The rain began as a soft drizzle, barely audible against the corrugated rooftop of the salon. At first, Danika thought it was just the air conditioning leaking again. But when she stepped out and saw the streetlights casting golden halos on the wet ground, she knew the night had other plans. Ikeja shimmered in puddles, neon reflections dancing across the asphalt like broken memories trying to mend themselves.
She pulled her scarf tighter, wrapping it around her neck like armor. The damp cold curled through her coat and into her bones, but it was the ache inside that made her shiver more. The salon had closed late, and the city didn't care that she was tired. That her back hurt from standing all day. That her heart felt bruised.
The day had started normally — as normal as it could get. But by noon, a long-time client had complained about the braid tension, loudly and in front of others. Danika had apologized, even offered a refund, but the words still stung. You're losing your touch, the woman had said.
By mid-afternoon, her phone buzzed with a notification from her bank — her rent was overdue again. She'd been delaying, hoping Mike's freelance job would pay soon, hoping that her extra weekend slots would help cushion them. But everything was too tight. Too late.
And then the worst part — a call from her mother. Not a loving one, not even one full of concern. Just... distant. Cool. The kind of conversation where every sentence was laced with old resentments and silence that screamed.
"Are you still with that boy?"
"Mike is his name, Mama. And yes, we're managing."
"Managing. You always did settle for less."
Danika hadn't cried. Not then. Not in front of the apprentices or the clients. But as she walked now, weaving through street vendors packing up, bikes honking, and buses spraying puddles, she felt the sting behind her eyes.
The rain picked up.
And with it, her thoughts unraveled.
She remembered being six. Sitting by the window long after bedtime, waiting for a father who never came home. Her mother never explained much. Just bitterness where a story should have been.
She remembered learning how to plait her doll's hair because no one else would do it. Remembered the first time someone called her beautiful — and how she didn't believe them.
And most of all, she remembered that quiet, persistent ache. The one that followed her through school, into adulthood, and now into this fragile partnership with Mike. She carried her past like a second skin. Some days, it felt stitched into her breath.
Mike sat hunched over his laptop, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor. He'd been trying to finish a proposal for two hours now, but his thoughts were scrambled. Freelance life wasn't glamorous like they made it seem. It was unpaid revisions, ghosted emails, and inconsistent contracts. His last gig was three weeks ago, and they still hadn't paid in full.
The walls of their one-bedroom apartment seemed to close in. Boxes of unused baby clothes were stacked by the door — gifts from relatives who assumed they'd have children by now. The scent of Danika's shea butter lingered in the air, soft and nostalgic.
He exhaled slowly, letting his hands fall from the keyboard.
He hated this feeling — like he was failing at everything. As a man. As a partner. As someone who promised Danika they'd get through this together.
Sometimes, he thought about his father. Not as the man he once was, but as a ghost. A vanishing act. Mike remembered being ten and waiting on the stairs for a man who promised to take him to the amusement park. He never showed.
That absence became a template.
Even now, Mike sometimes feared he'd vanish too. That one day, the weight of trying would push him out the door, and he'd leave just like his father had.
His phone buzzed.
Danika.
"Can we talk? I'm struggling."
He didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Just stood and called her immediately.
"Hey," he said, his voice low.
Danika answered after a beat, the rain whispering softly in the background. "Hey."
"You okay?"
She didn't lie. "Not really."
Silence passed between them — not awkward, just honest.
"I had a terrible day," she admitted. Her voice cracked at the edges. "One of my best clients lashed out at me. Said I'm slipping."
Mike's heart clenched. "You're not. You're working harder than anyone I know."
"I called my mum," she continued, voice trembling. "I don't even know why. Just wanted to hear her voice, I guess."
"How did it go?"
"She said I settle. That I always have." Her breath hitched. "It hurts because... maybe she's right."
Mike sat back down slowly, his fingers gripping the armrest of the chair. "Danika, no. You didn't settle. You chose me. We chose each other."
"But what if I'm not enough? What if we're not enough?"
There it was — the raw truth. The quiet doubt that lived under their skin.
Mike swallowed, his throat tight. "I think about that too sometimes," he said softly. "Not because I don't love you. But because... I'm scared. I'm scared I'm becoming him."
"Him?"
"My dad. The way he just... gave up. Disappeared. I feel like I'm one missed paycheck away from becoming a ghost."
The line went quiet. Only the soft hush of rainfall on her end.
"I don't want to lose us," she whispered. "But some days I feel like my past is choking me. Like it's waiting to drag me under."
"We won't drown," he said. "Not if we hold on to each other."
She sniffled.
"Are you close?" he asked. "To the house?"
"I'm two blocks away."
"Come home. We'll talk more. Or not talk. Just... be."
By the time Danika reached the apartment, she was soaked through despite her scarf. Mike opened the door before she could knock. His hoodie hung loosely on him, and his eyes were rimmed with fatigue. But the moment he saw her, everything softened.
He held out his arms.
She stepped into them without a word.
In the stillness of their embrace, the storm outside seemed far away.
Later, they sat on the small balcony with mugs of hot ginger tea. The rain had calmed to a soft mist, droplets clinging to the railings like dew. The city glowed beneath the wet night — headlights flickering like fireflies caught in traffic.
Danika leaned her head on Mike's shoulder.
"We're carrying a lot," she said quietly.
Mike kissed her forehead. "But we're carrying it together."
That was the truth they kept returning to. Life hadn't given them easy cards. They were still clawing through debt, still healing from things they never got apologies for. Still trying to believe they were worthy of joy.
But somehow, in all the chaos, they found each other.
They didn't always have answers.
But they had hands that held tight.
Eyes that saw the wounds.
Hearts that stayed.
Danika looked out into the night. "Sometimes, I think love is less about how much you give and more about who stays when you have nothing left to offer."
Mike nodded. "And who helps you see yourself when the world makes you feel invisible."
They sat like that — quiet, listening to the steady drip of rain.
There would still be hard days. Unpaid bills. Silent nights. Triggered traumas. Misunderstandings. But there would also be mornings where laughter broke through the doubt. Meals cooked together in silence. Kisses shared under warm blankets.
Moments like this one.
Where the past echoed, but didn't define.
Where love, even tired and trembling, stood its ground.