There's something about it that feels serene and terrifying at the same time. The serenity and haunting reality that could pull me under in any given moment. It could come in my sleep, while I'm watching a series or reading a really nice romance book. It could even come while writing this post. Or maybe, I'll invite death myself, one last time, to choose how my last 7 minutes will go.

I won't dare to say that I'm not scared of death. In fact, my skin runs cold just at the thought of being its next victim. Will it be cruel to me or will it pull me quiet and gently? Will I try to negotiate or surrender quickly, as though I'm worthy of meeting the loneliness of the grave so soon? Will I scream in terror, or smile at the face of its agonizing presence?

Maybe, what frightens me the most isn't death itself but the uncertainty of it.

The uncertainty of not knowing.

The thought that there is a moment somewhere in my future that I have no memory or idea of yet. A final breath I haven't taken. A last conversation I've never had. A final glance at my loved ones, completely unaware it might be the last time I ever see them, and they ever see me.

We live like there's nothing waiting for us. Fall in love, make breakfast and complain about a wicked lecturer. A grandma is probably laughing with her grandkids right now, not knowing it might be the last time they will ever laugh together. A doctor is probably treating patients right now, completely unaware of the number of breaths he has left.

That is one of the strangest and scariest things about death. It doesn't announce itself. It simply waits for its time.

Thoughts like this run through my head at every given moment.

How and when will I die?

Will I be able to say goodbye to my family in a cryptic message? Will I dream of my death, or dream of my Oroyinyin? How will I be found? Will my body be cold and stiff? How will my Janaza go? Will I be worthy of Jannah?

I know these can be insane thoughts to have but I'm paranoid by nature. I'm the kind to think it could be a jinn when I see shadows pass in a dark room. The kind to double, even triple check my doors because it feels like I'm being watched. The kind to notice the smallest unfamiliar sound and immediately wonder if it means something more. Instances like this make me believe death is at my doorstep, waiting patiently for my decree to be called.

It's me and my overwhelming thoughts against the world. There is something ironic about spending so much of my life thinking about the end of it. I'm not obsessed with death as much as I am afraid of leaving life unfinished. Of leaving words unsaid. Of leaving people without knowing how deeply I loved them. And most importantly, of meeting Allah and realizing I could have done more with the time I was given. Of not doing enough to earn my Jannah.

I am an imperfect girl trying to navigate a world that I sometimes question if it's real. I don't always know what to do with the thoughts inside my head, and sometimes they frighten me more than I care to admit.

And if one day, you hear death has come for me, please pray for me.

Until death takes me,

Zarah.

My name is Zarah and this article is to my hundred subscribers. A hundred and one if I count myself.

I joined Substack about a year and 5 months ago and damnnn if it hasn’t been a rollercoster. I had Substack when I was confused, happy, sad and depressed. I had it through a breakup and, worst of all, an academic breakdown. I’m still actively in the last one.

Compared to other people, I didn’t join Substack because I wanted to display my work or even to have fun. What’s that? Fun? I rarely have that. I joined Substack so I could have a smooth experience while reading Tobe Ugeh’s Substack. I know, I know. Such a silly little thing.

But there was something about reading a newsletter, or rather, a love letter from him, that resonated deeply with me. I liked the feeling of sitting somewhere quietly and reading someone’s thoughts as though they had been written just for you.

Somewhere along the way, I started writing again. And I say “again” because there was a time when I loved writing. Really loved it. There was a time when words came to me so easily, when writing felt less like something I had to do and more like somewhere I could go.

I still haven’t fallen in love with it like I did years before. To be honest, it’s kind of a chore to me now and I only seem to enjoy it when I’m high on emotions. And if you know me really well, you know that rarely happens.

And while I was discovering a new side of me that was experimenting with words again , I gained friends and subscribers and lord, read a lot. And I mean a lot of amazing work.

I think that’s one of the things I love most about being here. There are so many people writing about their lives, their fears, their loves, their heartbreaks, their random Tuesday afternoons, their silly thoughts, their big thoughts. People putting pieces of themselves somewhere on the internet and hoping someone, somewhere, will understand.

And somehow, I did.

I found people whose words made me laugh. People whose words made me think. People whose words made me feel less alone. People I had never met but somehow felt like I knew because they had trusted the internet with a small, honest piece of themselves.

Actually, I think it’s insufficient to write this to my subscribers alone. This is also for all the incredible writers whose articles and notes I’ve read over this span of time.

You’re like an anchor to the part of me I thought was gone.

The first article I wrote on Substack is no longer public and is instead, sitting pretty in my drafts. I wrote it crying in the middle of the night and it’s vulnerable as fuck.

But then, what’s Zarah without vulnerability? Nothing I’d say.

Somewhere along the way, I found myself sharing parts of myself online. Sometimes, those were parts of me I could only write and never utter out loud.

There are things that feel impossible to say when someone is sitting across from you. Things that become strangely easier when you’re staring at a blank page at 2 a.m., typing with tears in your eyes and pretending you’re not being dramatic. And there’s also that unrestrained feeling of sharing your greatest moments with people who might not know you in real life but are genuinely happy for you regardless.

I suppose Substack gave me somewhere to put those things. And throughout it all, I received love and appreciation and support from y’all.

You read me.

You subscribed.

You liked my little notes. You left comments. You sent messages. You came back.

And maybe that doesn’t sound like much to someone who isn’t here, but it means a lot to know that a hundred people decided they wanted to hear from me again.

A hundred people. That’s insane to me.

There are a hundred of you who, in one way or another, have allowed this little corner of the internet to become a part of your day.

And I don’t take that lightly.

So, thank you. For reading me when I’m making sense and especially when I’m not. For letting me be soft here. For letting me be honest. For being here.

I’m glad I get to know y’all.

You might want to Call my mom now.

Till I do something stupid again. Or maybe I have and have started keeping secrets from you all.

Always,

Zarah🤎

First, I’d like to say thank you to everyone who texted me, checked up on me and rooted for me throughout my exams. Every message meant a lot to me and I genuinely do not take that kind of love for granted.

Secondly, to that subscriber that keeps exporting my posts outside Substack, I hope you’ve rested because another assignment has just landed on your desk.

Now, let’s get into it.

My exams ran from the 22nd to the 26th of this month. I quickly realized I wasn’t serious enough in my own space. Comfort had gotten the best of me. You know how it is when your bed is right there, your kitchen is calling your name and procrastination suddenly starts making a lot of sense. So, like any normal student trying to survive exams, I packed my bags and moved into my friend’s place. Let’s call her Lola.

Lola welcomed me with open arms, and we settled into a routine almost immediately. We ate together, read together, complained about school together and, every evening, the last member of our study group would join us. Let’s call him Toba. We’ve been studying together since 300 level and somehow we’ve mastered the balance between being unserious and being extremely focused when we need to be. We gossip, we laugh, but when it’s time to read, we read.

The Friday before my exams started, I had a class, so I used the opportunity to stop by my apartment. I told my housemate that I would be moving back in for the exam period. I even apologized in advance in case we got a little loud while studying.

Her response was, “You can’t be loud o. Me, I want to sleep.”

I understood where she was coming from because sleep is important. My apology wasn’t me announcing that we were planning to disturb her; it was simply me trying to be considerate beforehand. Still, something about her response felt… off. I couldn’t quite place it, so I let it go.

On Sunday, June 21st, I texted her that Lola would be staying with me and that another member of our study group—a guy—would come in the evenings so we could read together and leave early every morning before school. I didn’t feel the need to mention you was coming over because we both had friends- male and female- who came around occasionally, and we’d always respected each other’s boundaries.

Or… so I thought.

Lola and I got back to the house around 6 p.m. We unpacked a few things and started arranging ourselves to read. Around 7 p.m., the last member of our study group arrived.

Barely had we settled down when my housemate called me outside.

She looked at me and asked, “Is this not that guy we once talked about? The one that touches people?”

Immediately, I knew exactly who she was referring to.

Back in 200 level, during one random conversation with a few coursemates, we had talked about guys in our class who were a little too touchy while speaking, and Toba’s name had come up. The truth is, Toba has always been someone who gestures a lot while talking. Sometimes he’d tap your shoulder or arm without even realizing he was doing it. The interesting part is that the moment anyone tells him, “Please don’t touch me,” he immediately apologizes, withdraws his hand and never repeats it. It’s genuinely something he seems unaware of until it’s pointed out.

