Toluwanimi had always believed in unspoken things. In the brush of fingers that lingered too long. In the hush between heartbeats when the world forgets to breathe. In glances that said more than paragraphs ever could. Words had their place, of course - but silence? silence had a language all its own. It was in that language she felt most alive. And that was how it had always been with Emmanuel - her closest friend, her quiet constant, her gentle mirror.
They met on an ordinary Tuesday, during the kind of awkward icebreaker session that tries too hard to make strangers into something else. It was a photography workshop for first-years, tucked into a too-bright room that smelled of fresh paint and cold coffee. Emmanuel had been the boy in the back, half-hidden by his camera, his eyes quietly studying light like it was holy.
Toluwanimi had dropped her notebook.
Not dramatically. Just a soft, accidental slip as she reached for her phone. Pages scattered. A few doodles. A half-finished poem about rain and loneliness. Before she could reach it, he had.
"Nice handwriting," he'd said, handing it back to her with the smallest smile. "You probably write poetry, huh?"
She blinked. "I do."
No one had ever noticed before. No one had ever seen her like that. That moment - it was nothing, and everything. From that day on, something began to bloom. Slowly. Deliberately. Like morning light creeping through heavy curtains. They were drawn together not by fireworks, but by something softer. Truer. They shared silence the way others shared secrets. Their friendship grew in the quiet hours between classes, in golden afternoons spent wandering alleyways for the perfect shot. They traded playlists like promises. They laughed about things no one else understood. And always, always, there was the flame tree behind the library.
Their tree. A witness to a thousand tiny memories.
They never called it love. Not out loud. That would have made it real, irreversible. Instead, they called it "comfort," or "connection," or simply nothing at all. But Toluwanimi felt it growing inside her like a quiet thunder. She fell in love with the way Emmanuel looked at the world - like every shadow held a secret worth chasing. She fell for his soft voice, his dry humour, the way he remembered the things she forgot to say out loud. The way he'd text her a song at 1:43 a.m. because it "sounded like her kind of sadness." She fell for his silences too - the ones that weren't empty but full of meaning, like pauses in a poem. And fall she did. And fall. And fall. Until the weight of all her unspoken love pressed against her chest like a stone, she could neither carry nor set down. She wanted to tell him. So many times.
When he rested his head on her shoulder on the train. When they watched the stars in silence, side by side, as if waiting for constellations to rearrange themselves into answers. When he smiled at her like he knew her soul's address. But fear was louder than love. What if it ruined everything? What if the fragile, beautiful thing they had shattered under the weight of too much truth? So instead, she held it in. She tucked her love between lines of poetry he'd never read. Hid it in photographs he'd never know he inspired. She let it echo in the spaces between their words, hoping - maybe - he heard it anyway. Hoping his heart spoke silence, too.
The Note
She had written it ten times.
The first draft was shaky, messy, the kind of confessional you scrawl at 2 a.m. when your heart is louder than your logic. The paper was tear-stained, though she would never admit it. The ink smeared in places where her fingers trembled too much to hold the pen steady.
Emmanuel, I like you. More than a friend. I don't expect you to feel the same, but I had to tell you. Because it's eating me alive pretending this is nothing.
She rewrote it. And rewrote it. Different words. Same ache. Each version said too much or not enough. One was too poetic - like something she would write in a poem and never mean aloud. Another was clinical, cold, as if she were diagnosing herself with a condition: mild to severe affection for best friend. None of them felt right. But all of them were true.
Every time she folded the paper, she imagined the scene: handing it to him, heart thudding like a war drum. Emmanuel reading it in silence, eyes scanning every word slowly, carefully, like he always did. Maybe he would smile, maybe frown. Maybe say nothing at all. She never got further than that in her daydreams. Fear blurred the rest. So, each time, she tucked the note into the pocket of her jacket. Or slid it between the pages of her notebook. And every time, she chickened out. She'd go home, unfold it, read it again, and curse her own cowardice. But today felt different. The sky was gray and bruised, heavy with the promise of rain. It was the kind of day that made everything feel raw and too close to the surface. Emmanuel had texted her: "Want to meet at the flame tree? I need to clear my head."
The flame tree. Their tree. Her fingers hovered over her response before she finally typed: "Be there in 10 minutes." As she walked, the note was a crumpled heartbeat in her coat pocket. Her fingers curled around it like it was a talisman, or a weapon. She didn't know which. When she got there, he was already sitting on the low stone wall, camera slung around his neck, looking lost in the kind of thought you don't come back from easily. The wind tugged gently at his hair. There were shadows under his eyes she hadn't seen before. He smiled when he saw her. That slow, sideways smile that always undid her just a little.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the wind shift through the leaves above them. The tree was starting to bloom again - fiery red blossoms cascading down like falling stars.
"It's weird how quiet it gets right before a storm," he murmured, eyes on the horizon.
