Fifteen months, five days and ten hours after we started dating, I got my first job offer. Technically not the first, but it was the first after that season of drought. It was the first that offered me close to what I thought I was worth in this world. “And the best part is it's remote!” you had screamed in joy and I had agreed, feeling proud of myself because you felt proud of me. Because you had kissed my head and told me you weren't surprised, you were just waiting for the world to see how great I was like you had known all this while. You had a way of making me feel like Icarus but instead of my wings melting off, they stayed glued to my back, never letting me plummet to a dark fate.

We had moved in together at this point. Six months before I got the job. Lagos was hard and we were barely making enough to feed ourselves. Your rent had expired and I had seven months left on mine. It was the sane thing to do, asking you to move in with me. Besides, we were hardly getting by for us to be picky. The occasional handout from our parents helped but it always left us feeling shameful and guilty. We were adults now, we weren't meant to need so much financial aid but it couldn't be helped and so we swallowed down the bile and said a mirage of thank yous.

It was another reason why this meant so much. Why the timing had been perfect. Even if they insisted we weren't burdens, it felt weird, a weird pinch in our throats anytime we had to require their assistance. We didn't need to do that anymore.

The first thing I did was tell you to start looking for a new apartment for us. My shoulders were high, and in a month, I'd have money I'd never touched in my life. Money I didn't know what to do with. So yes, we needed a new place. My brother suggested that we moved out of Lagos and I agreed. All of our closest friends were elsewhere and we didn't particularly have a sentimental connection to the city. Later, you'd tell me that that was the first time you felt your stomach drop, a warning in hindsight.

Two months later, we had made the two bedroom apartment with its spacious kitchen and bathrooms and courtyard a home. It still sometimes felt like the sterile bare space we had moved into but I knew it was only because I didn't know the walls the way I needed to. That I hadn't marked them yet. But I didn't need to worry about that because you'd take care of it. I just had to give you enough money. And I had more than enough. I didn't know I had begun to slip into my father's habits, the ones I had sworn off. I was meant to be a present partner and subsequently, a present father. I was meant to be better.

I thought it was permissible; I had settled into the responsibilities the new job demanded from me and I trusted you enough to keep the house running. There wasn't much to it after all. We had a cleaning lady who came in three times a week, and I had suggested that we had some form of a cook but you'd refused because you thought it was too much indulgence. You would cook, and on days you didn't feel like it, we could go out or order in. I indulged you but in my head, it wasn't indulgence if I could afford it. And even if it was, we deserved it.

I was throwing money at everything. I was throwing money at you, and I hadn't even realized it. If I had paid more attention, I would have seen the beginning of the end.

We had unspoken rules. We went out to do something together every Friday night. No excuses. We took walks from 5pm-6pm every day. You loved your walks and I would follow wherever you went. It also meant I had to stop working before five. You knew how easy it was to get lost in work as a remote worker and you didn't want me to fall into that hole and I had never felt so loved than in that moment. I wish I could dial back the hands of time, it would be one of the moments I would force myself to experience again. We tried to watch a movie every night before bed but a touch led to another and we got lost in each other's skin. We didn't mind though. It always knocked us out.

It's important to note, reader, that you didn't exactly have a job by now. I didn't mind it. I made sure to send enough to your accounts that you wouldn't want for anything. But I knew how important it was to you that you were able to stand on your own two feet. You wanted a job too, something stable. Being a freelancer was starting to take a toll on you, the uncertainty of it all. I put a word in for you anywhere I could, and two months later, you started as an assistant to one of my colleague's acquaintances. It was remote too, and your hours were shorter. The dark air that had hung around your head melted away.

I broke one of our unwritten agreements a year and six months later. I knew I could have left it till the next day, but it was so little work that carrying it over felt so insignificant. I could have said something, told you something at least, so that you didn't sit waiting for me in the dark. But I didn't and by the time I came out of the room we'd made into our office, it was 7pm. The tension was so heavy in the air that I could have sworn it weighed on my body uncomfortably. I apologized and said it would never happen again and you nodded. Dinner was a tense affair that night but we'd settled into something of a truce before bed, and I'd made love to you slowly and passionately and didn't stop till I'd felt you shudder against me twice.

The thing is, you only need to do something one time and before you knew it, it was growing into a cancerous habit.

