker of something she never thought she'd feel again.

Closure.

She didn't speak.

Not yet.

But in that moment—on the edge of heartbreak, healing, and a new beginning—Amaka realized: not all goodbyes came wrapped in finality. And not all returns came bearing answers… some came begging for grace.