So when she asked me if it was him, I simply answered, “Yes… but he doesn’t do that anymore.”

That was when everything changed.

She immediately called me an enabler. According to her, I was promoting his bad behaviour by allowing him into the house and he had to leave that same night.

Leave to where?

I had less than twelve hours before my first exam. We had barely started reading. There was absolutely no way my study partner was leaving because of something he had never done to her.

So I told her no.

Then she said his presence made her uncomfortable. She said she couldn’t bear being in the same house as him. Her skin crawled just knowing he was there. She compared him to a rapist and an abuser, saying that’s how people like that start.

I remember my hands shaking because I was so angry.

Not only had he never spoken to her that evening, he hadn’t even greeted her. He was in my space with Lola and me, preparing for the same exams I was writing. Yet somehow, we had jumped from “someone who used to touch people while talking” to “potential sexual predator.”

I told her those comparisons were unfair. Someone unconsciously tapping people while speaking isn’t automatically a rapist or an abuser. She insisted I was making excuses for him.

That conversation ended with her saying, “I’ll see how things go.”

Deep down, I knew this wasn’t over.

It wasn’t.

The next day, after writing an exam that honestly didn’t go as well as I wanted, I asked if we could talk. I explained that calling me an enabler was wrong and that I wasn’t excusing anybody’s actions. I simply believed people shouldn’t be labelled as monsters because of a habit they’ve corrected.

Then she said something that genuinely caught me off guard. She already knew I wasn’t going to ask him to leave. But if he was going to stay, she didn’t want to hear his voice.

Not see him.

Not interact with him.

Hear his voice.

Apparently, hearing him speak made her so angry that she couldn’t stand it.

I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

How do three people have a group reading session without talking? We weren’t watching a movie. We were discussing past questions, arguing over concepts, correcting one another and trying to pass exams.

She told me she never heard my voice, so if I could keep mine low, then Toba could definitely do the same.

What she didn’t realize was that I had spent almost two years consciously adjusting how loudly I spoke because I’d constantly been told I was loud. That wasn’t something I’d mastered overnight. It had taken time.

I said it wasn’t realistic. She said I’d better make it realistic. Otherwise, she’d go and tell him herself not to come into the house anymore.

At that point, I was exhausted.

I wasn’t thinking about house politics. I was thinking about the questions I’d probably failed in the paper I had just written and the one waiting for me the next morning.

After going back and forth, I eventually suggested a compromise. He would come later at night, leave earlier in the morning, and we’d all try our best to keep our voices down. Looking back now, that was a terrible compromise because it was made out of frustration, not agreement.

Then I asked her one question.

“If you accidentally hear his voice because we’re discussing something important, what happens?”

She looked at me and said, “That’s not my question to answer. Just don’t let me hear his voice because it’ll bring back my anger.” She even went on to say she felt disgusted using the bathroom because she knew he had used it earlier that morning.

That was when I realized this conversation was no longer about finding common ground.Nothing I said was going to change her mind. Then she said something else that stuck with me. She said she already knew that if she were the one in my position, I’d be on Substack writing about how I felt.

Well… Here I am.

Just not for the reason she expected.Because in the end, it wasn’t Toba who left. It was me.

I packed my books, grabbed an outfit, and left my own apartment that same afternoon for Lola’s place.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I couldn’t imagine waiting until 10 p.m. every night for my study partner to arrive when I had a 9 a.m. exam the next morning. I couldn’t imagine whispering through revision sessions because someone might hear a voice through the wall. I couldn’t imagine constantly worrying whether someone speaking during a discussion would start another argument.

Most importantly, I couldn’t imagine coming back to my own house and not having peace of mind.

Her discomfort is valid. Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own home. But my education mattered too. Her discomfort shouldn’t have had to come at the expense of my academics.

So I left.

I stayed at Lola’s place for the rest of my exams and only came back home after my final paper.

Looking back now, I still don’t know if I handled everything perfectly. Maybe there are things I could have done differently. Maybe there aren’t.

At this point, I believe the biggest mistake of my 2024 was not getting an apartment alone. These problems don’t come in loud entrances. They come in little ones… an argument today, a spoilt kettle tomorrow and a condescending tone the day after. I’ve never prayed for someone to want to move out as much as I’ve prayed this week. Even if she wants her full half rent back, I’m ready to give it so she’ll leave this house and my life. But of course, I know that’s just a pipe dream.

So tell me…

If you were in my shoes, what would you have done?

Leave a comment

As usual, a song

Always,

Zarah🤎.

I learnt to yell in the mirror of my parents. It started from the little "Shey Ori E pe" to the "Ori E ni kope". Nothing subtle about how I was actually seen. So I started to yell when I got frustrated, thinking it would help me settle down faster or maybe, just maybe, my problems disappeared quicker. But for someone who wanted faster results, i never got any.

I learnt to be disappointed by the words of my parents. It started from the little "Your mates are doing better, do they have 2 heads?" to "You're my least bright child. I won't be surprised if you fail". It weirdly didn't motivate me to prove them wrong, instead I wanted to become the black sheep, maybe then all the expectations would end. They didn't .

I learnt insecurity from how I was put down by my parents. It started from the little "why are you shorter than other people" to "you look like a dwarf". I used to cry out loud and they said they just wanted to help, that they were helping. But I didn't deserve being told everyday that my fingers looked ugly because I was a nail biter- a habit that started because my father was, still is a chronic nail biter who was never chastised. I didn't deserve to never feel comfortable about showing off my fingers, hiding them like they were an abomination.

I learnt silence in the shadows of my parents. It started from the little "don't talk when I'm talking" to "you're disrespectful", like my feelings were too dramatic to be valid. So, I learnt how to swallow anger, confusion and questions that deserved answers. I thought quietness meant maturity and peace of mind. But she never stopped talking, she never stopped commenting on how useless I had always been. Silence didn't make me strong, it made me distant, retreating into myself. For someone who had a lot to say, I became fluent in saying nothing.

I learnt to live with double standards in the shadows of my parents. It started from the little "how could you forget?" to "you're just careless". My mistakes were flaws while theirs were human nature. When I forgot something, it's irresponsibility. When they forgot, it was "Everyone forgot sometimes or am I meant to read your mind?". For someone who thought she knew how things worked, I became a pawn in the game I didn't even know I was playing.

But this is just to name a few.

I started unlearning by rebellion.

I started unlearning lies by telling the truth even when my voice shook. It began with small things- admitting I wasn’t on my way when I wasn’t, saying “I don’t know” instead of pretending I did, allowing myself to be wrong without disguising it. I realised honesty felt heavier at first because I wasn’t used to carrying it. But it also felt clean. For someone who grew up thinking lies were survival, I began to see that truth was freedom.

I started unlearning yelling by lowering my voice on purpose. By sitting with my frustration instead of throwing it. By asking myself what I was actually hurt about before letting anger speak for me. I learnt that volume does not equal power, and noise does not equal control. But sometimes, my voice still shakes when I defend myself, voice raising. It didn't help but I was just done with being misunderstood. For someone who thought shouting would make things move faster, I began to understand that calmness moves me further.

I started unlearning disappointment by redefining success for myself. Not based on mates. Not based on comparison. Not based on who has “two heads.” I started asking what I wanted, not what would silence criticism. For someone who chose to be the black sheep just to escape expectation, I began choosing to be myself instead.

I started unlearning insecurity by looking at the parts of me I was taught to hide. My height. My hands. My voice. I stopped apologising for existing in the body I was given. I stopped shrinking to make other people comfortable. For someone who learnt to see herself as an error, I began to see softness instead of flaws.

I started unlearning silence by speaking even when it felt unfamiliar. By correcting narratives about me. By saying “that hurt” instead of pretending it didn’t. I learnt that disagreement is not disrespect. Expression is not rebellion. I spoke even when I thought it was better to be quiet, because I realized no one was going to come for me, to defend me. For someone who became fluent in saying nothing, I am slowly learning my own language.

