(Mike's POV)
The sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky with hues of orange and bruised purple, the kind of sky that made memories resurface old dreams, half-formed promises, the taste of almosts.
Mike sat on the narrow balcony of his flat, legs stretched out, his phone pressed to his ear as the traffic below hummed like a distant thought. A soft wind moved through the air, carrying with it the faint scent of fried plantain from the neighbor's kitchen.
"Lance says there might be a full-time job opportunity," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "But… it would mean relocating to Port Harcourt."
There was a pause. Not long, but long enough to feel it.
"That's far," Danika finally said on the other end. Her voice was gentle, but edged with something uncertain—caution, maybe. Or worry. "What would that mean for us?"
Mike swallowed hard. He hadn't figured that part out. He'd been holding the offer in his chest for days, weighing it like a fragile glass in his palms.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But it might be the stability we need."
The line went quiet. Not dead, just heavy.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's not just about money, D. It's... structure. A chance to stop scrambling every month. Health insurance. An apartment allowance. God, even free Wi-Fi."
She chuckled softly, the sound bittersweet.
"You're serious about it?"
"I wouldn't bring it up if I wasn't."
(Danika's POV)
Danika stood in the salon's storeroom, her phone still to her ear, surrounded by the faint scent of coconut oil and disinfectant. Her hands were clasped tightly around her phone, knuckles pale.
Port Harcourt.
The word echoed like a drum in her chest.
She knew what Mike meant. Knew the weight behind his voice, the exhaustion in his soul. She'd seen it in the way he rubbed his temples at the end of a long day, in the way he counted change like it was sacred, in the way he watched over her with love but also a quiet, gnawing fear of not being enough.
But still...
"That's a lot of miles, Mike."
"I know."
Her mind flashed to the salon the business she'd fought to grow, client by client. To her mother, whose walls were just starting to crack. To the little garden on the rooftop where she found peace. And to them what they had rebuilt.
Could love stretch that far?
Could they?
(Narrative)
The days that followed were blurred by tension that didn't explode but simmered.
Danika and Mike still spoke every night. Still said I love yous. Still asked how the other's day had been. But in between the lines were questions unsaid, fears tucked away in the folds of small talk.
Would distance dilute them?
Would time unravel them?
(Danika's POV)
On Wednesday night, Danika came home late, hands sore from braiding and a dull ache in her lower back. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—tired eyes, lips drawn tight.
She touched her stomach lightly. No bump yet, but the doctor had confirmed it last week.
She hadn't told Mike.
Not yet.
Because how could she, when everything felt so uncertain?
If he left, would she be raising their child in Lagos alone?
Would she be resenting him?
Would he resent her for holding him back?
She sat on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. She didn't cry. She was too tired to cry.
Instead, she whispered into the silence, "God… help me figure this out."
(Mike's POV)
That same night, Mike sat on his living room floor, documents spread out in front of him. The offer letter. A checklist of things to pack. A note scribbled by Lance with neighborhoods to check out.
It was a good offer.
Respectable salary. Quiet area. A growing branch of the company.
But his eyes kept drifting to the photo on his side table—him and Danika at Elegushi beach, laughing, drenched from a wave that caught them off guard. That day had felt like the world could bend for their love.
Now he wasn't so sure.
He reached for his phone. Hovered. Put it down.
Instead, he whispered, "Tell me what to do, D. Just say the word."
(Narrative)
On Friday night, they met at Danika's apartment.
The air was thick with Lagos heat, the ceiling fan slicing through it without much success. Outside, the hum of generators and life buzzed like background static.
They didn't talk much at first.
Just sat.
Together.
On the couch.
The silence wasn't angry. It wasn't cold.
It was scared.
Danika finally broke it.
"Do we stay?"
Mike looked up, eyes tired but soft.
"Or do we go?" he replied.
Her fingers twitched. She wanted to hold his hand, but didn't know if it would make this harder or easier.
"I don't want to lose you," she said.
"I don't want to be lost," he whispered.
Their eyes met.
The fear in hers mirrored the fear in his.
"I can't promise everything will work out," Mike said. "But I don't want to run from trying."
Danika leaned forward, finally reaching for his hand. "And I don't want to love you only when it's convenient. I want to love you even when it's hard."
Tears welled up in her eyes. Not from weakness. But from the unbearable honesty of loving someone enough to not know the answer.
Mike nodded, his thumb brushing hers. "We don't have to decide tonight. But we'll decide together."
(Narrative – Later that weekend)
They spent the next two days doing the one thing people forget during crisis being present.
They made pancakes. Argued about how much syrup was too much. Watched old Nollywood movies. Laughed. Sat in silence again.
They weighed it all the cost of staying, the cost of going.
Mike offered to turn down the job.
Danika told him not to.
They argued.
Then they held each other.
They were messy. Complicated. Sometimes selfish. Sometimes brave.
But they kept showing up.
(Danika's POV – Sunday Night)
She finally told him.
About the pregnancy.
They were sitting on the floor, sharing suya from a paper plate.
"I'm six weeks," she whispered.
Mike dropped his piece of meat. Blinked.
Then stared.
"I didn't tell you earlier because I didn't want to influence your decision," she continued. "But now... now I know we both deserve to walk into this with our eyes open."
Mike was silent for so long she almost thought he'd gone into shock.
Then he leaned forward.
One hand pressed to her stomach, gently.
"We're having a baby?" he said, voice thick with wonder.
She nodded.
And he cried.
Softly.
With his head resting against her belly, as if listening for a heartbeat not yet loud enough to hear.
(Narrative)
That night, they stayed up till dawn.
Talking.
Dreaming.
Planning.
Fearing.
Loving.
And by morning, they knew the answer wasn't stay or go.
The answer was: How do we build this life, together?
Danika would remain in Lagos—for now—to run the salon, keep her roots. Mike would take the job, secure their financial future.
They would visit every weekend.
They'd call every night.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was theirs.
(Mike's Closing POV)
As he boarded the bus to Port Harcourt that Monday morning, his chest was tight, but his heart was full.
Danika had written something on a slip of paper and tucked it into his pocket just before he left.
On the road, he opened it.
It read:
"No matter the miles.
No matter the silence.
We are still us.
Still choosing.
Still believing.
I love you."
And with that, Mike leaned his head back against the window, watching Lagos fade into the distance.
Knowing it wasn't an ending.
Just a different kind of beginning.