The sun had begun its slow descent behind the hills that bordered the campus, casting a golden hue across the empty lecture halls and deserted corridors. It was the same campus, yet everything felt different now. Emmanuel was back—not for school, not for a seminar, but for something else. Something deeper. A search, perhaps. A need to confront the version of himself he'd left behind.
Since Funmi's return two weeks ago, their short reunion had stirred old memories. And something else—questions that he hadn't asked, and feelings that refused to settle. Despite their tender parting, the space between them lingered, fragile and charged.
He had begun writing again. Not just journal entries, but whole chapters of a story inspired by their journey. He called it The Space Between Us. It was raw, unfinished—just like them.
One evening, while seated at a local café near the bus park, Emmanuel saw a familiar silhouette approaching. He didn't have to look twice. Funmi. She had her braids up in a bun, wore a blue maxi dress, and carried a worn-out book bag slung across her shoulder.
"Are you following me?" he teased with a smirk.
"Coincidence," she replied, sliding into the seat across from him. "Or maybe fate is just stubborn."
They laughed—genuinely, for the first time in a while. Then silence fell, but this time it was filled with calm rather than tension.
"I read what you wrote," she said.
He blinked. "You did?"
"I found the Google Doc link on the shared folder we used to use for assignments. I wasn't snooping. Just… curious."
He didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or proud. That story had bled truth.
"You wrote about our last day together like it was the end of the world," she said, softly. "It wasn't."
Emmanuel nodded. "No. But it felt like the end of something important. Maybe it was just the end of us as we knew it."
She paused. "And maybe the beginning of us as something else."
That night, they walked together to their old hostel block, now painted a new color. Students gathered around the balconies, laughing and blasting music. It all felt familiar yet distant—like ghosts of their former selves lingered in the air.
"Remember when I got locked out because I lost my key?" she said.
"You ended up sleeping on the stairwell. I gave you my hoodie."
"You smelled like cinnamon and panic," she giggled. "I think that was the moment I knew."
"Knew what?"
"That I'd never love anyone quite like you."
They reached the staircase and sat on the cold tiles under the buzzing hallway light.
Funmi spoke first. "I've been thinking about the life I want. Not the life everyone expects me to have."
"And?"
"I want peace. Not the absence of noise, but the presence of someone who listens to the silence."
He stared at her. "I listened, Funmi. Even when you were silent, I listened."
She took his hand. "I know. And I'm sorry for making you feel like your love wasn't enough."
"It wasn't about being enough," he replied. "It was about being present. And you weren't."
Tears welled in her eyes. "I thought pulling away would protect you from my storm. But maybe I should've let you in."
"You should have," he whispered.
And then she leaned in. Not to kiss him. Just to rest her head on his shoulder, like she used to. They sat like that for a long time, letting the past exhale from their bones.
Weeks passed. They didn't jump into anything. Instead, they built a new rhythm. Weekly café chats. Book swaps. Silent walks. Sometimes, he'd write her a page from his book, and she'd annotate it like an editor—adding hearts, or one-word comments like raw, honest, still us.
One Saturday, he took her to a bookstore outside town. She picked out a poetry collection. Inside it was a note tucked between the pages:
"The space between us is no longer distance. It's growth."
Funmi looked up at him, tears glassing over. "Is this… us again?"
He smiled. "Maybe not again. Maybe just us… finally."
She leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his. "Let's not label it. Let's live it."
They didn't rush back into love. They grew back into it—like vines, slow but steady, wrapping gently around what was broken, until everything felt whole again.
Some endings are just hidden beginnings. And sometimes, love doesn't return as a fire—but as a flame that never stopped burning, waiting patiently for the wind to come back and breathe life into it again.