It was a rainy Saturday when Kemi finally visited home. She carried small gifts, trying to fold her happiness into boxes. Her mother hugged her but felt the space between them had grown. Her sister spoke softly, as if her words might disturb the air. Her niece played quietly, measuring her own voice against Kemi's.
Kemi realized the apartment hadn't just changed her—it had traveled. Little habits, small silences, subtle patterns had spread outward like ripples on water.
She sat in her old room, staring at the ceiling fan. It clicked steadily, punctuating thoughts she didn't yet have words for. She wanted to laugh, to speak freely, to shake the quiet from her chest—but the rules she had absorbed were heavier than she remembered.
Sometimes harm doesn't arrive with noise. Sometimes it arrives quietly, changing rooms, family, and friends before anyone notices.