I thought of you today. I haven’t written to you in a while, forgive me. I’ve been thinking about something though and I’d like to talk about it with you.

Can you love someone and still betray them?

I used to think the answer was no. I thought if you loved someone enough, there were certain things you simply wouldn’t do to them. Cheating was one of those things. It was easier to understand love that way. If someone betrayed you, then clearly they didn’t love you enough.

But I’m not so sure anymore.

I was thinking about a situation I had with someone I’m not sure I even really liked. I liked the attention, though. I liked knowing they wanted me, and for a while I convinced myself that meant I wanted them too. It was only months later that I realized this person never really knew me, and I never really knew them either. So what was I so interested in? And not that I think about it, it’s not just one person. I’ve subconsciously been in the same situation multiple times.

I think sometimes we want what someone’s attention gives us more than we want the person giving it.

And I wonder if that’s part of why people sabotage things they actually care about. Sometimes you can have someone who loves you, someone who is good to you, someone you genuinely love back, and still find yourself looking for something else.

And sometimes there isn’t even anything wrong with the relationship. You just don’t know what to do with the feeling that you have something good, because having something good also means having something you could lose. I know that sounds crazy but humor me for a second.

I don’t think it’s even just relationships, Sometimes we finally get an opportunity we’ve been praying for and suddenly start convincing ourselves we don’t want it. We get close to something we’ve worked towards and find ten reasons why it probably isn’t right for us. At least I have. I guess the possibility of things going well scares me because I’m constantly waiting for something to go wrong.

Maybe self-sabotage isn’t always about wanting to ruin something. Maybe sometimes it’s about wanting to stay in control. If I leave first, fail first, withdraw first, or ruin it myself, then at least I don’t have to sit around waiting for something outside of my control to take it away from me.

I guess that’s what makes self sabotage so silly. Sometimes the thing that stands between you and what you want is simply you. You do deserve good things. You deserve love,happiness and to feel fulfilled.

I really hope you let yourself have nice things. Even when you’re scared shitless.

What do you think though, can you love someone and still betray them? I’d love to know your thoughts.

Till next time.

Love,

Olivia.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ve wanted a month to end as much as this month. It’s felt both extremely fast and extremely slow at the same time. I’ve spent more time trying to stay afloat than I’ve spent actually enjoying myself.

Where do I start?

Every time I sit down to write , I end up staring at a blinking cursor because I can’t decide what the actual cause of my problem is.

July felt like being stretched in every direction until I couldn’t recognise myself anymore.

For weeks, I woke up already tired despite waking up by 11 most days. I kept waiting to wake up feeling like myself again but it never really happened.

Instead, I spent most days trying to convince myself that I was okay. Work became one of the loudest voices in my head.

I don’t know if anyone else feels this way, but no matter how much I do, my brain immediately points out everything I haven’t. I’d finish one task and think about the ten waiting for me. I’d post a piece of content and immediately wonder if it was good enough.

It’s exhausting constantly wondering if you’re falling behind. Especially when you’re trying your best. Especially when your best doesn’t feel like enough.

Then there was my body. It’s like I was breaking down from the inside out.

One health issue after another.

Doctor visits. Medication. Pain. Waiting for things to settle down so I could think about something other than how I felt physically.

It’s funny how quickly your priorities change when you don’t feel well. The things that seemed urgent suddenly become background noise. Your biggest goal becomes wanting your body to feel like home again.

And then there was the one thing that hit the nail on the head, my “dad”.

I’ve gone back and forth on whether to write about him. Part of me worries that putting these words on the internet feels like betrayal. Another part of me knows I’ve spent years protecting someone who never protected me.

You can spend years chasing a version of someone that doesn’t exist. This month reminded me that I still carry that hope.

One conversation with him was enough to make me feel like a child again. Wondering why I always leave our conversations feeling smaller than I was before they started.

I’ve realised something difficult.

Some people don’t apologise.

Some people don’t change.

Accepting that feels like grief.

The hardest part about this month wasn’t any single event. It was feeling like life kept piling things onto a version of me that was already carrying too much. Every time I thought I could finally breathe, something else happened. Another disappointment. Another difficult conversation. Another reminder that healing isn’t linear.

I kept thinking, can I catch a break? Sometimes the answer felt like no.

But somewhere between the tears, the frustration, the physical pain, and the disappointment, I noticed something.

I kept going. Not because I felt strong. Because there literally wasn’t another option.

I used to think healing meant reaching a point where nothing could hurt me anymore. Now I think healing is letting things hurt without letting them define me.

I’m not sure what next month will hold but I do know that main character no dey die for film so nothing spoil.

Wo, till next time.

Love, Olivia.

