It started with a message. She couldn’t take it anymore. She had replayed that morning in her head too many times: the missed coffee, the silence that followed, the ache of not knowing why. She needed to speak. To call him out. Not in anger, but in truth.
She didn’t say you messed up, but that’s what she meant.
Because really, who does that?
He had given her nothing. Just silence.
And she couldn’t move past that.
So she reached out, softly but directly, not to reopen wounds, but to bring light into what had gone dark. Maybe it wasn’t just about him. Perhaps it was about her needing closure.
She had always said, "If it’s truly love, then pride surrenders". That’s how she knew it was love.
And so, she surrendered.
She sent the message, not sure if he would reply. But she liked to believe that when her name lit up on his phone, he smiled. Maybe even whispered finally.
He replied warmly, almost relieved.
He said he’d be happy to meet up.
She wasn’t thrilled at the idea, not yet.
She just wanted him to understand.
She didn’t think he realised what that day had done to her. How she had gone from waiting, to worrying, to panicking, to finally breaking inside. Still, she wanted to hear him out.
They started talking again, slowly and carefully.
And for the first time in a long while, she could breathe again.
It felt like air had returned to her lungs, easy, quiet, gentle.
She had missed him. Not the flirty him, just him. Her friend. The laughter, the teasing, the comfort of knowing someone gets you without having to explain too much.
The next time they spoke, the rhythm felt easier.
They were finding their way back.
He was trying, really trying, filling in the gaps, and showing up differently.
She let him, because sometimes healing isn’t loud. It’s quiet, two people choosing to share space again without the weight of what broke them.
Then came the morning of the coffee.
Their conversation that morning was simple. A few words exchanged, nothing dramatic, just enough to know he was already there. It wasn’t an invitation spoken out loud, but something understood in the pauses, something that said, if you come, I’ll be waiting.
So she decided to go.
Those next few minutes were chaos. She forgot how to unplug her car charger.
She forgot how to breathe.
She was just doing nonsense, nervous nonsense.
Eventually, she pulled herself together, got into the car, and drove.
He had asked what she wanted, and she told him to surprise her. He had chosen the place, the time, everything. It felt right to let him pick the coffee.
As she drove past the café, trying to park as close as possible, she saw him queuing inside, and then he saw her.
His face lit up,
That look.
The same one that undoes her every time.
The look that says, Oh, my person is here.
Her heart melted.
She parked, stepped out of the car, and that’s when her shoes decided to betray her. Her shoes had never made a noise before.
But that morning, in that quiet café hum, every step echoed.
There’s a Nigerian proverb that says,
"If you work hard, your shoes will sound." Usually, she walked with that rhythm, proud, certain, confident. But that morning, her confidence slipped away with every step because he was looking at her.
She laughed nervously, clutching her phone, walking toward him as softly as she could.
So ridiculous.
He was watching her, and the way he looked at her a gentle half-smile, that quiet recognition. It was like he was saying, You’re here, and I'm so happy to see you. Not in words, just presence.
She sat down.
He looked dashing, handsome and nervous. His eyes darted, his shoulders tense. She didn’t see anything else around her, the people, the tables, the chatter; it all blurred into air.
It was just him.
They started to talk. At first, it was cautious. She could tell he wanted to skip the hard part, to say, We’re here now, let’s move on.
But she stopped him gently.
She said, “If you don’t name it, it’ll happen again. I can’t go through that again.”
He looked at her for a moment.
And then, slowly, she saw his guard lower.
She told him, “You can talk to me; we have to keep talking if this friendship is going to work.”
Something about that settled him, the calm, the softness, it made him relax.
Not fully, but enough.
Not fully, but enough.
He started to explain, to fill in the blanks, to tell her what had happened. Not perfectly, but truthfully enough. They talked about that day, about other things, about everything in between.
And then something shifted.
The tension lifted.
The silence that had stretched between them for so long broke, not with noise, but with understanding.
And in that moment, she knew it was right to give him the song.
She told him she had a gift for him,
then passed her phone across the table and said softly,
“Listen to this whenever you think of me — Let Me Love You by Lloyiso.”
He smiled, that quiet, genuine kind of smile and pretended like she didn’t live rent-free in his mind.
And then, without thinking, he asked if he could taste her coffee.
She said yes.
Even she was shocked by her answer.
It was the first time she had ever allowed anyone to drink from what was hers. It was the first time she had ever done the same.
It felt intimate but innocent,
like an unspoken trust had been restored between them,
one sip at a time.
like an unspoken trust had been restored between them,
one sip at a time.
And for once, nothing felt planned.
Nothing felt heavy.
Just ease.
Time with him was always timeless. It folded into itself outside the clock.
When they finally stood to leave, she felt it.
He did too.
He did too.
The quiet was no longer heavy.
The air between them was light again.
Peace restored.
Thank you for reading this piece. I enjoyed creating it.
Read the Intro by clicking the link: The coffee we never had
Then, the wait
Then, Ghosted over Goffee
And just like that, the perfect 4 part series is done
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