Toluwanimi swallowed. Her heart was racing. Not the kind of fast that comes with joy - but the kind that feels like falling from a very great height and hoping the ground is merciful. This was it. Her hand moved on its own. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the note - creased and soft at the edges from too many hesitations. She placed it gently on the space between them. Emmanuel looked at it, then back at her.
"What's this?" he asked, voice low.
Her mouth was dry. Her voice barely made it out. "Just? something I need you to read."
For a moment, he didn't move. Then slowly, he unfolded the paper. She watched him read it.
Every second stretched unbearably. A thousand thoughts crashed into each other in her mind. What if he laughs? What if he leaves? What if this ruins everything? But all she could do was sit there. Bare and breathless.
He finished reading. Folded the note again. He didn't say anything right away, and the silence between them grew louder than thunder. Then finally, he looked up. His eyes were unreadable, full of a storm she didn't understand.
"Toluwanimi ?" he began, voice cracking ever so slightly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
She blinked. "I was scared."
"Of me?"
"Of losing you."
He exhaled, and it sounded like relief and regret woven into one breath.
"I - " he started, then paused, brushing a hand through his hair. "I've felt something too. For a while now. But I didn't think I had the right to feel it. You never said anything. I thought maybe? maybe it was just me."
Her heart stopped. Then stuttered to life again, wild and uncertain.
"I didn't say anything," she whispered, "because I was waiting for a sign. Some kind of sign that you - "
He didn't let her finish.
Emmanuel reached across the space between them and took her hand in his. It was warm. Solid. Real.
"This is your sign," he said softly.
And just like that, the storm broke - not in the sky, but in her chest. A flood of every emotion she'd locked away, pouring out in a quiet, trembling smile. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she was pretending. She felt seen. She felt heard. She felt home.
The Moment
The evening was soft - almost impossibly so. That rare golden hush before dusk when the world feels like it's holding its breath. The sky glowed in shades of honey and rose, and the flame tree above her danced in slow motion, its red blossoms catching the light like tiny fires drifting through the air. The moment felt suspended, like it wasn't part of real time. Toluwanimi stood beneath the tree, arms wrapped around herself, as if her body knew before her heart did that it needed protection.
Her heart was a battlefield - hope and fear clashing so violently that she could feel the tremors in her fingertips. She had imagined this moment so many times, twisted it into a thousand different versions in her mind. But nothing ever prepared her for the real weight of it. And then she saw him. Emmanuel walked toward her, camera slung over his shoulder as always, his silhouette framed by sunlight, like the closing scene of a film she wasn't ready to finish. His presence had always been grounding - calm in the chaos. But tonight, it felt different. Heavy. He stopped a few steps away, brows knitting slightly when he looked at her.
"You, okay?" he asked, his voice gentle, but laced with something else - concern, maybe. Or maybe he already knew.
She swallowed, feeling the words rise like a tide in her throat. "No," she said, almost laughing at how broken her voice sounded. "Not really."
Emmanuel took a step closer. "What's going on?"
Toluwanimi stared at the ground for a moment. She couldn't look at him yet. Her fingers tightened around the edges of her sweater.
"I need to be honest with you," she said, barely above a whisper.
He didn't move, but she could feel his attention sharpen, like a lens focusing in on a fragile subject.
She took a shaky breath. "I like you, Emmanuel. More than I should. More than I want to. I've tried to bury it. I've joked about it, swallowed it, turned it into silence. I've written it into poems I never showed you. But it's too loud now. I can't keep pretending this is just friendship for me."
Her voice cracked on the last word. She forced herself to look up. Tears were already pricking her eyes - hot, stinging, defiant. But she didn't let them fall. Not yet. Emmanuel stood still, blinking slowly, his expression unreadable at first. And then... there it was. Pain. Not the kind that wounds. The kind that wishes it could love your back. His eyes softened, filled with something heartbreakingly tender - compassion, not pity. And that made it hurt even more.
"Toluwanimi," he said, her name a sigh on his lips. "You're one of the most incredible people I've ever met. You know that, right?"
She nodded once, barely. He took another step, then stopped. "But I? I don't feel that way. Not like that. I care about you. So much. But not in the way you want me to. And I'm sorry." The words landed like thunder, quiet but all-consuming. The silence that followed wasn't empty. It roared. It screamed in the spaces where hope had once lived. It echoed in every memory she had of him - every look, every late-night song, every almost. It filled her lungs with smoke and left her gasping. She nodded again, numbly. The tears finally fell. She didn't try to stop them.
"I kind of already knew," she whispered, forcing a small, sad smile. "But part of me kept hoping I was wrong."
Emmanuel looked like he wanted to reach for her, to hold her, to undo the pain he had no power to fix. But he didn't move. And maybe that was the kindest thing.
"I didn't mean to lead you on," he said, voice strained.