I’ve been putting off writing for a few weeks, mostly because I’m overwhelmed and tired and don’t want every piece of writing I put out to be depressing, but writing has always been a form of release for me, so might as well.

There is a version of me that is very good at moving on. She throws things away cleanly. She does not lie awake reconstructing conversations from three years ago. She does not keep screenshots she swore she deleted. She does not mourn the end of things before they are even over.

I am not her.

I unfortunately have a very hard time letting things go, even things that no longer serve me. I guess that’s why I still check the social media of people I haven’t spoken to in months and think about things that have long ended. Everything I’ve loved and had to let go of has claw marks on it.

I hold on to grief that I have no name for, about losses I’m not sure I’m allowed to claim.

And now I am moving. Leaving the house I have lived in since I was ten years old.

I keep waiting for that sentence to feel smaller than it does. It is just a house. People move all the time. And yet, I walk through rooms and feel the specific weight of every version of myself that grew up inside them. My room that has seen me at my worst, my bathroom that has seen more mental breakdowns than I can count.

I know this place the way you only know somewhere you didn’t choose, somewhere that simply is — and soon it will belong entirely to memory, which means it will belong entirely to me in the most useless way possible.

Subscribe now

I’m not sure I know how to handle that. It’s not just the fact that I’m leaving something familiar. Moving is asking me to accept that that geography will continue to exist without me. That the walls won’t hold the shape of my absence. That a house does not grieve.

And neither, it turns out, do people. Not always. Not the way you need them to.

I recently let go of a friendship I really valued. Or maybe it let go of me first — I’m still not sure which version of that story is true, and I think that uncertainty is part of what makes it hurt the way it does. I keep turning it over, looking for the exact moment it became something I couldn’t hold onto anymore. I have not found it. What I have found is the absence. While I do know that the friendship has not been the same for a very long time, accepting it has been hard. I’m not sure what to do with the grief that I feel. How do you mourn someone that’s still alive?

What I’m starting to suspect is that my inability to let go is not a flaw in my character so much as a failure of my imagination. I hold on because I haven’t fully believed in what’s ahead. Because grief is at least familiar. Because the known past feels safer than the unknown forward. It is not that I love what was so much as that I am afraid I will not love what comes.

I don’t have an answer for this. I want to be honest about that — this is not a piece that ends with three things I learned or a pivot toward hope. I don’t have an answer, but I am trying to ask myself a different question. Not “why can’t I let go” — because I’ve asked that into the ground and it has not helped. Instead: “what am I protecting by holding on?” And then, more gently: “is it still working?”

Maybe that’s the beginning of something. Or maybe it’s just another thing I’ll hold on to until I’m ready to find out.

Till next time.

Love, Olivia. 💕

There’s this thing nobody tells you about loving someone who is, by all measurable accounts, good for you. It’s quiet. Not quiet like peace…well, actually, yes. Quiet like peace. And somehow, that’s the part I keep turning over.

For as long as I can remember I’ve measured love by how much I can seem to endure, by how much turmoil I can feel without wanting to leave…I’m not sure I know what to do with someone that doesn’t make me hate myself.

It should be relieving but sometimes I sit in the middle of stability and feel something embarrassingly close to restlessness. Am I broken?

Here’s what I think is actually happening: I think i trained myself on turbulence. And so did a lot of us. The relationships I grew up watching; in Nollywood, in music, in my own home…they moved. There was always something to survive, something to decode, some dramatic reckoning that proved the love was real because it hurt enough.

Drama as some sort of evidence. Intensity as intimacy. I absorbed this so thoroughly I didn’t even notice it had become my baseline for what love was supposed to feel like.

So when something easy comes along, some part of my nervous system whispers: “but is this it?” I’m ashamed to admit that part of the reason I run away from people is because I don’t know what to do with peace.

What do I do with someone that doesn’t make me second guess myself? What do I do with someone that says something and means it? How do I feel loved when I don’t have to beg for it?

There’s a grief in letting go of chaos, even chaos you never wanted. The version of me who knew how to survive the hard stuff had a certain confidence. She knew what to do: hold on, fight for it, prove it.

I think a lot of us walk into healthy love and experience it as loss before we experience it as gain. We mourn the villain, the complexity, the story we got to tell. A stable relationship doesn’t make for the same kind drama. Nobody leans in when you say “he was really kind and communicated clearly.”

But I’m starting to think the boredom is the point. Not the absence of feeling — but the presence of something so settled that you stop bracing for it to end. And maybe that’s the most radical thing: to let yourself be loved without turning it into a test.

Am I the only one feeling like this? Tell me.

Till next time,

Love,

Olivia.

My mother prays every morning at 12am.

I know because I can hear her. The low murmur through the wall, the same words, the same certainty. She has been doing it my whole life and she will probably do it until she can’t anymore. And every time I hear it, I feel two things at once.

