He read my poetry before he ever touched my hand.
That should’ve been romantic.
But now, I wish he never read a word.
The poem was about grief — how it settles in the bones when someone you love leaves without warning.
It was raw. Untitled. Anonymous.
But somehow, Leo found me.
“You write like you’ve lived a thousand lives,” he messaged.
I stared at the screen for hours before replying, heart pounding, cheeks flushed.
Nobody had ever seen me. Not like that.
I wasn’t used to being noticed. I was the girl who wore oversized hoodies and walked with her head down.
My only friends were Ngozi and my dog-eared notebooks.
And then Leo — final-year Law student, golden boy, campus prince — saw me.
Love, or Something Like It
We started slow.
A few chats. Some shared memes.
Then lunch at the Law Café. Then long walks back to Moremi hostel.
He was funny. And kind.
Too kind.
He’d open my water bottle for me before I even asked.
Wait outside my class “just in case someone tried something.”
Held my hand even when I didn’t reach for his.
At first, it felt like care.
Then it started to feel like control.
“Who’s that guy you waved at?”
“You’re not picking my calls.”
“I know Ngozi doesn’t like me — she’s jealous.”
By the time I realized I was drowning, he’d already tied the anchor.
The Night It Broke
I tried to end it outside the hostel gate.
His jaw tightened.
“You’re leaving me? After all I did for you?”
He stepped forward.
I stepped back.
I remember the sound of my name — Zara! — echoing from a distance.
I remember Ngozi’s voice, the security guard’s flashlight, the shouting.
Then I remember waking up in the clinic, an IV in my arm, and my mother’s trembling hands on my forehead.
They said I fainted.
They didn’t say how Leo had grabbed me so hard I bruised.
They didn’t mention the way he screamed, or how the guard had to pull him off me.
But Ngozi told me.
And I remembered enough.
Shame Wears Lip Gloss
People whispered.
They always do.
“Why didn’t she report him?”
“She probably liked the attention.”
“She’s too emotional — always writing those sad poems.”
Even when someone hurts you, people ask what you did to deserve it.
The university wanted the issue swept. “Bad for publicity.”
My parents wanted me home.
“Drop out. Come back to Enugu. Start over.”
But I didn’t want to start over.
I wanted to speak.
The Words I Buried
I started writing again — this time, not as a ghost hiding behind poems.
The piece was titled: When Love Looks Like a Cage
I wrote about the sweetness of manipulation.
The kind that smells like roses and calls you “baby” but watches your every move.
I didn’t mention Leo’s name.
I didn’t have to.
It went viral within a day.
Girls I’d never spoken to sent me messages:
“I thought it was just me.”
“He did the same thing to my friend.”
“Thank you.”
Some boys clapped back.
“She’s just bitter.”
“Clout-chasing.”
“Why now?”
But none of it mattered.
Because for once, the story belonged to me.
The Spotlight and the Silence
The event was called Her Voice: A Night for Women’s Stories.
I almost didn’t go.
My hands shook the whole time backstage.
My name was called.
I stepped out.
The auditorium felt too big. My breath, too loud. My chest, too hollow.
Then I looked up.
And I saw Leo in the crowd.
Still arrogant.
Still pretending nothing happened.
Still trying to own my silence.
So I opened my mouth.
And I broke the spell.
What I Said
“He didn’t hit me.
He held my wrist so hard I thought the bone would crack.
He told me no one else would love me the way he did.
And for a while, I believed him.”
“Because we don’t teach girls the difference between love and ownership.
We just tell them to be grateful they’re loved at all.”
“But I’m not grateful.
I’m angry.
And now, I’m free.”
Aftermath
I walked off stage to a silence so heavy it felt holy.
Leo didn’t clap.
He left before the event ended.
But it didn’t matter.
Because the girl who once wrote poems in secret just told the whole campus her truth.
And the applause that followed didn’t sound like pity.
It sounded like power.
I thought I needed love.
What I really needed was a voice.
I tell the kind of love stories that stay with you — the messy, unfiltered kind that unravel slowly and cut deep. Inspired by real emotion, rich culture, and everything we never say out loud, my fiction lives at the intersection of vulnerability and power. If you’ve ever loved like your soul depended on it… welcome home.