I started unlearning hypocrisy by giving myself the grace I was denied. If everyone forgets sometimes, then so do I. If mistakes are human nature, then I am human too. I stopped carrying guilt that was never equal to the crime. For someone who felt like a pawn in a game she didn’t know she was playing, I am finally learning the rules — and choosing which ones no longer apply.

And this is still just to name a few.

Always,

Zarah🤎.

Jay always carried two and said he barely used the second. I assumed one was personal and the other was for work. The explanation settled easily into my life, and I didn’t disturb it. But the second phone was pink. Not a case, not an accessory—pink all the way through. And sometimes, when it lit up on the table, it carried the faintest trace of perfume. Floral. Spicy. A woman’s scent that wasn’t mine.

At the time, I thought it was thoughtful. Later, I would understand it was precise.

There were other things I let pass, mostly because they felt like intimacy.

He loved kissing me on one exact spot on my shoulder. Always the same place. The precision felt practiced, like muscle memory rather than discovery. When he mentioned how cute a mole would look there, I laughed. A week later, I booked the tattoo. Something small. Something permanent. It never occurred to me to ask how he knew exactly where to put it.

He loved my nails pink. Baby pink, specifically. Not coral, not blush. He noticed every time I came home from the salon, held my hands as if checking alignment, and relaxed only when the color matched. I thought he admired the shade.

I didn’t notice that he never admired anything else.

The day I learned about his ex-wife wasn’t dramatic.

We were having a late dinner with one of his friends, the kind where the plates stay full because the conversation stretches too long. Candlelight, wine half gone. She smiled at me—unguarded—and said it without thinking.

“Jay’s ex-wife loved pink too. Is that her perfume you’re wearing?”

The same perfume Jay had given me.

Because it made him think of me.

The word ex-wife didn’t strike me so much as it shifted the room. Like a support beam quietly removed.

On the way home, the woman from the building downstairs held the door for me. She smiled, then hesitated.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s good to see you back.”

“I’m sorry?”

She blinked. “Never mind. You just look… familiar.”

The quiet in the car afterward felt arranged.

The dresses in the closet he refused to throw away.

The cereal no one ever ate, always stocked.

The pink hair ties everywhere—I’d taken them as signs of comfort, of shared space.

They weren’t.

They were remnants.

A few days later, I found the perfume bottle.

Not in the bathroom. Not on my dresser. In the back of the attic, half-wrapped in tissue, label faded. Empty.

It wasn’t the one he’d given me.

It was hers.

That was the first time I understood the gift hadn’t been about memory. It had been about continuity.

After that, I began to find myself in fragments.

Her lipstick mixed in with mine, the shades so close I couldn’t tell them apart. When I tried one on, I realized I’d worn it before—often. I remembered how he kissed me more when I did.

In a drawer, I found nail polishes I’d never bought. Same brand. Same shade. Bottles worn thin from use. I remembered how unsettled he’d been the one time I came home with something darker, how quickly he suggested I change it.

Jay watched me now the way people watch something fragile they’re afraid of mishandling. He corrected me gently—the way I stood at the counter, the way I laughed when I was nervous, the way I hesitated before answering questions.

“You used to like it better,” he’d say, softly.

Used to.

At night, I woke to him whispering beside me. Apologizing. Explaining. Saying her name like a promise he was still keeping.

I told myself she must have died suddenly. An illness. An accident. Something clean. I needed the past to end neatly so the present could still hold together.

Then I noticed the marks.

The scratches on the kitchen counter weren’t random. They were measured. Repeated. Like someone counting time.

On the attic door, the marks were deeper. Older beneath newer ones, layered as if each attempt had learned from the last.

The blood on the inside of the curtains wasn’t chaotic. It was low. Smeared. Deliberate.

A trail.

That’s when it occurred to me that she hadn’t been careless.

She had been intentional.

As if she knew there would be someone after her.

As if she understood that leaving was only possible if the truth stayed behind.

As if she was dragging it with her, hoping the next person would recognize it in time.

At the bottom of a box, I found a photograph. His wife, smiling, her body angled slightly toward the camera.

On her shoulder was a mole.

In the exact place I hadn’t had one before.

That night, while Jay slept, I picked up the pink phone.

I tried passwords without thinking—dates, names, words he never said. The phone locked twice before it opened.

The password was her birthday.

The day we supposedly met.

The gallery wasn’t sentimental. It was methodical. The same angles. The same lighting. Her face held steady through time, preserved with care.

I opened her contact.

Two years of missed calls from Jay.

After she died.

I put the phone down slowly, afraid of what else might still be active if I touched the wrong thing.

I didn’t pack a bag.

I didn’t leave a note.

I just stood in the hallway, listening to him breathe, and wondered how many details of myself I had already given away without noticing.

As I reached for my keys, I glanced once more at the attic.

The door was open.

The chair was still there.

Waiting.

A faint scent of floral perfume drifted from the attic. Not the one he had given me. Not the one I wore. Hers.

I froze, tasting it in the air, and realized some part of her—some part of her warning—might have never left.

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t meant to.

Because in the corner of the room, half-hidden beneath the vinyl boxes, I noticed the faint outline of something pressed into the wall—a shape, almost like a hand, small, deliberate.

I couldn’t tell if it had been made for me… or for the next one.

And I didn’t want to find out.

I wasn't just his next girlfriend,

I was the closest thing to her that still breathe life.

Always,

Zarah🤎.

It was still dark outside, still dawn, I suppose. He's always the early riser and me always begging him for more sleep time. Today wasn't any different.

"Fajr," he whispered, voice still thick with sleep.

I groaned, of course, burying my face into the pillow, bargaining for five more minutes like I always do. He laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that feels like a secret, and tugged me up anyway. We washed up half-asleep, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other without thinking. The world still felt hushed, like it was holding its breath with us.

He led the prayer. I stood behind him, wrapped in my jilbab, listening to his voice fill the room. Afterwards, we sat close on the prayer mat, knees touching, palms raised. We made duʿāʾ together- slow, intentional, whispered like promises. When I finished, I rubbed my hands over my face, eyes closed. Before I could even open them, he leaned in and gently did the same, his hands warm and deliberate. Then smiled and added his own prayers to me too, tracing them over my shoulders, my arms, my heart, like he was asking Allah to keep me safe everywhere.

I opened the Qur’an after that, settling into recitation while the sky outside began to soften. He didn’t say anything, just shifted closer and rested his head in my lap, heavy with sleep and trust. I kept reading for a while, fingers moving across the page, until his breathing evened out. Eventually, I closed the Qur’an, leaned down, and let myself rest against him. We fell asleep right there on the mat, wrapped in peace.

I woke up later on the bed, sunlight streaming in, the space beside me empty but warm. From the kitchen came the quiet clatter of breakfast and the low hum of something playing in the background. Of course he was already awake again. I found him cooking, focused but smiling when he saw me, like I was the best part of his morning- even though it was already halfway gone.

We ate slowly and played chess between bites because somehow that had become our thing- the game of love, strategy and teasing and fake confidence. He accused me of letting him win. I denied it badly. We talked about everything and nothing, arguments turning into laughter, laughter fading into comfortable silence.

A movie followed- romance, of course, because after playing rock, paper and scissors, he graciously gave in, even though I'm sure he let me win on purpose. I didn’t even make it halfway through before I fell asleep on his chest again, his hand moving absently through my hair like that was just where it belonged.

When I woke up, it was already Dhuhr. He went to the mosque while I prayed at home. When he returned, we made lunch together- bumping into each other in the kitchen, stealing tastes, pretending not to notice the mess. Afterwards, I curled up with a novel while he worked on his laptop, the room filled with quiet productivity and the comfort of sharing space.

Asr came quickly. Again, he went out, and I prayed inside. Later, we escaped into the garden, set up a small picnic, kicked off our shoes, talked about childhood memories and silly future plans. At some point, we ended up on the swing, moving slowly, shoulder to shoulder, like time didn't matter to us.

Maghrib arrived gently. Same rhythm and same peace continued

By the time evening settled in, neither of us felt like cooking. So we ordered pizza, ate it with ice cream, enjoying our little rebellion, laughing too much for people who were supposedly “settled.” Isha passed, prayers finished, and the night softened again.