The first is something I’m almost ashamed to admit. A quiet, uncharitable thought — “but it isn’t working.” We are not rich. Things are not easy. The life she has been praying toward has not fully arrived. And yet she kneels. Yet she believes. Yet she says it like she means it, every single morning, without fail.

I don’t really understand it.

The second feeling comes right after, and it’s bigger. It’s jealousy.

Not of God. Not even of her faith exactly. But of the certainty. The way she moves through the world with something solid underneath her. Something that holds her when things get hard. Something to direct all that hope toward.

I don’t have that. When people ask me what what I believe in, I shrug… because how do I explain that I don’t know?

Before you say it, I tried. I grew up in it — the church, the prayers, the language of belief. And some of it stayed. I still say amen. I still close my eyes when someone prays over a meal. I still know all the words. But knowing the words isn’t the same as feeling them. And somewhere along the way, amidst the chaos of life and the constant state of survival, without deciding to, I stopped feeling them.

I’m not angry at God. I’m not even sure there’s anything to be angry at. I just… don’t know. And not knowing is a lonelier place than I expected. Because the believers think you just haven’t tried hard enough. And the non-believers think you’re still holding on. And you’re just standing in the middle, saying amen out of muscle memory, belonging nowhere.

Some days I watch my mother and I think — at least she has something. At least when life feels flat and directionless and hard to explain, she has somewhere to put it. A place to take the weight.

I try not to think about it…and I don’t for the most part but on days where the only thing I can think of to do is pray, I go to her. Because surely if it’s real, her prayers will reach God before mine…right?

I don’t know. Maybe I won’t know for a while. For now I’ll keep saying amen and saying prayers under my breath and hope that somehow it’ll reach who it’s supposed to reach.

It’s been a while. I hope you’re good.

Till next time.

love,

Olivia.

It’s easy to rationalize why every relationship doesn’t work out for you. You’re incompatible, unlucky, you keep meeting people that fuck you over. While this may be true, there’s an underlying issue. In all these relationships, you’re the common denominator.

So that begs the question, if I’m being myself…then is there something wrong with me?

Maybe nothing is wrong with you.

Maybe the issue isn’t who you are, but what you tolerate. Because let’s face it, consciously or not… people pick up on whether or not you think you deserve better.

And that’s where it gets uncomfortable. Because at some point, you get tired of blaming timing and luck and other people’s issues. You start wondering if the problem is deeper than that. If it’s not that you’re unlovable, but that you don’t treat yourself like someone who should be loved well.

You call it flexibility, accommodation, compromise. But when you’re the only one compromising, bending yourself to make space for others then are you really showing up as yourself? Or just a version of you that’s easier to digest?

Being yourself isn’t the problem. The problem is that “yourself” has been shaped around survival. Around wanting to be chosen. Around proving you’re easy to love. Around hoping that if you’re soft enough, patient enough, low-maintenance enough, someone will finally stay.

That’s why people don’t take you seriously.

As uncomfortable as it is to admit, realizing that you’re not just a helpless victim is the first step to freedom. You can do something about it. You don’t have to let life happen to you.

While this doesn’t mean you’re flawed, it does mean that there’s work to be done. And until you become the version of yourself that believes that you deserve better, relationships will keep looking the same. Different faces, same ending.

Not because you deserve it, but because patterns don’t break themselves.

Think about it for a bit.

Love,

Olivia.

As weird as it sounds, I felt a little better the next day, a little more confident. I couldn’t keep doing it because it was inconvenient and I had the fear that someone would notice that i suddenly had “boobs” and my scam would be revealed.

For some reason that memory has stuck with me. It’s probably a normal part of tween experience…I hope. I wasn’t the prettiest person growing up. My hair was cut low and very uneven because I would pull my hair out of anxiety which resulted in many bald spots.

I don’t think there’s ever been a time I wasn’t trying to change something about myself. My hair. My arms. My thighs. The way clothes sat on me. Fix one thing, notice another. It became a routine I didn’t remember signing up for.

I learned early that my body was something to manage, not something to live in. Something to correct. Something that needed effort before it deserved softness.

Now that i think about it, i was so young. I really had no business being as self critical as i was. Then I look back at old photos and realize I was never as ugly as I believed. Just young. Just scared. Just trying to belong in a body that was growing without asking me first.

I’m older now, I work out, I take care of myself and I try to be gentle with myself. It’s been almost a decade but sometimes I still hear that voice at the back of my head telling me that there’s something wrong.

I’m still learning. Still undoing. Still catching myself mid-thought and asking who taught me to speak to myself like this.

Some days I succeed. Some days I don’t. But I’m here. And I think that trying to mold yourself into something that you’re not only leads to more sadness. If you’ve ever been in that situation, I hope you know that there’s nothing wrong with you. Really.

