Three weeks.
That's how long Amaka stayed in Paris.
Three weeks of invitations, curated dinners, and strategic conversations.
She spoke at a panel with architects from Kyoto and poets from Rio. She toured a museum that wanted to recreate Unseen Lagos—with French subtitles. She wore tailored coats and answered questions about "post-colonial futurism."
And every night, she fell asleep with her phone on her chest, hoping for a message that said, "Come home."
But Tunde didn't say it.
He said, "Proud of you."
He said, "How's the weather?"
He said, "Zara drew another version of you with wings."
But never: "I need you back."
On the twenty-first day, she met with an executive director who offered her a creative fellowship.
Six months. Paid. Studio access. Global stage.
They slid the contract across the table like it was nothing.
And maybe it was.
Or maybe it was everything.
She didn't sign it.
Not yet.
Instead, she went back to her hotel, opened her sketchpad, and drew a skyline.
Not of Paris.
Of Lagos.
Jagged, unfinished.
Beautiful in its chaos.
Back home, Tunde taught a weekend class under the Third Mainland Bridge.
The kids had painted a mural of hope: a girl made of stars, a boy made of roots, holding hands under a sky split between storm and sun.
He stared at it for a long time.
Afterward, he sat alone, sketching Amaka from memory.
But the pencil wouldn't move the way it used to.
He missed her. Not loudly. Quietly. Like forgetting a word you once knew deeply.
On the thirty-first day, she came back.
No announcement.
No press.
Just her, standing outside the old textile factory that housed Studio Bold.
Rita opened the door and gasped. "You're back?"
"For now," Amaka said. "Or maybe for good. I don't know yet."
She walked through the space slowly. Everything was smaller than she remembered.
Everything was closer.
That night, she met Tunde on the rooftop.
He didn't smile.
Just held her in his eyes like a question.
"I'm tired of choosing between dreams and love," she said.
"You don't have to."
"Don't I?"
A pause.
Then he asked, "Did you sign the contract?"
She shook her head.
"I came home to ask you something first."
"What?"
"Will you come with me, if I go?"
He didn't answer right away.
Because it wasn't a question about flights.
It was a question about what they were now.
And whether love that rooted itself in one place could ever stretch across oceans.