We decided to watch another movie again before heading to bed, this time his choice. While waiting for Netflix to load, he connected to the home speakers and twirled me around, like a princess, his princess. Eventually , the movie came on but he stared at me throughout, like my beauty captivated him at every time of the day, like he couldn't I was really like he was living in his answered prayers. I'm not sure when I ended up sleeping, again, but I knew I felt safe in the embrace of the man who meant everything to me, just as I meant everything to him.

So, love me endlessly, would you?

Always,

Zarah🤎.

Let’s call him Bubba.

Bubba and I officially met in 2024, though I’d known of him for years before that—mutedly. I was aware of his presence, but not enough for it to turn into friendship, let alone something tightly knit. The first time I truly spoke to him, truly saw him as more than who I imagined him to be, was on his birthday. That day became the quiet anniversary of whatever we were becoming.

We talked. I learned more. I discovered how good of a person he was—and how deeply I craved him. That should have been my first warning sign. Why? Because I have a habit of wanting things I’m convinced I can’t have.

At the end of 2024, I found out he had a girlfriend. I was shattered. I felt betrayed, even though he was never mine. He hadn’t promised himself to me—but I had already taken him that way. I pulled away. I told myself I was doing the right thing, that I’d do the same for any of my friends. I didn’t want to be that person—the obnoxious one who disrupts a relationship just by existing too loudly.

That distance defined most of 2025. This time, it came from his side.

I kept reaching out. He kept shutting me out. It felt like losing a friendship I had fought so hard to preserve. I called him every time to make things right. Every time, he promised we’d be friends again—and every time, that promise broke. Over and over. That was another mistake of mine. I don’t take abandonment well.

In January 2026, we started something. He promised to be the man I wanted him to be. I was happy—ecstatic, even. It felt like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. He was finally mine.

But to what end?

I’ve never known how to sit comfortably in love. I’ve sabotaged every romance I’ve ever had. I’ve always believed I was inadequate for it, or that I didn’t really need it. I’ve told myself relationships aren’t for me—maybe because it hurts less to reject them before they reject me.

Today, I ended things.

I think I regret it. I’m not sure I regret it. I think I miss him. I don’t know if I made the right decision.

Love isn’t enough for me.

And I think I just proved myself right.

Always,

Zarah.

Before I continue, I’d like to inform y’all that I’m famous now. My post got screenshotted and sent to my housemate. I might not have a thousand subscribers but damnnn… I love that for me.

Back on track, after everything, I became the villain in this story… MY story. I was called the terrible person. The evil person. The one with the terrible attitude. The one deserving of blame- not because I insulted anyone, not because I accused anyone, but because I didn’t communicate. Because I decided to write about my feelings and distance myself .

Looking back now, the only thing I genuinely have to take responsibility for is not communicating with the people involved. Not because my feelings are invalid, but because the situation might have been resolved earlier if I had found the word early enough to express myself. They did ask me if anything was wrong and I said nothing repeatedly because to me, nothing was wrong. Even if you did speak about me, good, bad, or great, it’s your choice. Why will I be offended at that?

I heard wrong. Yes! I did. It wasn’t about me. My name was indeed mentioned in a negative tone but it wasn’t a gossip neither was it anything bad about me. But sit with me, I heard something about myself, and you think I’m gonna talk first? I’m gonna speak to you who just finished discussing? No nahhh. I process internally. I take my time to sort out my thoughts, to understand my thoughts and next decision in place. My piece wasn’t to hurt anyone but to give shape to what I’m feeling.

But while I was distancing myself quietly, very peaceful if you ask me, my entire personality was suddenly under attack. I was called names… for rationalizing quietly, for not saying anything and yet being told “I’m not fighting with you” while I was being threatened to get my mouth flicked if I kept talking. Such an irony, isn’t it?

It of course didn’t end there. My deen was questioned as well. “Maybe you should go to the mosque more, because you’re a terrible person”. I never claimed to be a perfect Muslim, can’t even call myself a good Muslim. I sometimes don’t pray. I mostly only fast during Ramadan. I rarely do Tahajjud . The only times I consistently read the Quran are on Fridays and some days my heart’s drawn to it. But my deen isn’t a punishment someone can hold over my head.

Mid conversation, I decided to stop talking. In my words, “I don’t have time for this” because truly, I didn’t. Not only was I preparing to head somewhere that I was already getting late for, the conversation was gonna lead nowhere. Not when I was already labeled a bad person. Not when I was already called just that.

I understand that my silence, space created its own kind of misunderstanding. While I was living my life in seclusion, others were scrutinizing differently. And the gap I created did aggravate what could have been quenched.

So yes, my blame is not communicating. Not because my feelings weren’t validated. Not because I blamed anyone, not because writing my experience was wrong but because I didn’t articulate what was happening to the people who had done it.

What I will never take responsibility for is the way it seemed like I couldn’t write out my feelings (especially when I never blamed any person). Different person with different mechanisms. I write, quietly, thinking while you call your family and friends and talk/gist to them all about it. That’s not bad but somehow, someway mine is. The insults… God, the insults. The distancing, the seclusion. Those, I have no responsibility for.

This post isn’t an apology. It’s simply me taking responsibility for the part I played- the silence.

And if you’re reading this, yes, You. This actually ends it all. You did say so yourself. So again, this is an ending. To friendships. To me. To us (since you like the line so much).

PS: I repeated some words a lot of times. Mainly because I’ve had a crazy day and I wanted to post this by all means tonight, and also because I needed to re-emphasize again and again.

Also, the cover photo shows how calm I was when I was done writing the first post last week. Too calm if you ask me.

I’ve been in love with this song despite the fact that it’s 10 years this year😭😭.

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Always,

Zarah🤎.

The betrayal I felt today wasn’t loud or disappointing. It was a breath of life, a deep exhalation, a puzzle piece finally fitting in place. A truth my mind had been wondering, pondering about without having to accept it- accept my reality.

I have always been an over thinker. The people pleaser, the one who withdraws when it gets too much. I’ve always wondered what people say when I’m no longer part of a conversation. What do my friends think of me? Do they miss my presence or appreciate my absence? I’ve been curious in an anxious way for far too long, a little too much to know what it feels to be wanted, to know if I’m too much or too little or just never enough. I however did not expect any of these thoughts to be my reality.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I didn’t even move. I just couldn’t help but listen. I had fallen asleep earlier due to exhaustion. The room was still bright, hot and familiar. I woke up to a background noise, two of my friends talking nearby(one in which I live with). Soft relaxed, the kind of conversation that floats in the air even when you’re not paying attention. In their chat, my name surfaced in their sentences, clearly unmistakable. There was a pause inside of me- a split second of recognition.

I wanted to shut it out. I didn’t want to cage myself with their words. But I had no say. Their voices kept resurfacing in my mind and each time, it felt like it landed somewhere I didn’t expect- somewhere very tender.

They weren’t vicious, but there was a distance in their tone. One that delivered a realization that I wasn’t really part of them. As if I was someone to be tolerated, not someone to be chosen. Someone slightly outside the circle.

What stings the most is that all I ever wanted was to be their friend. I just wanted to be enough.

Since then, everything has felt muted, like my ears have been full of water. No drama, just coming to fact and understanding what to do with the truth I was never meant to hear.

What I didn’t expect was the confusion that followed. Just a foggy uncertainty about what comes next. The people I thought saw me, shared pieces of myself, even the ones with jagged edges. I’m left wondering what was real and gossip.

Yet, I’m strangely gentle with myself rught now. No faults or beat up. Maybe because my heart knows she’s not wrong. Maybe because I’m beginning to understand that sometimes, people fail us quietly, gently like grief- not because they hate us but because they simply weren’t meant to fill the space we entrusted to them. No malice. I cared. I showed up. I trusted.

Maybe that’s why I cry as I write it now. Why my chest burns with unknown emotions- because I gave something real -me- to people who didn’t reciprocate it.

I have no next move. I’m sitting with everything, isolated, numb. No forcing meaning, no rush to move on. Just carefully filling my feet in cold water till it starts to feel warm.

I’d like to move out though, however I can’t. I don’t think I can’t keep up with this pretense. This feels like an ending. To friendships, to me. To us.

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Always,

Zarah🤎.

They hold more grief than cemeteries.

They cradle more broken hearts than any graveyard ever could.