Till next time.

Love,

Olivia.

Here are some things I wish I knew before I started dating properly—things that would’ve probably saved me from unnecessary drama.

1. Having sex with them will not make them like you.

We like to be hopeful, but nine times out of ten, it doesn’t work. The only thing it does is maybe make them a little more interested and make you like them way more than you really should.

2. Believe people when they show you who they are.

I promise you, they won’t change. You can try to rationalize it or wish upon a star, but whatever they’re showing you now will most likely get worse.

3. You should not be confused all the time.

If someone likes you, you’ll know. When you start having to decode their texts and ask ChatGPT for advice, you’re already on the wrong path.

4. If you’ve ever started as a “come over, babe,” you’ll never get a date.

My philosophy is to never come over as a first date—at least not with someone I actually want to date. If you’ve ever started at the bottom, they’ll take you to hell.

5. You don’t have to ask

Maybe this is just personal preference, but I hate asking for things. I believe that someone who likes you will naturally want to do things for you. If you constantly have to ask for everything, then I’m not sure what to tell you.

6. You don’t owe anyone sex.

No matter what they did, no matter what date they took you on, sex should be something you do because you want to. Not because you feel like you need to “pay a debt.” Unless you’re into that kinda stuff.

7. Peace is underrated.

Butterflies are cute, but calm is what lasts. If someone constantly disrupts your sense of self, it is not chemistry—it is chaos. You should feel at ease, not constantly tense.

8. Don’t be afraid to leave.

Walking away the first time you feel disrespected saves more time than staying to “be sure.” Even if you stay for a while, don’t let the amount of time spent be the reason you’re stuck in a relationship that doesn’t feel right.

9. You’ll know.

When you meet your person, you’ll know. I promise you. I can’t give much advice here, but you’ll know.

10. Have fun with it.

Try not to be so hard on yourself. At the end of the day, it should be fun. Enjoy it while it lasts.

I hope this was helpful.

Till next time,

Love,

Olivia.

People aren’t coming back for the fun of it anymore. They’re performing, packaging, marketing…Half the time, you can’t tell if someone came to have fun or to get picked. And the thing is I get it…it’s easy to get caught up in the glitz and glam of it all.

The flashy cars, the “Macdonalds money,” and the possibility of being in the in-crowd. The thing is though, it doesn’t just stay on the surface. It goes deeper. You can tell when someone suddenly starts acting like they’re better than you because they’ve been around two celebrities and one politician’s nephew.

I could also get into the economics of it all and how it ruins the standard of living for people who actually live in Nigeria because every vendor wants to make the most out of the month.

Even the city conspires to make it worse. Prices go insane. Vendors, clubs, everything. They all cash in. But the real currency is people themselves. Their bodies. Their attention. Their time. Their energy. It’s all for sale, consciously or not.

And the strangest part is how quickly it becomes normal. Nobody says it out loud, but you can feel it. That pressure to look like you belong somewhere important, even if you’re not sure where that is.

At some point you start asking yourself who this month is even for. The returnees with their fake American accents? Or the rest of us who are just trying to have a simple, peaceful December without being dragged into a competition we didn’t sign up for?

Because honestly, the enjoyment is still there… somewhere. It’s just buried under ego, pressure, and price hikes that don’t make sense. And maybe that’s why December doesn’t feel like December anymore. It feels like a stage, and everyone is fighting for a spotlight that keeps moving.

Anyway, I’m outside either way. If you can’t beat em, join em.

till next time,

Love,

Olivia.

It’s weird how someone can feel both familiar and distant at the same time. Like an old house. The memories are there but it’s different,less warm. You know where everything used to be, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

We sat across from each other,talking about things that really didn’t carry much significance after the amount of time that had passed. I watched the way his eyes lit up when he talked about work,about life; It used to make me proud. Now it just made me notice how much time had gone by.

He looked good. Happier, maybe. And I realized I wasn’t sitting there waiting for him to say something that would make it all make sense. I wasn’t hoping for closure or a sign that he missed me. I was just there — listening, nodding, existing in the moment.

It’s strange. I used to imagine this meeting a lot. I thought it would hurt more. That I’d cry,that I’d leave replaying everything we said, trying to decode what it meant. But I didn’t. It just felt quiet. Like I was catching up with an old friend. We laughed,talked about old habits and how I didn’t have ashy knees anymore (lmao) about how much weight I’d lost and how I’m doing at my new job.

It’s such a strange feeling. I don’t know how to think of this person without feeling like my heart is going to explode. Who am I if not heartbroken? I guess this really is the final step to healing. When you stop trying to rewrite the story and just let it be what it was.

We loved each other once. That love existed. It mattered. But it doesn’t have to mean something now.

