The world always felt colder when he had nothing to offer.
The streetlight above him flickered as if unsure whether to shine or fade into the night. That single bulb, its glass cracked and buzzing faintly, was the only light left on this side of Orile's narrow road. It cast his shadow long and thin against the wall he leaned on — a tired figure in a borrowed hoodie and worn-out sneakers with a hole near the toe.
He didn't have a name that carried weight. Not one that could buy him a second glance or save him from the kind of silence his phone had been serving him all week. But his heart — his stupid, stubborn, loyal heart — had one name carved into it so deeply it hurt to breathe: Ameera.
And tonight, like every other night, she was the ghost he talked to in his head.
> "If I had more," he whispered under his breath, the words barely escaping his chapped lips, "I'd give it all to you."
His name was Ejike, and lately, it felt like life had him pressed into the dirt — spine bent, dignity bruised, spirit dry.
---
He walked slowly, each step on the dusty road echoing just enough to remind him he was alone. Behind the wooden kiosk on the corner, someone was boiling corn in a rusty pot, the smoky scent mixing with the thick heat of Lagos air. His stomach grumbled, but his pocket answered back with the silence of a man who'd learned to ignore hunger.
Today had been another dead end.
He'd gone to three places — all promised "maybe tomorrow" or "we'll call you." But he knew what that meant. He didn't go to university. Didn't have connections. Didn't have the luxury of time. What he had was desperation, determination, and a face that aged faster with every rejection.
He pulled out his phone — a cracked Android with a flickering screen — and opened WhatsApp. No new messages.
He tapped Ameera's chat, just to see her last message again.
> "I believe in you, always. Don't forget that."
It was two days old. She hadn't replied since.
---
They hadn't seen each other in almost a month. Not since that long weekend she'd snuck out of her aunt's house to meet him at Freedom Park. She'd worn a red scarf over her braids, simple jeans, and no makeup — but to Ejike, she looked like a miracle.
They had sat by the fountain, laughing about nothing, hands hidden beneath the concrete bench like teenagers sneaking a love too pure for the world to see. They'd kissed softly, careful not to be seen. She talked about applying to schools abroad. He lied and said he was working on "something big."
She never said it — but he saw it in her eyes. She knew he was struggling.
And still... she stayed.
Ameera had always been like that. Quiet fire. Calm strength. Someone who could have anyone — but somehow still chose him.
Now, as he walked past shuttered shops and empty roadside stalls, Ejike felt the weight of that choice crushing him. She deserved better. More. Stability. Plans. Someone who didn't have to check his account before texting her credit.
But still — still — he couldn't let her go.
---
The sky above was threatening rain. Not thunder or drama — just that slow kind of weeping the clouds do when the city is tired.
Ejike turned down a side street, passing two boys chasing each other barefoot, their laughter slicing through the night like a hymn. He envied that kind of freedom. That joy without consequence. When he laughed now, it was brief — always followed by guilt, or worry.
He reached his uncle's compound, pushed the gate open gently, and entered the small, crowded corridor. Three rooms shared one bathroom. The air was humid with fried oil and the smell of soaked clothes hanging on ropes above his head.
Inside his room — barely wide enough for the thin foam mattress on the floor — he sat down heavily, back against the wall.
From a rusted tin box beneath his bed, he pulled out a paper envelope. Inside were bus tickets, a folded letter, and a photo of Ameera she had once slipped into his back pocket when he wasn't looking.
He unfolded the letter.
> "If love were enough, we'd be fine. But I know it's not. I just need you to keep fighting. For you. For us. For the version of you that you don't see yet. Because I see him."
He read it again. And again.
And that's when the tears came.
Silent. Slow. Hot.
Not because he was weak — but because he was tired.
---
Outside, someone played a faint love song on a Bluetooth speaker. He couldn't make out the words, just the sorrow in the singer's voice. It matched his heart perfectly.
He wanted to call her. To hear her voice. But what would he say?
> "Hey. I still don't have a job."
"Yeah, I missed the interview because I didn't have enough for transport."
"I love you, but I don't know how to keep you."
Instead, he picked up a pen. An old blue biro with bite marks on the cap. He opened his notebook — half-filled with scribbles, dreams, and songs he'd written when his hope hadn't yet grown quiet.
And he began to write.
> "I don't know how to win, but I'm still standing.
I don't know how to give you more, but I'm trying.
Every time the world closes in, I close my eyes and see you.
And that's enough to make me keep breathing, even if it breaks me."
He paused.
Then underlined the last part twice.
---
He wasn't ready to give up. Not on her. Not on himself.
Some loves are light and easy. But this — this was love forged in fire.
Tomorrow, he'd try again. Another CV. Another walk. Another interview.
Because somewhere out there, a girl was waiting. Not for the perfect version of him. Not for the one who had money or a title. But for the one who chose her — again and again — even if it broke him.
And maybe, just maybe… that love would be enough to build a life from the ashes.