The rain started suddenly, the kind that turned Enugu’s red earth into thick mud within minutes. Ada barely managed to slip under Mama Nkechi’s kiosk before the downpour became unforgiving. The smell of wet dust filled the air, mixing with the sharp scent of frying akara.

She sighed, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. The ink in her notebook was probably smudged by now. It wasn’t the worst thing that had happened today, but it was enough to sour her mood.

Then, through the heavy downpour, she saw him.

Kelechi was running, his broken umbrella swinging uselessly in his grip. He ducked under the shelter, dripping from head to toe, shaking water from his arms like a stray dog.

She tried, really tried not to smile.

“You look like a proper mgbeke,” she said, folding her arms.

He grinned, unbothered. “And you look like someone whose day just got better.”

She rolled her eyes, but he wasn’t wrong.

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the rhythmic tapping of rain drops on the zinc roof. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence—it never was. But today it carried something else, something heavier.

Ada never intended to fall for Kelechi. It just happened, slowly, like rain seeping into dry earth.

For months, they had been inseparable—late-night conversations, long walks around the university campus, shared plates of abacha at the roadside stall near Okpara Square. He had this way of making everything feel easy, like life wasn’t as complicated as it always seemed in her head.

But lately, it had become complicated.

Because every laugh, every accidental brush of their hands, every time he said her name—it all added weight to something she wasn’t sure she had the courage to name.

And then came the Waterfall trip.

The hike had been tiring, the sun relentless, but the moment they reached the cascading falls, all the discomfort melted away. The water rushed over smooth rocks, misting the air, the kind of beauty that made you forget whatever burden you carried.

But Ada couldn’t forget hers.

She stood at the edge of the pool, staring at the way the water carved its path through the stone, as if it had always known exactly where to go.

If only she could be so certain.

“You’ve been quiet,” Kelechi said, stepping beside her.

She sighed deeply. “I’ve been thinking.”

He gave a small laugh. “That’s dangerous.”

She didn’t smile. Not this time. “I need to say something.”

Something in her voice must have warned him because he stilled. “Ada…”

“I like you, Kelechi,” she said, before she could stop herself. “I don’t know when it started, but I can’t pretend anymore.”

The words hung in the humid air between them.

Kelechi let out a slow breath. “You think I didn’t know?” He ran a hand over his face, looking both amused and… something else. Something unreadable. “I felt it too. I just—I didn’t want to lose you.”

The roar of the waterfall filled the silence.

“So what now?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

He hesitated for only a second before reaching for her hand. His fingers were warm, steady. “Now, we stop running from it.”

Back in Enugu, the rain returned days later, softer this time, as though the sky itself had exhaled.

Ada and Kelechi sat at Mama Nkechi’s kiosk again, their shoulders brushing, their words lighter. They didn’t need to talk about what had changed. It was in the way he stole a piece of her akara without asking, in the way her laughter came easier, in the way neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave.

Love had finally been spoken, and for the first time, it felt real. It felt right