"You didn't," she replied quickly. "You were just? you. And I loved that version of you more than I should have."
They stood there for a long time under the tree, the golden light fading into shadow.
After a while, Emmanuel spoke again. "Do you want me to leave?"
Toluwanimi shook her head, brushing the tears from her cheeks. "No. Not yet. Just? stay. Quietly."
And so, he did.
They sat side by side, saying nothing. The wind whispered through the flame tree above, scattering red petals like confessions across the grass. Even heartbreak, she realized, had its own kind of beauty. A brutal, honest kind. The kind that says: You loved. And it was real. Even if it wasn't returned. And as the light finally disappeared behind the trees, she let herself grieve. Not just the loss of what could have been - but the bravery it took to speak a truth that could never be answered the way she wanted.
The Collapse
She walked away before he could say more. Her chest felt hollow, like something sacred had been scooped out. The note crumpled in her hand, damp now with the sweat of panic and the salt of tears. Around her, the world moved on - but not for her. Not in this moment. The flame tree blurred as she turned, petals falling behind her like the fragments of a farewell she never wanted to give. Her footsteps echoed on the sidewalk, sharp and solitary, each one saying: It's over. It's over. It's over. When she got to her room, she didn't even bother to turn on the light. She collapsed onto her bed, shoes still on, body folding in on itself like something too tired to keep pretending. And then she cried. Not the quiet kind of crying. Not the cinematic, single-tear kind. She cried the way people cry when they've been holding too much for too long. Loud. Broken. Gasping like air had turned to glass. She wept until her throat was raw, until her fists ached from clenching the sheets, until it felt like her soul was pouring out through her eyes. Every sob was a goodbye to a dream she had never dared to name aloud. She thought of all the signs she had misread - the way he'd looked at her under the city lights, the way their shoulders always found each other in crowded rooms. How every smile from him felt like a promise. How every photo he took of her felt like a love letter made of light. But now, all she could see was the truth. Sometimes, closeness isn't love. Sometimes, people see you deeply but don't want to keep you. Sometimes, you fall alone. And maybe that's the most human thing of all.
Memories: A Montage of Almost
The days blurred, but the memories didn't. They arrived like ghosts - soft, uninvited. The time they danced in the rain, arms outstretched, soaked and breathless with laughter. She had spun around, hair sticking to her cheeks, and he had looked at her like she was the moment itself. She had thought, this has to mean something. The late-night text:
"Couldn't sleep. Thought of you."
She had read it over and over, her heart building a cathedral from those five words. She never realized it might've been a fleeting thought for him, but a chapter for her. And the one time he said:
"You make things feel easier."
She had tucked that into her chest like a secret. But now she saw it - what he hadn't said.
He never said:
"You make me feel like I'm in love."
Those were her words.
Her wishful translations.
Her fiction.
The Reflection
Days passed. The pain didn't vanish - it shifted. From an open wound to a quiet ache. From thunder to a steady rain. One afternoon, she returned to the flame tree. This time, she came alone. No trembling hope in her chest. No letter in her hand. Just her journal. She sat beneath the blooming branches and listened - to the wind, to the birds, to herself. She opened her notebook, and for the first time in days, her pen didn't hesitate. She wrote:
"Rejection isn't failure.
It's redirection."
"I gave my truth to someone who wasn't meant to carry it."
"And that's okay."
"Because it was never about them choosing me."
"It was about me choosing me."
"Choosing to speak. Choosing to feel."
"Choosing to be free."
When she got home that night, she stood by her wall and looked at the photo Emmanuel had taken of her last fall. Her smile in the picture was soft, glowing, unaware of what was coming. She took it down. Not in anger. Not in regret. In peace. She would keep the memory. But not the weight.
The Renewal
Weeks later, Toluwanimi stood under the flame tree again. This time, the ache in her chest had softened into something else - clarity, maybe. Or the earliest bloom of peace. She carried her own camera now, the strap snug across her shoulder, the lens catching pieces of the world she had once tried to make sense of through someone else's gaze. The petals fell around her like a slow celebration. She knelt to frame a shot - sunlight hitting the grass through the crimson blossoms. Click. Another shot - her shadow stretching long beneath the tree, solitary and strong. Click. Then a voice interrupted the stillness. Warm, curious.
"That's a beautiful shot."
Toluwanimi looked up. A stranger. Maybe a student. Maybe just someone passing through.
She smiled. "Thanks," she said softly. "There's a lot of beauty in things that end."
The stranger nodded, smiled back, and walked on. And in that moment, Toluwanimi wasn't broken anymore. She was blooming. Not because she had found someone new. But because she had found herself. Her voice. Her worth. Her courage. Tears of rejection aren't the end of your story. They are the chapters that prove you were brave enough to love, bold enough to risk, and human enough to feel it all. And from that? Something new always begins.
A new self.
A new strength.
A new story.