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I didn’t understand that at first. When I first walked into the wards, I thought of hospitals as places of repair- a place where people get fixed. A place where science takes charge. A place where, if we just followed the steps and gave the right drugs, everything would fall back into place.

And it is like that sometimes. Some people walk into the hospital sick and frightened, and a few days later, they walk back out again… lighter, smiling, grateful. They carry discharge papers and plastic bags of medication, greeting nurses on their way out. There’s relief in their footsteps, relief in the faces waiting for them outside. They made it through.

But not everyone leaves that way. Some come in on their own two feet and leave on a stretcher, covered in white. Some never see their front door again. And their families, the ones who carried hope like oxygen, are left carrying something much heavier.

The longer I spend here, the more I realize hospitals are not only places of healing. They are places of grief. Quiet grief, loud grief, unspoken grief. Grief that seeps into the walls and lingers in the corridors long after a patient’s bed has been stripped and readied for someone new.

When people step into a hospital, they don’t come in with panic clutched tightly to their chest. Not usually, unless it’s a really bad emergency. They walk in believing the doctors will help them, make them better, fix what is broken. They follow the instructions. They take their tests, scans, medicines. They pay. They collect their food. They listen because they believe. Because they want to believe. Because they have to believe. Believe and have faith in our training. They come with trust, because what else can they do? They are at the mercy of doctors, nurses, the system.

And for a while, many of them are stable. Families visit, rotating like clockwork, carrying food, prayers, and whispered encouragement. Sometimes a hospital bed becomes a reunion space where people who haven’t visited in years show up. There is laughter, there is warmth, there is the fragile belief that “everything is under control.”

And then suddenly, it tilts.

The body turns. The stability shatters. And just like that, the patient is gone.

No CPR that works. No epinephrine strong enough. Only silence.

Yesterday, I saw two patients who came in with organophosphate poisoning. One had ingested paraquat by mistake. He didn’t want to die. The other swallowed poison on purpose. She wanted to die. Both were alive in the morning. By evening, the man who wanted to live was dead. The one who wanted to die was still alive.

The irony sat heavy in my chest. Hospitals are full of that kind of irony, swollen with contradictions. They absorb it without question, without explanation. They hold it when we cannot.

But what haunts me is not only the patients who die. It is the ones they leave behind. The families who step into the hospital with a loved one and now are only stepping out with their belongings.

The mother who whispers, “Wake up,” even after the monitor has gone flat.

The wife who packs up his shoes, but can’t bear to move them from the corner.

The husband who has to call the children and say, “She didn’t make it.”

The friend who looks at me with eyes begging for an answer I don’t have.

Grief inside a hospital doesn’t end with the patient. It spreads. It latches onto those who loved them. And it lingers with us, too- the ones in white coats, the ones who are supposed to know what to do.

Because the truth is, sometimes the system fails. Sometimes emergencies are met with silence instead of action. Sometimes no one runs, no one shouts “crash cart,” no one starts chest compressions with the urgency life demands. Sometimes a patient slips away not only because of their illness, but because the response was too slow, too absent, too unprepared.

And I carry that. I carry the weight of what could have been done, the shame of what wasn’t, the helplessness of watching a life go. Hospitals don’t just break families - they break us, too.

Grief, I’ve come to realize, is not just about death itself. It’s about the burden on those left behind.

The ones who have to keep living.

The ones who will wake up tomorrow and feel the empty chair at breakfast.

The ones who will reach for the phone and remember there is no one to call.

The ones who will try to go back to ordinary life, but nothing about life feels ordinary anymore.

And for us- the doctors, the nurses, the students - grief is also about carrying dozens of these losses, one after another. There isn’t always time to process. We move from one bed to the next, one patient to the next, one emergency to the next. But the walls remember. The walls absorb what we cannot speak.

That’s why I say the hospital hears more prayers than the church.

It carries more grief than the cemetery.

It holds more heartbreak than the graveyard.

It is a place where life and death stand side by side.

A place where hope rises and shatters within hours.

A place where grief is not an occasional visitor, but a permanent resident.

And walking those corridors, I am learning that grief is not something you “get over.” It’s something you live with, something you carry. For families. For patients. For myself.

The hospital walls know this better than anyone.

They know the prayers, the screams, the silences.

They know the weight of all we lose.

Dr. Drimtry said as doctors, we don’t just carry stethoscope, we carry ghost.

Well… I think I just got my first.

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Always,

Zarah 🤎.

Sunday: The Chores that almost ended me.

Sunday was nothing short of exhausting. I had pushed off all my chores from Saturday and it all came crashing down on me at once. I spent five hours cleaning. FIVE. From arranging my clothes into their respective hangers, to washing clothes TWICE, to doing the dishes, to sweeping and mopping and of course scrubbing the bathroom clean. By the time I was done, I was completely drained.

Later that night, a friend came over. We ended up talking about the conversation we had had the previous day, and while it started light, it went down an unexpectedly heavy path. Let’s just say the night ended with a lot of reflection.

Monday: The start of it all

Midnight through Monday, an ear pain kept me awake for most of the night. By morning, I could barely keep my eyes open and had to drag myself to class. Thankfully, class ended early, and I went straight back to my accommodation to rest. The pain didn’t let me sleep though as it only grew worse.

A random picture of the scenery in school.

Tuesday: The Bus Ride to madness

By Tuesday morning, the pain had turned into a full-on ear infection with pus. I went to class with half ears and still had to diligently be a good student. I went to the teaching hospital hoping to see the ENT specialist, only to find out that Monday was his day. Yayyyyy.

I called my dad, and he suggested traveling to Ife to see an ENT surgeon he knew. However, the thought of logistics( because I had no idea where I was going to in Ife despite the fact that I called a friend) and where to stay made me back out. Instead, I decided to head back home to Osogbo to get checked at an ENT specialist we get care from.

Now, this is where things got… cinematic.

The bus ride? Never again in my life . I’ve had my fair share of crazy bus rides in my short years of living but this was on another level. The driver sped like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Kill the passengers. Coupled with my ear pain? It was a no no. The driver flew like he had nine extra lives in his pockets, driving recklessly into shallow potholes with no regard for the people in the bus. I was just telling the driver in my mind that my father would definitely love to have his favorite baby girl back in a piece when he got back from Abuja. I thought surviving him would be the highlight of the ride, but no, the universe had other plans because the real drama came after we passed OAU.

I had just finished telling my mom on the phone how painful the infection was, when this lady in front turned around and said:

“So… you need infection pills?”

Excuse me? 😭

In my head I was like, “Hold on. Infection pills? What kind of infection do you think I have? Aunty, please. It’s my EAR. Not that kind of infection.”

But before I could even process, she went on to say, “Ohhh, I thought you had a sexual infection.”

At that moment, I wanted the ground to open and swallow me. Everyone in that bus did not need to hear the words sexual infection floating in the air. I had to explain quickly: “It’s an EAR infection o, not the other one.”

But aunty didn’t stop. She then launched into a whole catalog: butt enlargement pills, breast enlargement pills, body flushers, lip gloss. Omo… She basically turned the bus into her own personal Instagram store. I just sat there like, wow, so this is my portion in life today. Pain in my ear, fear in my chest, and now unsolicited sales in my face.

By the time we finally got to Osogbo, I was grateful for two things among other things:

1. That I didn’t die in that man’s reckless Formula 1 audition.

2. That I escaped without buying “infection pills.”

Lesson: Public transport will humble you.

I met up with my mom, and went straight to the clinic. Got treated and instant relief. However, the doctor said I had to stay for a full week for treatment. Good and bad news. Good news because I got to be home for a week. Bad news because I have to be home for a week, miss a few classes and most important of all, Gaby, my cat was all alone without care. I had to find a way and it had to be quick. So I started pulling contacts and decided to send my key to a friend who said she could help me with her (Thank you Faith). I checked my weight and turns out I had lost a kilogram in just a week. Another yayyyy. Got home, ate good food and I felt like myself in days.

The Hospital.

Wednesday: Mama is just a girl

On Wednesday, I left home with mama to her office, though she took me to the clinic first. It was a chill day and we had nothing going on. After sitting around for half the day, we had to send my key to school.