I missed our walks again two weeks after. And perhaps your reaction should have told me I was doing everything so wrong because it hadn't taken anything for you to concede. It was as if you had admitted that this was something you had to live with now.

It got worse, of course, like every journey to doom. Funnily enough, it started with a fanfare. I got promoted. And with that came more money and more responsibilities. At least, that was my excuse. One month after that, we had our first explosive fight. I hadn't just missed our walk, something that was less of routine and more of indulgence now, after I'd promised you that I wouldn't. And I'd missed dinner too. I'd come out of that home office and frowned when you hadn't said a word to me. You were sitting watching a show I remembered we'd started together. I was confused because we were meant to watch it together. But I'd walked past you to get some water to drink and when I got to the dining, I'd frozen. Dread settled at the bottom of my stomach and I suddenly knew that I'd fucked up. Severely. Set on the table were two plates of food. You never ever ever ate without me. You had said that eating alone was a sad affair and preferred to do it together. And you hadn't eaten. You'd waited for me. I touched the food with the tip of my fingers and the cold that ran through them was very similar to the chill that enveloped me.

I'd walked over to where you sat and knelt in front of you. To be honest, it was more like I collapsed and buried my head in your thighs. “I'm so sorry” I whispered and I'd gotten nothing in return. Instead, you shook me off till your thighs were free from the weight of my body and you'd ignored me. You got angry in two ways. There was the silent all consuming one that threatened to suffocate anything around you and I could feel you descending into it. I needed the other one, the one where you screamed at me with tears streaming down your face because I'd known you long enough to know it was the better of the two. So I'd gulped, saying a silent prayer that asked for forgiveness for what I was about to do and turned on you.

“You could have at least waited for me before you continued the movie,” it came out with false bragado, false annoyance, but it had the intended effect. You paused, and whirled around and the fury in your eyes almost had me falling back to my knees. But I held strong and marred my face with a frown.

“That's all you have to say?” you asked with a calm I knew did nothing to expose the rage boiling under your skin. I shrugged, making myself into the picture of impatience and I was rewarded seconds later. You exploded. I'm aware that sounds like an exaggeration, but it's the only word that can portray how fast you reacted. One minute you were standing five feet away from me and the next, your fingers were jabbing into my chest and you were screaming in my face. I'd never seen you like that. And you had certainly never spoken to me like that before, but I took it. I knew I deserved it. When you had nothing left to give, tears began to fall in earnest down your face and I felt my heart shatter. I had been so angry at myself at that moment, so angry that I'd hurt you to that point and when I'd wrapped my hands around you, you didn't push me away. I fell on my knees before you again, and against the softness of your stomach, I whispered my apologies. You held my head to you and we stood like that as time flew by. You'd forgiven me, yes. But forgetting wasn't as easy and so later that night when I wrapped a hand around you to pull you closer to myself, you'd pried my hands off your waist and shuffled away till no parts of our bodies could touch.

We had many beginnings to our one end.

Things melted back into a semblance of how they'd been two weeks later but of course, it hung over our heads. Somehow, we were both waiting for me to fuck up again. I tried my best, you know. But it wasn't enough because I relapsed. And perhaps the most jarring part of it was that there was no reaction from you. Like you were used to it? You didn't lash out. You didn't scream or shout or anything. There was nothing. I saw one of the food warmers we'd never had any reason to use till then. My food was in it. And when I forced myself to eat every single scoop, I came to our room and you were fast asleep. You had made a side of the bed yours.

Months later, I'd realize that I'd stolen so much from you. That I'd turned you into the very thing you never wanted to be and I'd been so blind to it.

Today I went for a walk. 5pm-6pm. Multiple times, my hand reached out for yours only to be met with nothing. The city is haunted by you. Every corner I turn, a memory or two leaps at me, reminding me that I'd chased away the one thing that had ever made me happy. That I'd used my own hands to render myself joyless. You are gone and everything has lost its joy. I'm bare and unhappy.

I walked to that shawarma guy's spot and when he saw me without you, he flashed me a sympathetic smile and that was all it took for me to break down. I got home and all the tears I'd chased away finally came pouring out. I miss you.

I hope that you're fine, but some part of me hopes that you're not, even for the slim chance that it would lead you back to me.

I come out of the office before five now.