The golden hue of the salon's anniversary celebration still lingered in Danika's memory, like the warm echo of a favorite song. Friends had danced beneath fairy lights, laughter had filled the air, and Mike had held her hand like a promise. But once the music faded and the last guests left, reality settled in like an overcast morning after a brilliant sunrise.
Life, it seemed, wasn't going to pause just because they were happy.
The first sign came the following Monday.
Danika arrived at the salon early, as always. She was still buzzing from the success of their event—the photos on social media were racking up likes, inquiries were flooding in, and the booking calendar was packed weeks ahead. But with popularity came pressure.
"Danika," Amaka, her assistant, whispered, wide-eyed, as she pointed toward the front door, "She's back. The 'Bridezilla.'"
Danika's heart sank.
Mrs. Oduro, the high-profile client with an endless list of demands and a sharp tongue, stood near the reception desk, arms crossed, lips pursed in disapproval.
"I asked for my trial appointment to start at 9 AM sharp," she snapped. "It is 9:03. Is this how you run a premium business?"
Danika forced a smile. "I apologize, ma'am. We'll get started right away."
As she guided Mrs. Oduro into a chair, Danika masked the exhaustion tugging at her bones. The woman had rescheduled her appointments three times, changed her mind on hairstyles twice, and still insisted on perfection. For nearly two hours, Danika worked with quiet grace, even as her client made passive-aggressive comments about the salon's 'amateur' vibe.
By the time the appointment was over, Danika's nerves were frayed.
"I expect better on the wedding day," Mrs. Oduro warned, flicking her designer bag over her shoulder.
Danika exhaled deeply once the door closed. She barely had time to breathe before the phone rang—another new booking, another rush request.
Meanwhile, across town, Mike was in a cramped bus terminal, his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. His phone buzzed.
Danika: "Hey babe. Just finished with that client I told you about. Draining morning "
Mike looked at the text, guilt gnawing at him. He hadn't been able to attend the salon's morning staff debrief. He had a shoot in Port Harcourt—two days of on-location production for a music video he couldn't afford to turn down. Freelancing wasn't stable, and every project counted.
He typed back quickly:
Mike: "Oof, sorry baby. That woman again? Just landed at the terminal. Will call you once I get settled on the bus."
Danika stared at the reply.
"Will call you once I get settled." The same line he'd been using a lot lately.
She tossed her phone onto her desk and went back to reviewing supplier invoices. They hadn't had a proper conversation in days—just a string of short messages, heart emojis, and half-hearted late-night calls when they were both too tired to speak.
By the weekend, the strain became impossible to ignore.
Mike returned home late Saturday night, suitcase in one hand, camera bag in the other. He dropped his gear, entered the apartment, and was met with silence.
Danika was curled up on the couch, blanket around her, eyes locked on a Netflix show she wasn't really watching. A bowl of melted ice cream sat on the side table.
"Hey," he said, stepping closer.
She muted the TV. "Hi."
He sat beside her. "I missed you."
"Did you?" Her tone wasn't sharp, but it carried a weight that made Mike sit straighter.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Danika turned to face him. "Mike, I'm tired. This week's been… overwhelming. And I feel like I'm doing it alone."
He blinked. "I've been working too—on the road, nonstop."
"I know. And I respect that," she said. "But you promised we'd be partners in this. Lately, it feels like we're just… surviving. Parallel lives."
Mike ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising. "So, what—you're upset because I'm hustling to provide?"
"That's not fair," she shot back. "You're not the only one providing. I built this salon from the ground up. I'm not asking you to stop chasing your dreams—I'm just asking not to be left behind in the process."
The room pulsed with silence.
Then Mike stood. "I'm going to shower."
Danika didn't stop him.
Later that night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Mike had fallen asleep on the couch after scrolling through his phone in silence. They hadn't resolved anything. Just gone quiet.
She rose, padded barefoot into the living room, and sat beside him. He stirred, eyes fluttering open.
"You still mad?" he mumbled.
Danika shook her head. "Not mad. Just scared."
"Of what?"
"Of losing what we have," she whispered. "We worked so hard to get here. But we're slipping, Mike. Bit by bit."
He sat up, his eyes clearer now in the dim light. "I feel it too," he admitted. "Every time I say I'll call and don't… every time I miss something important… I feel it."
Danika leaned her head on his shoulder. "We need to stop acting like this is just happening to us. We're choosing it, one missed moment at a time."
Mike took her hand. "So what do we do?"
"We talk. Even when we're tired. We make time, not excuses."
He nodded. "We plan. Set real boundaries. Like no travel without at least one proper call a day. You keep me in the loop with big decisions at the salon. I'll do the same with my gigs."
Danika smiled faintly. "Deal."
They sat there, hands clasped in quiet understanding.
The following week, things didn't magically become easier—but something changed.
Mike set up a small corner in the apartment for editing, so he could spend more time at home. He declined a last-minute gig in Benin City to keep his promise. Danika hired a part-time front desk assistant to free up her schedule and joined a business support group for female entrepreneurs.
They had morning check-ins over tea, even if brief. They shared silly memes. They disagreed—but they talked it through.
One evening, after the salon had closed, Danika received a surprise delivery: a bouquet of sunflowers and a handwritten note.
"To my sun and shelter,
Even in storms, you bloom.
Love always,
Mike."
Her heart softened.
That night, she cooked jollof rice with grilled chicken, something they hadn't shared in weeks. When Mike walked through the door, the scent pulled a smile from him instantly.
"Is it a special occasion?" he asked, dropping his bag.
Danika looked up from the pot. "Yeah. We made it through another week."
They sat on the floor, eating, laughing, sharing dreams again.
Danika looked into Mike's eyes and saw not just her lover—but her teammate, her mirror, her anchor.
Yes, the challenges were real.
But so was their love.
And together, they were choosing it. Again. And again.
Every single day.