That led to a mini-adventure. We walked from her office to the main gate , then to the small gate to send the key, and finally back inside to the office. It was a long walk, but surprisingly fun. We had a lot of conversations ranging from political immunities to health and even passed along a lake where we saw ducks and orange-and-black fishes.My mom got excited over some green leaves she spotted and started collecting them like treasures even though she had no use for them and honestly, watching her become so happy over the little things made my day.

By the time we got back, we were exhausted, but it was the good kind of tired. We rested, laughed a little, and headed back home to spend the rest of the day in peace.

Mama’s Excitement while we were heading to the lake.

The lake( at least I think it’s a lake).

Thursday: The Governor’s Return and guns.

Thursday was another eventful day, but in a fun way. My mom works at the state secretariat, and word had it that the governor of Osun State was resuming office that morning. So, we left home early and got to her office by 8 a.m.

By 9, we were outside with a crowd waiting for the governor’s arrival. In that space of time, we greeted so many of Mama’s colleagues- seniors, juniors, subordinates. At some point, I even got “You look like your mommy” money. There was music, and Mama was on fire. She danced like she’d been storing energy and moves for a whole year just to unleash them that day.

When the governor finally arrived, I was thrilled. It was my first time seeing him in his three years in office. We had to walk all the way from the main gate to his office, which was exhausting, but worth it. I wanted to shake his hand, but his bodyguards and soldiers weren’t allowing people near him. I spotted real guns and even tear gas up close for the first time. I thought how cool it would be to touch one, but of course, I wasn’t about to go ask a soldier, “Can I hold that?”

By the time we walked back to the office, we were drained. But it didn’t end there. Now, here’s where the chaos started. I wanted to pay for my older brother’s Twitter subscription. I clicked “subscribe,” it linked to my Google payments, I chose my plan, pressed pay… and guess what? It told me transaction failed, but my bank still collected ₦7,600 from my account. I swear, the way my heart sank, I immediately burst into tears.

Mama ran to me thinking something catastrophic had happened. She was like: “Talk to me, is it bad news? Did something happen? Is it your ear? At least say something!” Meanwhile, it was just me crying over ₦7,600 like I had lost millions. I don’t even know why my first line of defense in life is always crying, but there I was, sobbing over Twitter subscription money like I had just gone through a break up.

Mama, bless her heart, promised she’d refund me if the money didn’t bounce back. But still, my eyes were swollen, my nose was blocked, my spirit was broken. Do we have a money printing tree in the backyard? ( Though, later that night, the money thankfully reversed. That’s how I got my peace back, but honestly, the emotional PTSD is still there)

We still had to stop at the clinic before heading home. And just when I thought the day was done, we got home to find out my younger brother had locked himself out, as in the key was inside. After the long day, that was the last thing we wanted to deal with. Eventually, we got in, made food, and I knocked out.

Later that night, I rejected a friend’s proposal. He had confessed that he liked me, but I turned him down- as gently as I could. It turned out to be the nicest rejection I’ve ever given, and he took it well. We ended the night with a call, just talking about our days.

Friday: Finding My Way

On Friday, my mom left me to go to the clinic alone. I almost got lost, but somehow found my way. When I got there, the doctor wasn’t around. I sat for an hour, too nervous to approach the nurse who had attended to me before. Eventually, I worked up the courage, walked over, and asked and she attended to me right away. So yes, I wasted an entire hour just battling my own apprehension.

After treatment, I stopped by the market and picked up sweetener and dye before heading home. Friday was otherwise calm. nothing stressful, nothing dramatic. Just chill.

Saturday: Lost Again

By Saturday, you’d think I had mastered the route to the clinic. But no, I got lost again. Eventually, I found my way, saw the doctor, and told him I wouldn’t be able to continue the treatments since I had to return to school on Sunday. My cat was waiting, and even though a friend was helping with her care, I couldn’t leave her much longer.

After the final treatment, I met up with my sister, and together we joined my mom. We went home, cooked, ate, and laughed. It was a wholesome day… until night fell.

That’s when procrastination came knocking. I suddenly remembered I had a dress to finish for my sister and other pending tasks. Instead of starting early, I decided to begin at 2 a.m. …Just don’t ask me why. With Drake’s Passionfruit (a song I had stolen from one of my coursemate’s status. Thank you Bosco) and other tracks on loop, I stitched, and reminisced side by side. By 4 a.m., I was finally done. I caught a few hours of sleep before Sunday’s trip.

Sunday: Heading Back

I woke up by 9, rushing to get ready for my journey back. I planned to leave around 10, but my mom insisted I couldn’t go on an empty stomach. So, I waited, ate, and finally left by 1 p.m.

The trip was long and exhausting. By the time I got to Ondo around 4, I was worn out. To make things worse, I opened my fridge only to find that the food inside hadn’t been preserved due to no electricity. Everything was spoiled. That hurt. But the silver lining was that my cat was okay.

Meanwhile, in the background of this whole chaotic week was this guy. Yes, that guy. The one from Thursday but somehow still talk to every single day. Every call ends the same: he falls asleep mid-conversation and then blames me. According to him, it’s my voice that “soothes him to sleep.”

I finally rested, and just like that, the week from hell came to an end.

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And that was my week from hell. Honestly, I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or write a Netflix series out of it. If chaos was a person, it would’ve been my roommate this week. But through it all, the exhaustion, the stress, the laughs, and even the spoiled fridge food, I survived.

Always,

Zarah🤎.

Not in a spotlight-hogging way. Not in a loud, look-at-me way. I just loved being seen, being praised. I loved when people texted me first. When someone made a space for me in a group. When they noticed the small changes-like I had been holding my breath and someone finally told me to breathe. When I didn’t have to wonder if I was wanted. I loved being part of the conversation, not just after the fact, but in the moment. I loved talking. I loved people. I still do.

There was a time I could walk into a room and feel like I belonged in it. I didn’t need to fight for my place. I didn’t second guess if I was too much or too quiet or too late. I was just… there. And I was enough.

But somewhere in-between, something shifted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet shifts. Whispers that didn’t include me. Conversations I wasn’t meant to hear. Outings I found out about through pictures and silence. The group chats that existed outside of mine. They started leaving the room while I was in it- just so they could talk without me. Laugh a little too knowingly, and I’d laugh too, even though I didn’t get the joke.

I started piecing together everything. They still loved and wanted me- just not in those moments. And somehow, that made it harder. Because I couldn’t be angry- I was still chosen, just not consistently. Not completely.

I’ve felt this before. With family. At dinners, in car rides, in living rooms that were never quite warm enough for me. The kind of silence that says “We’re not mad at you, we just forgot you were here”

I’ve always been there.

That sense of being adjacent to love. Near it, around it- but never in it. Like a room I can see into but can’t enter. I was just stupid enough to think it’d change with friends.

So I got good at loving people from the doorway. Good at talking just enough to be remembered, but not so much that I became annoying. So I started shrinking bit by bit. Just enough not to be disappointed when I wasn’t asked. I stopped assuming I’d be included. I started hesitating before speaking, unsure if I was still wanted in the space I used to move freely through. I got good at pretending I didn’t notice the pause before they say “we didn’t think you’d want to come”

But I always would’ve come.

I think no one really understands that part.

I always would have come if they had asked.

I didn’t stop loving people. But I did start questioning why I always seemed to be reaching harder, holding tighter. Why I had earn my spot in places that once felt like home.

Was I too much?

Too honest?

Too eager?

Or not enough of something they needed?

I started to think if I became softer, quieter, easier, maybe I’d get picked more often. But shrinking didn’t make it better. It just made the absence less visible.

Now? Now when I do get attention. It feels… uncomfortable. Not warm. Like they’re watching too closely. Like they’re searching for flaws. Flaws that makes me different enough to leave out next time. It’s an assessment and I don’t feel safe under that attention.

So yeah… I flinch a little now, even when someone includes me. Even when they say “of course you’re invited” because I don’t trust it. Because I’ve been that afterthought too many times. Because attention doesn’t mean affection any longer.

I don’t know how to say this without sounding dramatic but… I used to love attention. I really did. Now, I’m not so much in love with attention anymore. I just want to know how it feels like when someone looked around the room and noticed I wasn’t in it- and missed me.

Again.

