The last time Ada saw Tunde, the sky was threatening rain but never quite delivered—just like him.
They sat across from each other at a small roadside café, the kind where the chairs wobble and the generator hums louder than conversations. Tunde kept checking his phone, tapping it like it owed him something. Ada watched him, searching for the version of him she used to know—the one who laughed too loudly, who held her hand like it mattered.
“I think we’ve outgrown each other,” he finally said, not looking up.
The words didn’t land immediately. They floated, hung in the air, then settled slowly into her chest like a stone. Outgrown. As if love was a pair of shoes you could simply discard when it got tight.
Ada nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice. Because begging would break something in her she wasn’t sure she could fix. Because somewhere deep down, she had felt it too—the distance, the silence, the way he stopped asking how her day was.
But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.
He stood up first. “Take care of yourself,” he added, casually, like they hadn’t spent years building something that now crumbled so quietly.
Ada stayed behind long after he left. The sky finally opened up, rain pouring hard and fast, washing the dust off everything—except her heart.
She wondered how something that once felt so right could end without a fight, without a reason big enough to point at and say, that’s why.
And as she walked home alone, soaked and shivering, one question kept echoing in her mind:
Is it worse to lose someone suddenly… or to slowly realize they were already gone long before they left?
They sat across from each other at a small roadside café, the kind where the chairs wobble and the generator hums louder than conversations. Tunde kept checking his phone, tapping it like it owed him something. Ada watched him, searching for the version of him she used to know—the one who laughed too loudly, who held her hand like it mattered.
“I think we’ve outgrown each other,” he finally said, not looking up.
The words didn’t land immediately. They floated, hung in the air, then settled slowly into her chest like a stone. Outgrown. As if love was a pair of shoes you could simply discard when it got tight.
Ada nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice. Because begging would break something in her she wasn’t sure she could fix. Because somewhere deep down, she had felt it too—the distance, the silence, the way he stopped asking how her day was.
But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.
He stood up first. “Take care of yourself,” he added, casually, like they hadn’t spent years building something that now crumbled so quietly.
Ada stayed behind long after he left. The sky finally opened up, rain pouring hard and fast, washing the dust off everything—except her heart.
She wondered how something that once felt so right could end without a fight, without a reason big enough to point at and say, that’s why.
And as she walked home alone, soaked and shivering, one question kept echoing in her mind:
Is it worse to lose someone suddenly… or to slowly realize they were already gone long before they left?
The last time Ada saw Tunde, the sky was threatening rain but never quite delivered—just like him.
They sat across from each other at a small roadside café, the kind where the chairs wobble and the generator hums louder than conversations. Tunde kept checking his phone, tapping it like it owed him something. Ada watched him, searching for the version of him she used to know—the one who laughed too loudly, who held her hand like it mattered.
“I think we’ve outgrown each other,” he finally said, not looking up.
The words didn’t land immediately. They floated, hung in the air, then settled slowly into her chest like a stone. Outgrown. As if love was a pair of shoes you could simply discard when it got tight.
Ada nodded, because she didn’t trust her voice. Because begging would break something in her she wasn’t sure she could fix. Because somewhere deep down, she had felt it too—the distance, the silence, the way he stopped asking how her day was.
But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.
He stood up first. “Take care of yourself,” he added, casually, like they hadn’t spent years building something that now crumbled so quietly.
Ada stayed behind long after he left. The sky finally opened up, rain pouring hard and fast, washing the dust off everything—except her heart.
She wondered how something that once felt so right could end without a fight, without a reason big enough to point at and say, that’s why.
And as she walked home alone, soaked and shivering, one question kept echoing in her mind:
Is it worse to lose someone suddenly… or to slowly realize they were already gone long before they left?
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