Chapter One: The Beginning of Almost
Tunji never thought heartbreak could have a taste, like warm honey cut with a pinch of salt. He’d always been the boy who thought love was an open field: wide, free, something you run through barefoot. Until Jade.
They met on a Tuesday, the kind of day that should have been forgettable, except for the fact that she wore yellow and had a laugh that made even the most tired receptionist at the bank smile. She was at the counter arguing about an overdraft, and Tunji was behind her, holding a brown envelope full of unimportant things that suddenly felt very unimportant. When she turned around, exasperated, and rolled her eyes, at life, at the bank, maybe at him, he thought, Well, that’s interesting.
Banke came later. But not too much later. She was the kind of friend you didn’t see coming, a quiet storm, soft-spoken but with a presence that stayed. She and Tunji were close, but not in the way that made anyone suspicious. They were siblings of circumstance, tethered to each other by late-night conversations, broken dreams, and cups of tea no one ever finished.
The three of them became a trio. Not because they planned to, but because some friendships grow like wildflowers. There was always laughter, always shared playlists, always unspoken agreements about who was the better cook or the worst driver. And somewhere between the shared jokes and movie nights, Tunji fell for Jade.
The trouble with falling in love with a friend is that it rarely comes with warning signs. One day you’re laughing at how she mispronounces ‘oregano,’ and the next you’re imagining her name on the inside of your ring finger. But life is a clever writer; it doesn’t always give you the ending you expect.
Chapter Two: The Thing About Almost
Love, Tunji discovered, is an architect of patience. He waited forJade to notice him. He waited for her to see that his jokes weren’t just jokes, that his silences were loud with longing. And sometimes, he thought she knew. Sometimes, her gaze lingered a second too long, her texts came a little too fast. Sometimes, she smiled in a way that made him believe.
But love’s cruelest trick is timing. By the time Tunji gathered courage, Jade was already elsewhere. Not gone, but not here either. She was falling for someone else, a man whose name tasted like disappointment when Tunji said it out loud. The worst part? Tunji couldn’t even hate him. Because the truth is, when you love someone deeply, you just want them happy, even if it’s not with you.
Banke saw it all. She noticed the way Tunji deflated when Jade talked about the promotion she turned down in Lagos because “home felt safer.” The way his smile faltered, just slightly, at the mention of safety, like he’d been hoping she’d outgrow this town and maybe, just maybe, choose him in the process.
Tunji had always been steady, the kind of man who moved like water around stones, soft but unstoppable. But that night, sitting across from Jade under the dim restaurant lights, Banke saw him shrink. It wasn’t jealousy; it was something quieter, more fragile. A realization.
He laughed at her jokes, asked questions about her family, but there was a hesitation there. His laughter wasn’t full; his questions weren’t curious, they were protective. And Banke, who had known Tunji since they were twelve, could tell.
“Tunji, you good?” she asked later, when Jade excused herself to take a call.
“Yeah,” he said too quickly. His eyes stayed on the glass of water before him. “It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. It was the way he gripped the stem of his glass like he needed to hold on to something real. It was the way his voice dipped when he added, “She’s already somewhere I can’t follow.”
Banke wanted to tell him that wasn’t true. She wanted to remind him of the way Jade looked at him when she thought no one was watching, the softness there, the quiet admiration. But she stayed silent. Sometimes truths have to bloom on their own.
When Jade returned, cheeks flushed from the late-night call, she carried news that tilted the night on its axis. “It’s Lagos again,” she said, barely able to contain the mix of excitement and fear in her voice. “They want me. They’re offering more than before.”
And just like that, Tunji’s smile collapsed into something polite, something final.
Later that night, Banke would wonder if either of them noticed the shift, the subtle drifting of a ship from shore. Jade spoke about opportunities and risk; Tunji nodded, every word a nail sealing the quiet box of what could have been. Banke kept watching, knowing that some heartbreaks don’t come with loud exits, they arrive softly, in the tremor of a smile, in the weight of words unspoken.
Tunji excused himself early, citing an early morning meeting. Jade didn’t see the way he paused at the door, like a man trying to memorize the light on her face. But Banke did. And she understood then: this was the beginning of the end, and neither of them was ready to say it aloud.
Two weeks later, the news was official: Jade was leaving. Lagos was calling, and she answered like someone finally stepping into her own skin. The town buzzed with talk of her courage; Tunji stayed silent. He congratulated her with the same steady kindness he always had, but the words were lighter now, stripped of hope.
On her last night, Banke watched them again, this time on her porch. The three of them sat with cups of tea, laughing about old time memories. But when the laughter died, Tunji finally spoke. “I’m proud of you, Jay,” he said softly. “Go make it count.”
Jade smiled, her eyes glistening. “I will. Thank you for always believing in me.”
And just like that, a chapter closed, not with slammed doors or broken promises, but with quiet acceptance. The night held its breath, and somewhere deep down, Banke knew: they would carry each other’s names differently now.
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Would Tunji ever tell her? Maybe. Would Jade ever realize what she had unknowingly left behind? Perhaps. But some stories are meant to ache a little, to remind us that not all endings are tragedies, some are simply quiet shifts of the heart, leaving space for what’s next.
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The heartbreak came not in a storm but in fragments: the first photo of Jade at a Lagos rooftop event; the unanswered message Tunji sent late one night; the laughter that now belonged to someone else’s world. He kept busy, working, running, volunteering at the youth center, but Banke could see the shadow of what-ifs following him.
Months passed. Lagos turned Jade into a version of herself she had always dreamed of, confident, radiant, untouchable. Tunji watched from a distance, quietly proud, quietly breaking. When they finally met again, at Banke’s birthday dinner six months later, it was different. Jade was brighter, sharper; Tunji was steadier but thinner, as though time had carved him out.
They hugged like old friends, and for a moment, it felt like everything and nothing at once. “How’s Lagos?” he asked, and she laughed, “Loud, fast, alive. You’d hate it.”
He smiled. “Probably.”
And that was all. No confessions, no tears. Just two people standing on opposite ends of the same memory.
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The redemption came quietly. It wasn’t about getting Jade back, it was about Tunji finding himself beyond her. He started a mentorship program for kids who wanted more than their small town could offer. He traveled for the first time, not to follow anyone, but to see. He learned that sometimes love’s purpose is not possession but propulsion, pushing us to grow, to release.
When Jade returned for Christmas a year later, she noticed the difference. Tunji was lighter, his laughter easier. They talked, they reminisced, and when she left, she pressed a handwritten note into his hand: Thank you for believing in me before I believed in myself. You were my safe place.
He kept the note, not as a wound but as proof that some loves do not fade, they evolve. And as Banke watched them that night, she knew: heartbreak had done its work. It had taught them how to hold on, how to let go, and how to love again, even if differently.
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This wasn’t a tragic ending. It was a full circle. And sometimes, the best love stories are the ones that remind us that endings are just beginnings wearing different clothes.
And maybe that’s the heart of it — that love, in all its shifting shapes, teaches us to stay soft. To hold, to release, and to keep believing in what’s possible.
So here’s my letter to you, hidden in this story:
May you have the courage to love fully, the wisdom to let go when it’s time, and the faith to trust that what comes after is never empty.
With love,
Nkiruka.