And for the first time, that feels okay. Really okay.

Who would have thought? To healing!🥂

Till next time.

Love,

Olivia.

When I was younger, I didn’t get my dad. I hated how he never listened, how he was always angry, how it felt like one wrong word could lead to a shouting match.

I carried a lot of that anger through my teenage years; a heavy, invisible weight that sat on my chest during family meetings and made me flinch at the sound of his footsteps. I told myself I would never be like him. That I would never speak with that sharp tone, never treat someone I loved the way he treated us.

But growing older has a cruel way of peeling back the layers. You start to see things not just as they were, but as they might have been for him. I began to understand that he was not just my father — he was a man trying to figure life out. A man carrying pressure, disappointment, and unspoken pain that no one ever taught him how to process.

The irony is that the more I tried to run from him, the more I saw him in myself. In the way I shut down during conflict. In the way my voice rises when I feel unheard. In the way I sometimes feel the urge to lash out when all I really want is to be understood.

It doesn’t excuse what happened, and maybe it never will. But it explains it. And sometimes, understanding is the first small step toward peace — for him, and for me too.

And healing doesn’t look like some dramatic confrontation or a teary reconciliation. It looks like quiet decisions. Like choosing to respond with calm when I feel that old heat rising in my chest. It’s learning to communicate even when silence feels easier.

He’s still here. Still the same in many ways — still sometimes quick to anger, still has a weird way of showing affection. But I’ve changed. I see him now with a different lens, one shaped by time, distance, and the softening that comes with understanding.

I used to think he didn’t love me. Now I know that he loves me a lot ,he just didn’t know how to show it. Maybe he thought providing was enough. Maybe vulnerability scared him. Maybe no one ever gave him the tools, and he simply passed down what he knew.

The irony is that the traits I once hated — the temper, the tone, the silence — I sometimes catch in myself. And when I do, I pause. Because now I know how that feels on the other side.

Understanding him hasn’t made things perfect. But it’s made them bearable. And some days, when he asks if I’ve eaten or if I got home safe, I take it for what it is — his version of love. And although I may not understand it,I know it’s real.

Maybe we’ll never say the things that matter out loud. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the quiet understanding between us now is enough.

:::

how’s your week been? Hope it’s been better than mine.

till next time.

Love,

Olivia.

For the past few days, my Twitter feed has been full of people announcing their departures like new jobs. The comments are full of congratulatory messages and “God whens.” Sometimes it feels like the Nigerian dream is simply to get as far away from here as possible. And the saddest part is that I understand.

Everyone I know is planning an escape. It’s like a national hobby now: plotting routes out of Nigeria. Canada if you can afford it. The UK if you can endure it. “Anywhere” if desperation is strong enough.

It’s not migration anymore. It’s a national exodus.

And sometimes I feel guilty because I don’t want to run. Not yet. Not because things are fine — they’re not. The country is suffocating, the government is shameless, and even hope feels taxed. But running feels like another kind of death. Like burying myself in a country that doesn’t know my name while this one rots with the people who couldn’t afford to get out.

What scares me most isn’t leaving. It’s that one day I’ll wake up and realize there’s nothing left to stay for. That my love for this place has been beaten out of me by the chaos, the corruption, the small humiliations of daily life.

We keep praying;”let Nigeria not happen to me”

the fact that people have to pray to not be victims of their country’s backwardness is terrifying.

Every day it’s something new. A woman kidnapped on her way back from school. A trailer falling on someone. A hospital turning patients away. And the saddest part is that it’s never enough to cause any real change.

So, truly, what are we fighting for? I want this place to work. But why fight for a country that isn’t fighting for you?

I don’t want to run away from my country; truly I don’t. Still, some nights, when NEPA takes light and I’m sweating through my sleep, I ask myself if I’m just being stubborn. If staying is bravery — or just foolishness dressed up as hope.

I hope we all find a way.

Till next time,

Love,Olivia.

I’ve been trying to write for a few days, but it feels like my brain is scrambled. I’m juggling so many things that I’m running on autopilot, and anything outside my pre-programmed activities sends me into overdrive.

It’s a weird feeling, because I’m fine… but I’m not fine.

Some days are easier than others. I’m able to handle what needs to be handled, get up, and show up. Other days, I simply want to rot. I’m not sure what will make the haze lift, but the first step to healing is acceptance, so at least we’re getting somewhere. And before you worry, I am fine…just really tired. Also I might be iron deficient but that’s beside the point lmaoo.

I think I need to start putting effort into the things that make me happy. Into reading again, going out, and exercising. I sometimes forget that we don’t live to work but work to live. I don’t want my life to pass by with me doing things that only slightly make me happy. I’ve talked about being obnoxiously strict about alignment , and unfortunately, I tend to do what I have to rather than what I want to.