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Apparently, my personality building is nonsense- because, as I was told, personality is shaped between 13 and 19. But if that’s true, then all I’ve ever really built is trauma. Brick by brick. Word by word. You see, it’s been said to my face: I’m the least favorite, the least bright. That being introverted is a flaw- something I should scrape off like dirt. That the way I carry myself- quietly, carefully- is worthless.

And the thing is, I already knew. I’ve always known. It’s a script I’ve memorized: “You’re useless, and I’m not surprised.” “Be more like your sisters—they’re better.” “I’d choose her over you, any day.” A shadow beside the spotlight. That’s what I’ve been. That’s what I am. And maybe, that’s what I’ll always be.

Always a choice, never the chosen.

I think the song is befitting. Don’t ya think?

For now,

Zarah🤎.

We never grew up rich. We were just… comfortable, I guess. There was food. There was light- most times. There were hand-me-downs that still fit and birthdays that rarely got unnoticed.

But there wasn’t ease. There wasn’t excess.

And now? Now, I find myself yearning for a different kind of life. The kind I glimpse at my friends’ houses. Where air conditioners hum through the day without a second thought. Where there’s a spare 500k just sitting in an account, untouched. Where skincare are routines and not luxuries. Where there’s a closet with never ending outfits. Where the Apple ecosystem is free.

I want that.

I want to have it too.

So far, I haven’t.

Last night, I spent the evening scrolling through TikTok-through the soft lives, gorgeous lighting, quiet luxury. Through the life I wish I had but haven’t. Next, I found myself crying. Not loudly. Just the kind of tears when you whisper things like “when will I have my moment?” and in-between “I need a job” into the air. Crying… not just out of sadness-but shame.

Shame that I wanted what they had.

Shame that I didn’t know how to get it.

Shame that I could barely afford data to watch them.

Shame because I’m supposed to be grateful.

Because I am grateful. I do appreciate what I have. The little things. The ones I have compared to others. It was just a quiet ache that comes when you’re both grateful and still wanting.

Is it ugly to want things that cost money?

I felt small. Embarrassed. Like someone caught me taking money from my mother’s purse because I wanted biscuits.

And then, I wiped my face and pretended none of it happened.

Like the wanting wasn’t loud.

Like the lack wasn’t humiliating.

But, is it really a crime to what more when I know there’s more out there?

I don’t have money.

Not the kind you spend on whim or waste on things you didn’t need urgently. What I have is imagination- tender and persistent. And sometimes, when I’m alone and still, I imagine what it would feel like to hold it- crisp, weightless. Notes in my palm-like a proof. These luxuries- like a promise.

I have daydreamed so hard. I’ve felt the ghost of wealth brush my fingers. I’ve mapped a life I can’t afford- not out of delusions, but out of sheer hunger to know what it’s like.

To get food without calculating how much will be left.

To not open my banking app like it’s a horror movie.

To not beg my account balance to survive until the end of the week to keep my sanity.

To not sleep on an empty stomach sometimes.

That’s the kind of ache that comes with wanting and not having, but still daring to imagine. People don’t talk about how exhausting hope can be when you’re broke. Knowing you can’t call home because you get asked “how did you finish your allowance so quickly?”. But daddy, I promise I only spent on the necessities. My dreams are loud but my reality keeps shutting it up.

I try not to say it out loud-the wanting- because it feels like something I should be ashamed of. But it’s there. Always.

So tell me, am I at fault for yearning?

And if wanting more makes me ungrateful, then I’m guilty. But I still want it and I’m tired of wanting that.

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You can also enter my dms to share your thoughts. And bare in my mind that if you say unsolicited bashful comments, I’ll block you and call you out on your bullshit on my notes.

Now that that’s made clear, thank youuuuu💕

Yes!, I listen to Sabrina. Sue me🙄

I think this is my favorite post so far. It was unfiltered feelings🥺🫠. Check it out. maybe?

Always,

Zarah🤎.

It didn’t start that way. At first, it was curiosity. Stumbling into each other, laughter that spilled into touch. It was clumsy and new, and for a moment, it felt safe. Like they were figuring things out together. Pretty inexperienced girl wanting to touch and be touched.

But sometimes along the line, it blurred.

Now there’s a rhythm she has learned to follow.

Tops off.

Breasts in his mouth.

Dry humping.

Then she kneel.

There’s no dialogue. No pause. No asking “Do you want this today?”. It’s just routine, mechanical. An act done because it’s what expected because anything else would be disappointing. Or awkward. Or worse, might make him leave.

Sometimes, she doesn’t even check in with herself anymore. She just move. She just go through the steps because that’s what they do now. Right?

She wonders, sometimes, if he notices the way she hesitates now. The pause, the silent tremble of her hands before her top drops to the cold floor. If he feels the way her body tenses when he reaches for her. He touches and she freeze long enough to pretend she’s warning up. He unzips- she kneel, not out of excitement but the choreography she’s learned. D*ck in mouth, hands making up for the rest she can’t take. Bobbing her head. Coming on her face. Clean up. Done.

It’s not abuse. Not the one they warn you about. No screams, no bruises. Just silence and swallowing of herself. The kind that walks in wearing a smile, whispering, “you said yes once, remember?”

Sometimes, she wonders that would happen if she said no. If she said, “I don’t wanna do this anymore”

But fear isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it’s just a breath caught in your throat. Sometimes, it’s the dread of watching someone’s face fall.

Truth? She enjoys and loves the pleasure. She’s aroused. She likes the rush, the closeness.

But she’s not sure if her pleasure is worth how she feels afterwards. What she becomes after he’s done.

Empty.

Small.

And further from herself than before he came.

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I’m learning to use dashes instead of commas when I want a pause💃🏽💃🏽. So damn proud of myself😌.

Always,

Zarah🤎

Her hands trembled as she printed out the news clip of the warehouse fire. She laid it beside Helen’s sketch. The symbols were identical.

In her 25 years of therapy and counselling, she had seen shared echoes between patients but this?... This was specific and deeper. She wanted to believe it was all a coincidence … but she knew better.

She began reviewing old notes, voice recordings and even unplanned appointments. Each detail she had once overlooked now felt like a clue.

Semani once mentioned “a man in the mirror with a shady mask”.

Tony had whispered about meetings that didn’t imply recovery. He wasn’t a businessman.

David mentioned “Playing god with people’s lives”

Helen had drawn pages of pages of recurring patterns with flames, patterns she hadn’t understood but now, she saw the symbol from the fire in them.

A week passed… Zee told no one.

One random Wednesday, Helen missed her session. Zee called her emergency contact but no answer. The next Monday, Helen showed with dried blood underneath her fingernails. she was mute for the first 15 minutes of the session.

She handed Zee another drawing. This time, it was a hotel. From the look, it looked like a private suite from a luxurious hotel, except that there was a body hanging from the ceiling and a pool of blood on the white floor. The same symbol painted on the wall with the unknown man’s blood. He was clearly dead.

“I don’t know what’s going on” Helen cried out in panic but in her eyes were calmness she could recognize from anywhere… her husband had the same look.

Later that night, Zee pulled out her late husband’s journals from the basement. Lucas Williams had been a psychiatrist known for group sessions, transmitting ideas through trauma survivors.

He had run a clinic years ago in a rural area in Abeokuta. It closed quietly after an investigation into unethical practices. Zee had never asked questions. Now she did.

In the final journal, she found a list of patient ID numbers and names. She cross-referenced them with her own files.

Semani. Tony. David. Helen

All former patients of her husband’s clinic.

She dropped the book. her breath caught in her throat.

Had Lucas done something to them?
For another night, zee couldn’t sleep.

The next day, David didn’t show up for his session.

Later that evening, the news broke: ‘‘A local businessman found dead in a hotel room. Apparent suicide. Symbol drawn on the wall’’ with a picture attached.

And damn well, it was the crumpled drawing Helen had handed her the previous day.

Zee sat alone in her office, door locked, every light on.

Four patients.

Shared trauma.

Secret symbol.

The clinic.

Her husband.

She was no longer unsure. something was going on and she was going to uncover it.

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Tell me your thoughts🥺

Always,

Zarah🤎.

The Pattern

The waiting room was quiet, silence for the soft ticking of the wall clock and the humming sound of the air conditioner. Dr. Zee Williams sat at her desk, glancing at her schedule: 4 patients, 4 stories, 4 secrets.

