Amaka didn't cry after she left Ikenna.
That surprised even her.
She expected guilt. Or doubt. Or at least a sleepless night replaying his calm okay over and over again. Instead, she woke up the next morning feeling… relieved. Light. Like she had finally chosen herself.
Her friends noticed immediately.
"Amaka, you look different," Sola said as they sat at a café near campus, scrolling through their phones. "Like… lighter."
Amaka smiled, lifting her glass. "I just removed what no longer fits."
"Ah," another friend chimed in, grinning. "Say it with your chest. You dumped him."
"I didn't dump him," Amaka corrected. "I upgraded my standards."
They laughed, clinking glasses.
No one mentioned Ikenna's name after that.
And Amaka didn't either.
Her life moved quickly after graduation. Interviews turned into offers. Offers turned into choices. She moved into a modest apartment, started wearing clothes she once admired on other women, and learned how to exist in rooms without shrinking.
She posted less quotes now. More pictures.
And that was how he found her.
The first message was polite. Almost boring.
Good evening. I hope this doesn't come off strange. I saw your profile and thought you carried yourself well.
Amaka stared at the screen, eyebrow raised.
She checked his page.
No flashy posts. No motivational captions. No loud displays of wealth. Just clean photos—neutral colors, quiet places, an occasional skyline. Abuja, clearly. The kind of profile that didn't try to impress but somehow did.
She replied.
Thank you. That's kind of you.
The conversation flowed effortlessly after that. He asked thoughtful questions. Not invasive. Not desperate. He didn't compliment her body. He complimented her mind.
"You sound like a woman who knows where she's going," he typed once.
Amaka smiled at her phone.
I do, she thought. Finally.
They met a week later.
Not for coffee. Not for drinks.
Dinner.
A quiet restaurant in Maitama. Tasteful. Understated. The kind of place Ikenna would have called unnecessary.
The man—Nnamdi—stood when she arrived. Tall. Calm. His voice low and controlled.
"You're even more composed in person," he said.
Amaka laughed lightly. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
That should have been her first pause.
But it wasn't.
The evening went smoothly. He ordered confidently, barely looking at the menu. The staff treated him with familiarity. Respect.
"So what do you do?" she asked.
"Consulting," he replied.
"That's vague."
He smiled slightly. "It has to be."
She liked that answer.
Ikenna used to explain everything. Teach her everything. Walk her through every step like she was still learning.
Nnamdi didn't teach.
He assumed.
And that made her feel… equal.
When he dropped her off, he didn't try to kiss her. Didn't linger. Just nodded once.
"I'll see you again," he said. Not a question.
She watched his car disappear, heart racing.
This was what she meant by standard.
Over the next few weeks, Amaka slipped into his world easily. Weekend dinners. Quiet drives. Conversations that felt intelligent but never vulnerable. He never spoke about his past. Never explained his work. Never asked about Ikenna.
She didn't volunteer it either.
"You're very independent," he said once, watching her lock her apartment door. "I like that."
Amaka smiled. "I had a good foundation."
She didn't say who built it.
Nnamdi never raised his voice. Never rushed her. Never corrected her. If she spoke wrongly, he simply didn't react. And somehow, that silence felt heavier than correction.
She began to adjust herself around him—choosing words carefully, softening opinions, aligning.
She told herself it was maturity.
One evening, she ran into Ikenna.
It was at a bookstore. The same one he used to take her to.
He looked… fine.
Not broken. Not waiting. Just fine.
"Amaka," he said calmly.
"Ikenna."
There was a pause. A strange one.
"You look well," he said.
"So do you."
He nodded. "I'm glad."
She expected resentment. Or at least disappointment. But there was none.
As she walked away, something twisted inside her chest.
That night, Nnamdi noticed her silence.
"You're distracted," he said.
"I ran into someone from my past."
"Does he matter?"
Amaka hesitated. Then shook her head. "No."
Nnamdi smiled, satisfied.
"Good."
She told herself she had chosen right.
What she didn't know was that Ikenna had built her to stand.
And Nnamdi preferred women who leaned.