The next month will be about coming back to myself and trying to lift the haze. I know this isn’t perfect and is probably one of my worst articles, but bear with me. We’re getting somewhere.

If you’ve experienced this before, I’d really like to hear from you.

Leave a comment

Till next time.

Love,

Olivia.

Never gone to that party, never stumbled outside at just the right moment. I don’t know if it was the alcohol, your eyes, or the intoxicating smell of your perfume…but I knew you’d get me in trouble.

We just clicked, talking about any and everything. We shared a cigarette while you told me all about your friends. The music changed,”Star Signs” came on—and you grabbed my hand, dragging me back into the party.

The air was humid and smelled of alcohol, but you pulled me into your arms and started dancing with me. I’m pretty sure I didn’t drink that much, but my head was buzzing. The way you grabbed my waist and put your hand on the small of my back sent shivers down my spine.

We were inches away from each other and I felt my breath catch in my throat. You leaned down, whispering into my ear, “can I kiss you?”

I stretched out on my toes and kissed you. I’ve never felt fireworks like that before.

I finally caught my breath and looked up at you. “Let’s get out of here,” you said, grabbing my hand.

We got out into the parking lot, the night air thick and sticky against my skin. I was still catching my breath, my lips tingling from the kiss, when you laced your fingers through mine and tugged me toward your car.

“Ah, see who dey here!” a voice called out.

You stopped mid-step, and I followed your gaze. A man walked toward us with an easy smile, holding a red cup, swaying just a little to the faint music still leaking from the house.

“Long time, bro! You just disappear after wedding, no dey show face again.” He slapped your shoulder and laughed. “How’s madam now?”

Madam.

The word slid into the humid air, casual, harmless, but it felt like a stone dropping in my chest.

You laughed it off, a quick, nervous chuckle, squeezing my hand tighter as though you could keep me tethered with that single grip. “She’s fine o

Subscribe now

,” you said quickly. “We’re good.” Then, with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes, you added, “We go catch up later Abi ?”

The man nodded, gave me a polite once-over, and wandered back toward the party, leaving us in the heavy silence of the parking lot.

I pulled my hand from yours slowly. My mind was racing, my body still buzzing from the kiss, but the taste of it had already soured.

You looked at me like you were about to explain—but the damage was done.

The spell had already broken. The kiss, the laughter, the music…all of it now carried a bitter aftertaste.

I shook my head and walked back into the party. I found my friend sitting at the bar.

“Guy, where have you been?” she asked, squinting at me.

“I’ve just been outside,” I said, leaning on the counter.

She smirked. “Your husband isn’t going to find you if you keep hiding like this.”

I let out a dry laugh and shook my head.

“My husband isn’t going to find me at this party either.”

It’s easier. Cleaner.

You meet someone, there’s chemistry, you both agree it’s just sex. Simple. Clean. No strings.

Except… I don’t think “just sex” actually exists.

Even when you don’t like the person like that, something seeps in.

It’s not always feelings — sometimes it’s just their energy, lingering like perfume that refuses to fade.

Maybe I’m just soft. Maybe I’m just superstitious. But I don’t know how to let someone into my space for too long without feeling like something is off. Not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because my soul knows it wants something with more depth.

You try to act like this person doesn’t exist outside that three-hour time slot, but then you’re brushing your teeth and randomly remembering how they said your name, or how they stretched before getting up.

It’s weird, because you don’t want them — but you still… remember them.

We call it casual because that’s the branding. No drama. No expectations. Just fun.

But humans are leaky. We blur lines. We get curious. We start wondering if they think about us too.

We start reading meaning into little things — the way they text “home?” when you leave, or how they linger a bit before saying goodbye.

And maybe that’s why I can’t do it anymore. I can’t separate bodies from people. I can’t pretend there’s no exchange happening beyond skin. I can’t act like this is actually fulfilling.

I don’t need love every time I have sex, but I need… something.

A connection. A reason. A little piece of you that you’re willing to give outside of the physical.

I need to be able to call you and have you answer. To sit in silence. To talk about politics. To laugh for no reason.

Because without that, it starts to feel icky.

So no, I don’t want to just have sex with you.

Not because I’m insecure.

Not because I’m naive.

But because “just” sex isn’t real. And if we’re both going to lie to ourselves about what’s happening, I’d rather not be there at all.

Mentions of sexual assault.

Before I go on, I want to say this post was extremely hard to write. It’s been sitting in my drafts for almost two months. Every time I read it, I cringe and close the page. But this is me doing it — even when it feels uneasy.

I remember the first time I felt it — that sinking feeling in my gut telling me something I’d just experienced wasn’t quite right. I remember it vividly. The way my heart pounded in my chest, the wave of disgust that washed over me, the sting in my eyes as I tried not to cry.

