The first Monday of the month arrived with a heavy kind of tension, the kind that settled deep in the bones without explanation. It hovered in the air between Danika and Mike, though neither knew exactly what to say about it.
Danika woke up to the sound of hard knocks on the door—sharp, urgent.
"Oga no dey joke o!" the landlord's voice was low but firm through the thin wooden door.
Her eyes fluttered open. The scarf loosely wrapped around her head slipped off as she swung the door open, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The landlord stood there, arms crossed, face stern.
"Your shop rent balance. Two weeks grace remain," he said.
Danika's chest tightened like a vice. She'd been holding on to hope — hope that the new month would bring new clients, new money, fresh chances to breathe. But the three cancellations from the weekend still echoed in her mind like cold reminders of her precarious reality.
She forced a smile, her voice soft but steady.
"I understand, sir. I'll sort it out, soonest."
The landlord nodded, turning away with a grumble.
The door clicked shut behind her, but the weight didn't lift. Danika stood frozen a moment, staring at the worn tiles of her small shop. The faint scent of old fabric and polish filled the air, but her heart felt like a barren room.
She needed money. She needed a miracle.
Meanwhile, in Abuja, Mike stood outside a private school's office building, the sun beating down mercilessly on his back. His laptop bag was slung unevenly over his shoulder, sweat slicked down his neck, and nerves twisted tight in his gut.
This wasn't the startup pitch he'd dreamed of. It wasn't flashy. No tech unicorn or breakthrough app. Just a school that wanted to overhaul their outdated tech system — new computers, networking, software licenses — the kind of work that would pay the bills, but wouldn't make him famous.
But income was income.
He had spent the entire weekend preparing for this pitch — running through presentations, fine-tuning the proposal, rehearsing answers for every tough question he could imagine.
Now, standing in the sterile waiting area, Mike tried to steady his breathing. The cool breeze from the ceiling fans barely reached him.
When the director finally walked in, a middle-aged woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose, Mike stood up, offering a polite smile.
The meeting went well. The director asked sharp questions but nodded along as Mike laid out his plan. He could see the promise in her eyes. The school needed this — needed him.
But then came the moment he dreaded.
"Your quote is high," the director said, tapping her pen against the contract. "Can you do it for half?"
Mike's smile froze. Inside, it was like the air had been sucked out of the room. Half?
That figure didn't just cut his profit. It cut into his pride, his worth, the long hours, the sleepless nights he'd poured into his work.
He swallowed, forcing calm.
"Let me get back to you by end of day," he said, bowing slightly.
The director nodded, eyes flickering with impatience.
By noon, Danika's phone buzzed with a message.
"Do you think it's bad if I borrow small from a friend? Just to offset rent?"
Mike sat on a bench beside a suya stand, the smell of grilled meat mingling with the harsh city heat. He read her message twice, heart tightening.
He knew borrowing wasn't just about money for Danika. It was about independence — a fiercely guarded flame inside her, never meant to flicker under someone else's breath.
She had told him once how it made her feel — like she'd failed herself, like her dignity was slipping away.
And more than anything, she hated asking him for money.
Mike's fingers hovered over the keyboard, then typed carefully.
"You've carried so much alone. If you need support — any kind — ask me first. Please."
The seconds stretched.
No reply.
Then, finally.
"I don't want you to feel responsible for everything. But thank you. For still showing up."
His chest ached.
"Still showing up."
Because he always would.
That night, Mike sat alone in his tiny apartment. The glow of the laptop screen was harsh against the dark. His fingers hovered over the transfer button — thirty thousand naira.
Thirty thousand naira he didn't have to spare.
But he would find a way.
He sold one of his backup hard drives — an old thing, dusty, barely used in the last year. It held sentimental value — his earliest codes, first projects, memories of when the world felt full of possibilities.
But tonight, those memories could wait.
He transferred the money to Danika's account without a word.
Across the city, Danika's phone buzzed with the notification — the alert that made her hands tremble.
₦30,000 received.
She stared at the screen as if it might disappear like a dream.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't ask how.
She whispered into the quiet night air, "God bless this man."
Her breath came uneven, but her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Two days later, Mike's phone rang.
"Your price is accepted," said the voice on the other end, smooth and businesslike. "Come sign contract."
Mike let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He sat back, eyes closing for a moment as relief flooded him.
He'd won this round.
Meanwhile, Danika called her landlord that morning.
"I'm coming with the rent today," she said, voice steady.
She stocked the shop with a few new products — small but meaningful additions that whispered hope instead of despair.
She didn't celebrate loudly. No fireworks, no grand gestures. Just quiet, careful steps forward.
That night, when she and Mike spoke on the phone, her voice held a new lightness — a fragile bloom after the long winter.
"There's still stress," she admitted. "But today felt… possible."
Mike smiled, though she couldn't see it.
"Then today's a win," he said.
They didn't talk about the hard drive.
They didn't talk about the tears that came with the money transfer.
Or the exhaustion wrapped tight around their bones like a shroud.
They just talked — two people who had faced a storm and were still standing.
Mike's thoughts
He stared at the phone after the call ended.
It was more than just the money. It was about showing up when everything felt like it was falling apart.
Danika was more than just a partner; she was his anchor, even when she didn't know it.
He thought of the nights she stayed up late, planning, hoping, pushing through exhaustion.
He wanted to take some of that weight.
And maybe, just maybe, this was how love looked — not in grand declarations, but in quiet acts of standing together.
Danika's reflections
She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
How long had it been since she'd felt this calm?
The past months had been a blur of fear and late nights, a constant battle against bills and doubt.
But tonight, there was a small flame of hope.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. Maybe more challenges. Maybe more storms.
But she knew one thing:
She wasn't alone.
The first Monday of the month had come with tension.
But it left behind a quiet victory.
A reminder that sometimes, survival is a win.