Good bye Femi🍃 (part 2) - by Nomshu Writes✨

PART II — Two Weeks After His WeddingTwo weeks after Femi's wedding, he called me. I was in the middle of doing absolutely nothing when his name appeared on my screen. Femi. I stared at it until the call ended. Then he called again. I picked up. "Hello?" "Hi, Nomshu." I hated how normal he sounded. "Hi." "How are you?" "I'm fine. You?" "Good." Silence. Then he laughed a little. "This is awkward." "Very." He told me he had found something of mine while unpacking. An old book I had left at his apartment. Apparently, it had been inside one of his storage boxes. I told him he could keep it. "It's your book." "I know. I just don't need it." "Okay." Another silence. Then he asked if we could meet. He said he wanted to return it properly. I should have said no. I knew that. But there was a part of me that still wanted to see him. A part that hadn't quite accepted that the man I used to call whenever I had a bad day was now somebody else's husband. So I agreed. We met on a Friday evening at a small restaurant in Abuja. He was already seated when I arrived. He stood up when he saw me. "Hey, stranger." I rolled my eyes. "Please, don't start." He laughed. And just like that, four years came rushing back. He still looked at me the same way. He still had that little smile he used whenever he was trying not to laugh. He still remembered that I didn't like too much ice in my drinks. We ordered food. We talked. At first, it was the usual catching up. Work, family, mutual friends, the things happening around us. Then somehow, we started talking about us. Not directly. We spoke about the old suya spot that had changed owners. The film we never finished watching. The time he drove all the way across town because I was craving something at an unreasonable hour. "You're actually very stressful," he said. I laughed. "You enjoyed it." "I did." For a second, we just looked at each other. Then he looked away. We stayed longer than we planned. When we eventually stepped outside, it had started raining. Femi offered to drop me off. I hesitated. He noticed. "Nomshu, I'm just dropping you home." I nodded. I got into the car. The drive was quiet at first. The radio was playing some old song, and the rain was making that familiar sound against the windscreen. At a traffic light, he turned towards me. "You look good." "Thank you." "You seem happy." "I am." He nodded. "Good. You deserve that." I looked out the window. "Femi, why did you call me?" He gripped the steering wheel. "I don't know." I laughed without humour. "You don't know?" "I just wanted to see you." "You're married, Femi." "I know." "Then you shouldn't be calling me because you miss seeing me." He didn't answer. And somehow, that silence was an answer of its own. When we arrived at my street, I reached for the door handle. Then he said my name. "Nomshu." I turned. "Can we talk for a little?" I should have gone upstairs. Instead, I stayed. We ended up at his apartment. I told myself it was only because it was raining heavily and we needed somewhere to sit until it reduced. He put the book on the centre table. I recognised the living room immediately. The same curtains. The same television. The same ridiculous throw pillow I had once threatened to throw away. But something was different. There was a framed wedding photograph on the shelf. Femi and his wife. I looked at it for a little too long. He noticed. "She's lovely," I said. "She is." I nodded. "Good." I don't know why I was so determined to be polite. Perhaps because I knew I had no right to be anything else. He brought me water. We sat on opposite ends of the sofa. We talked about nothing. Then he asked whether I ever thought about us. I stared at him. "Femi, what kind of question is that?" "Just answer me." "Sometimes." "Me too." I looked down at my hands. "You have a wife." "I know, Nomshu." "Then why are we having this conversation?" He rubbed his face. "I don't know how to explain it." "Then don't." He moved closer. I should have moved away. Instead, I looked at him. There are people you can go months without seeing, but the moment they're standing in front of you, your body remembers things your mind has been desperately trying to forget. He reached for my hand. I let him hold it. Then he said, very quietly: "I miss you." I started crying. Not loudly. Just enough for him to notice. "Please don't," I whispered. He moved closer and wiped my cheek. "I know." "Femi, please." He kissed me. And I kissed him back. It wasn't planned. There was no grand declaration or decision to start again. Just two people who had once loved each other terribly, making a terrible decision. We stopped once. We looked at each other. I remember asking him if he was sure. He didn't answer. And neither did I. The rest of the night is something I have struggled to put into words. We slept together. And for a few hours, I allowed myself to pretend that nothing had changed. I pretended there was no wedding photograph on the shelf. No woman waiting for her husband to come home. No ring sitting somewhere in that apartment. I pretended I was still his. But morning has a cruel way of introducing reality. I woke up before him. The room was quiet. Sunlight was coming through the curtains, and Femi was sleeping beside me. For a moment, I just watched him. Then I saw his wedding ring on the bedside table. I sat up. And suddenly, I felt sick. Not because I didn't know what we had done. But because I knew exactly what we had done. Femi stirred. "Baby?" I closed my eyes. That word. That stupid, familiar word. "Don't call me that." He opened his eyes properly. "Nomshu..." "Does she know you're here?" He sat up. Neither of us spoke. I got out of bed and started looking for my clothes. "Nomshu, wait." "Don't." "Can we talk?" I turned towards him. "Talk about what, Femi? What exactly are we going to say?" He looked devastated. But I was devastated, too. And for the first time, I realised that missing someone doesn't automatically make being with them a good idea. I dressed quietly. He sat on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. Before leaving, I looked at him one last time. "Was it worth it?" He looked up. His eyes were red. "No." I nodded. "Me neither." I picked up my bag. At the door, he said my name again. I didn't turn around. "Please take care of yourself." I opened the door. "You too, Femi." And I left. That afternoon, I sat on my bed for almost an hour without moving. My phone kept lighting up. Femi called twice. Then he sent a message. *I'm sorry.* I read it. I wanted to ask him what exactly he was sorry for. For calling me? For kissing me? For making me remember what it felt like to belong to him? For going home to a woman who had no idea what happened? But I didn't. I put my phone on silent. And for the first time since we broke up, I wasn't crying because I missed Femi. I was crying because I missed the person I thought he was. I also had to face something I didn't particularly want to admit. I had participated in hurting someone who had done nothing to me. I couldn't blame Femi for everything. I had made my own choices. A few days later, I deleted the message I had started typing to him. It simply said: *I wish that night never happened.* But the truth was, I didn't know if I meant it. Because a part of me was grateful for those few hours. And another part of me wished I could go back and choose differently. Perhaps that's the most uncomfortable thing about being human. Sometimes we know better. Sometimes we still do it. And sometimes the consequences are waiting for us long after the moment has passed.

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