That night, I spent hours googling: “It wasn’t assault if… right?”

I threw the black-and-white romper I’d worn to the back of my closet and went to bed. I couldn’t let myself see it for what it was. That would mean I was weak. That I was one of those girls.

So when he texted me again… I replied. And I never brought it up.

That became a pattern in my life.

Something bad would happen — something that made my body tense up, made me feel small, uncomfortable, used — and I’d swallow it. Rewrite it. Pretend it was normal.

I got good at gaslighting myself.

Telling myself things like:

“I could’ve left.”

“It’s not that deep.”

“Other people have been through worse.”

I’d fold the memory neatly and tuck it into the back of my mind like that romper.

Out of sight. Out of reach. Out of language.

The world teaches girls to second-guess our pain.

To shrink it down.

To carry it quietly and dress it up as a “mistake” or a “regret” or “just one of those things that happens.”

And for so long, I believed that.

Because admitting the truth — saying it out loud — meant confronting a version of events where I wasn’t just a passive participant, but a victim.

And I didn’t know how to hold that.

Looking back, I grieve the girl I was.

Not just because she was hurt — but because no one told her that being hurt mattered.

No one told her that silence isn’t consent.

That discomfort is a full sentence.

That “I didn’t want to, but I didn’t know how to stop it” is not something to be ashamed of — it’s something to listen to.

I’m still unlearning the lies.

Still peeling back layers of shame that don’t belong to me.

Still reclaiming my voice, one word at a time.

So if you’ve ever felt that same sinking feeling,

If you’ve ever had to google your pain,

If you’ve ever replied to a text just to feel in control of something you never consented to in the first place —

I see you.

I believe you.

You are not dramatic.

You are not dirty.

You are not broken.

You are not “one of those girls.”

You are a person who was hurt — and your hurt is valid.

Till next time.

Love,

Olivia

I came across this quote I took a screenshot of last year, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Not in a sad way, but in a deep, introspective way that makes me question everything. If I was wrong about it, then where does all the love go? Was it ever real, or was it just something I imagined while I saw them through rose-colored glasses?

What does that say about me? About the way I love? Does it still count?

I think the hardest part is realizing that sometimes, love isn’t about what’s real — it’s about what felt real to you. It’s about the story you believed. The warmth you held onto. The version you saw when your heart was wide open — when you wanted so badly for it to be true. For it to be them.

And maybe that version did exist — maybe for a moment… maybe just to you. Or maybe it never existed at all, not the way I imagined it. Maybe I filled in the gaps with hope. Maybe I clung to potential. Maybe I projected the love I had onto someone who couldn’t carry it.

In a way, I feel like a crazy person. Like I’m in a straitjacket, screaming for someone to listen.“It was real! I swear it was… I swear he really did love me. Just let me fix it While I’m being wheeled into the padded room.

But in all of this, the question still remains: does that make the love fake?If I genuinely believed my ball was red, and I loved my red ball… then I find out it’s actually pink — do I still love it?

Where does the love go?It had to have come from somewhere, right?

I guess that’s what I’m learning: Sometimes, the love was real — even if the foundation wasn’t.Even if it didn’t last.Even if I was wrong.Even if it was all a beautiful misunderstanding.

The love had to have come from somewhere…Didn’t it?From hope. From me.

Because I still gave something honest. I still felt deeply. I still showed up with everything I had.

And I think there’s a kind of grace in that. So no, maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was.Maybe they weren’t who I thought they were.Maybe it was all one big almost.

But the love?

The love was real.

And I don’t think I have to apologize for that.

Tell me — what do you think?

I’m really curious to know your thoughts.

Till next time.

Love,

Olivia.

I think you’re afraid of being loved back.

You’ve spent so long figuring out how to survive disappointment that you never learned how to receive care without suspicion.

So when someone’s kind to you, you start overthinking it.

You wait for the shift.You wait for the mask to fall off. You wait to be reminded that it was never real.

The kind of love that you don’t have to earn is new to you, isn’t it?

It’s not that you don’t want love.

You do. But the idea of someone choosing you gently, without pressure, without games…

It terrifies you.

Because then what?

What do you do when someone actually sees you and doesn’t flinch?

When someone says “I like you” and means it, with no “but”?

You’ve trained yourself to be ready for disappointment.

But not for love that stays.

Not for love that doesn’t need to be earned.

So you sabotage it.You act confused. Cold. You don’t text back. You say you’re not sure.

You convince yourself they’ll get tired eventually—so you beat them to it.

It’s safer to ruin it than to risk being open.

Because if you open up and it still ends… what does that say about you?

You’re scared that being fully seen will lead to rejection.

And that’s a kind of ache you’ve promised yourself you’d never feel again.

So instead, you say you’re not ready.

You talk about how messy you are.

You pretend like you don’t care as much as you do.

But you do care.

And you do want love.

You just don’t know how to hold it without dropping it.

Maybe you won’t get it right the first time.

Maybe your hands will shake.

Maybe the love will still end.

But maybe… it won’t. Maybe they’ll stay. And maybe this time—just maybe—they’ll choose you too.

I hope you learn to let things happen. Without needing to control it.

love,

Olivia.

Nobody really tells you what to do when the healing is over—when you no longer cry yourself to sleep at night, and when that breakup playlist doesn’t hit as hard as it used to.

They tell you how to survive. How to pick yourself up off the floor. How to sit with your feelings. How to journal and affirm and block and glow up.

But nobody talks about what comes after all that.

There’s no guide for the silence.

For the mornings when you wake up and realize—you’re fine. Not ecstatic. Not in love. Not “on to the next.” Just… fine.

And honestly, that part is weird.

Because being in pain gave me something to do. Healing gave me a story to tell. There was always a playlist, always a reason to tweet something sad and deep, always a way to feel like I was going through something. It made me feel alive, in a strange way. I fear that I may not know who I am outside my sadness.

But now the storm has passed.

I’m no longer checking for closure.

No longer wondering “what if.”

No longer carrying the weight of someone else’s inability to choose me.

And I don’t really know what to do with that freedom. I’m learning that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t always an explosion of fireworks and confetti. Sometimes it’s breathing without feeling a weight on your chest. Sometimes it’s going to sleep right away without twisting and turning.

It’s saying “no” quicker. It’s replying slower.

It’s catching red flags mid-sentence and smiling politely before exiting stage left. It’s actually enjoying your life. Without a fairytale.

Maybe life after healing isn’t about rushing into something new.

Maybe it’s about letting nothingness feel normal for a while.

Letting joy come in slowly. Letting love find you gently.

Letting yourself live, without the pressure to prove you’re over it.

I’m not in my “healing era” anymore.

I’m just… living.

Softly. Quietly. Freely.

And that’s enough for now.

And I’m not saying that my life is all kumbaya and rainbows… but it’s better. Less noisy. And I’m okay with that.

How are you doing? Tell me everything.

Love,

Olivia.

I thought to myself as I dropped the clothes I’d been wearing into the laundry basket at the foot of my bed.

I glanced at today’s headlines — nothing. Good. I shouldn’t even be worried. No one would suspect a thing. Most people might even be relieved.

Mr. Bayo had it coming, honestly.

What kind of sick fuck does what he did?

I always knew he was strange, but not that strange.

Bayo and I had been seeing each other for a year and three months, and I was more than sick of it. I’m getting married in six months — surely it’s a bad omen to go into a marriage still fucking your fiancé’s boss.

It had to end.

So I planned it all — clean, quiet, final.Show up. End it. Say goodbye. Walk away.

But I should’ve known.

Life doesn’t let sinners walk out clean.

I’d prepared myself for anything that could go wrong. How I wish I hadn’t gone at all,maybe i should have gone earlier or later. Anything to prevent me from seeing what I saw.

How does one recover from the trauma of seeing their husband-to-be being bent over a couch and being fucked by his boss?

Was this a joke? A punishment? A lesson in karma?

I was livid. And sure, logically I know I’m no better than him — but anger doesn’t understand logic.

I don’t know where the rage came from, but I lunged.

I clawed and hit whoever I could reach — Bayo, Femi — I didn’t care. I just wanted to hurt them both.

I should’ve stopped there. I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.I saw the vase.

Big. Heavy. Ceramic.

I didn’t think.

I just threw it.

Bayo’s head cracked open like something rotten.

And then he was still.

Too still.

I didn’t expect him to die.

God, I didn’t expect him to die.

But he did.

There he was, lying lifeless on the floor.

Femi looked at me — pure shock in his eyes. But then something shifted. His face hardened, and an emotion I couldn’t name settled in.

“Get his things. Let’s clean this mess up,” he said.

I didn’t argue. I was too stunned to speak.

It’s been six hours since it happened. Still no news.

Maybe Femi really did take care of it, just like he said.

This all feels like a bad dream.

The sound of the door opening pulls me out of my thoughts.

Femi walks in and gives me a long, unreadable look. He says nothing — but I understand.

We’re bound now. By death. By secrets.

He walks up to me and wraps me in a hug. His shirt smells of bleach. His fingers graze the back of my neck.

“Did you shower at all?” he asks, his voice soft, almost loving.

Shit.

I still smell like him.

I’ll go wash again.

•

•

I tried writing fiction again. Tell me what you think!

love,

Olivia.