She was used to hearing the worst of people’s truth as a therapist. For 25 years, she had held space for trauma, guilt, rage and shame. But lately, something about her sessions unsettled her deeply.

Senami was first. a young woman with fidgety hands and twitchy legs. She rarely met her eyes and spoke in bits and pieces.

“It just… It felt new and clean” she muttered, shifting nervously in the chair . “It’s like starting over. Ashes mean it’s over, right?”.

“Ashes?” Zee asked gently. “You’re talking about the fire again”.

She nodded slowly. “I dreamt about it. It’s always the same warehouse. Flames crawling up the wall. It’s almost like they wanted to be seen”.

It wasn’t the first time Senami mentioned fire. She had spoken of a cleansing blaze before but she had thought of it as a metaphor. Her description was oddly specific this time.

Her next patient, Tony, came in with his usual crooked smile. He was a former marijuana addict and have been cleaned for about 4 months. He sat widely and eyes flickering everywhere but to her eyes.

“He’s back” He said. “The masked man. He’s back”. Like before, Tony had mentioned a masked man too.

“What did he say anything to you?” She simply asked. She wanted to know how deep Tony felt with this.

“He told me to stay away from the bridge”.

“Which bridge?” Zee frowned.

“The Third Mainland Bridge”.

Zee felt a shiver run down her spine. The Mainland Bridge was where a man had been found dead a week ago. It had been a peaceful death, declared by the police, but, this was the second time her patient was mentioning the bridge.

She brushed it off as a coincidence… Just until the third session.

David was a confident man. that might have to do with his 6’3 height. he suffered from what he called “ Vivid Violence Dreams” but never remembered the details.

Today he did.

“I was standing over a body. a gash sprouting blood from his chest. there was a stream nearby where i rinsed my hands off” Her pen hit the floor with a clang.

“ Where was this dream set?” She asked with hard beating heart.

“An amusement park. like Hakuna Matata”.

Her heart rose to her mouth. Hakuna Matata park has been the morning news the day before. Another unsolved murder which details haven’t yet been released.

“You think that’s crazy right” David grinned.

“Not at all” Zee said softly, though she could feel her fingers trembling.

By the time her last patient, Helen, walked in, Zee was shaken. The young girl had been diagnosed with DID (dissociative identity disorder), prone to change of identity and hallucination. She drew during these episodes but rarely remember why she drew them or when or where.

Today’s sketch was a crumpled body under a bridge and in the corner was flame. In the opposite corner was a symbol. A horizontal and vertical line with 4 circles.

“I don’t remember drawing this” Helen whispered. “But i think the other me does”.

That night, Zee spread the 4 case files on her kitchen table. She didn’t want to believe what she was seeing.

A fire. A bridge. A stream. A park. A symbol.

Four patients. Four pieces.

Unrelated in background, age, or lifestyle. None had ever met.

She open a browser and typed “ Park murder symbol”… nothing.

Third Mainland bridge death symbol… nothing.

Warehouse fire symbol.

There was a graffiti on the burnt down of the warehouse. The same symbol Helen drew. The question was: How come Helen was drawing a symbol from the warehouse in Senami’s dream.

Zee stared at it and she began shaking.

Her patients weren’t just dreaming or imagining.

They were remembering.

Or worse… Participating.

Next part in a week Loveeeesssss❤️❤️

Maybe a comment too?

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Always,

Zarah🤎.

Now, keep in mind, the last time I ate spaghetti, I got food poisoning. So intense, I had a full-blown out-of-body experience. It was the kind of sickness that made me question my life choices, call on ancestors I’d never met, praying to God and telling him I’d stop sitting on the freezer whilst my mom cooked and consider drafting my will at 2:14 a.m. It was that bad. Since then, spaghetti and I had agreed to go our separate ways. Me, alive . Spaghetti, untouched.

But on this very fateful day, my housemate and friend, bless her beautiful soul, decided to cook spaghetti for our other friends . I stayed in my lane, gisting with one of my girls and minding my trauma. But then I heard it. The first “Wow, this is sooo good!” followed by, “I want this recipe please”. Me, in the corner? Intrigued.

I peeked at the plate . It looked innocent. Too innocent. The spaghetti was sitting pretty like it hadn’t once sent me to the brink of God’s doorstep.

Now, let me paint the full tragedy for you. This wasn’t just regular spaghetti. No, this masterpiece had crayfish in it. Crayfish. The very thing my immune system hates more than unsolicited calls from my network provider. I have a mild allergy. And by mild, I mean just dramatic enough to threaten my airway but not enough to earn a cool EpiPen.

Now, this is where my village people come in. They were clearly in attendance, spiritually cheering me on like, “Eat it, ehn? After all, what is life without risk?”

So I took one spoon. Just a spoon.

Then I took another. Because, obviously, if you’re already standing at the gates of danger, you might as well knock, walk in and ask for a chilled drink.

Before I knew it, I had a small plate in front of me. I was halfway through it, and on each shoulder sat the devil and the angel. The angel was begging me: “Please stop. Remember the consequences. Remember the throat-closing Olympics.”The devil? Oh, the devil had no chill. “Eat it. You’ve already started, might as well finish it and await the inevitable.”

So, of course, I listened to the devil. Peer pressure from my own subconscious.

And then it began.

First came the sweating. Not light sweating… full-blown, I just climbed a mountain kind of sweating. And there was no electricity, so the fan was just sitting there like decoration. I was glistening like a goat waiting to be slaughtered for Christmas.

Then the itch started. Not outside, inside. My throat was itching like it owed someone money. It felt like a small creature was using sandpaper to redecorate my esophagus.

The next symptom? My throat began to close up, slowly, dramatically, like it was tired of me making dumb decisions and finally decided to pack up and leave. Meanwhile, I had no drugs for this. Not even paracetamol.

And what did I do while waiting for the allergic apocalypse?

I ate chocolate.

Why? I don’t know. Maybe I thought sugar would cancel out stupidity. Spoiler: it didn’t.

So there I was, lying in bed, drenched in sweat, clutching my throat, whispering to God, “Please, just one more chance. I swear I’ll never do it again.”

But deep down… I knew I was lying.

Because if someone offered me that same spaghetti tomorrow, hot and fragrant, with the crayfish swimming boldly in it? I’d probably eat it again.

Moral of the story? Don’t eat food you’re allergic to. Or do. But make sure you have your allergy meds. Or a will. Or both.

Me? I choose chaos and well-seasoned decisions.

Cheers to reckless decisions and delicious regrets.

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A Song I’ve been obsessed with lately💕🫠

Always,

Zarah🤎.

I have an album full of unaware pictures. One I didn’t ask for.

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There’s a photographer I’ve never seen, but I know he’s been there, lurking in the corner of my days. I could feel his suffocating presence more than once, just enough to know he was watching, but not enough to make me turn my head and look over. So I ignored it, assuming the moment would pass.

It didn’t.

Instead, I’ve been captured so many times that now, without permission, I have an entire album dedicated to me. Quiet moments I didn’t agree to pose for. Not of smiling faces or beautiful moments, but of something more subtle, more difficult to explain. My emotions, I’ve realized, are these photographs. Still, silent, sometimes blurry. And I don’t know who’s taking them.

Maybe it’s the woman at the junction, the one who kept shouting at her helper until the girl broke down in tears in the public and everyone pretended not to notice. Maybe it’s the weight of academic pressure, the kind that doesn’t go unnoticed but sits on your shoulders like a burden and burrow into your chest, making everything feel heavier. Or maybe… the photographer is just me, quietly documenting my own self, one photograph at a time

I didn’t ask for this album. But I wake up with it, some mornings more than others. There’s an ache, a kind of hollowness I can’t quite describe, that creeps in not because of something that happened, but in spite of everything that didn’t. On those days, I scroll through the photographs unconsciously, each one with moments I didn’t realize were being recorded: an offensive comment, a lingering stare, a silence that went on too long.

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The emptiness doesn’t announce itself with loudness. It arrives in the quiet. A skipped song on a playlist. A meal half-eaten. A conversation avoided. It’s the absence of something I can’t name, only feel. And usually, I distract myself long enough for the feeling to vanish, like deleting the album. But it always returns, quietly rebuilt by new pictures I didn’t know were being taken.

Recently, I woke up like that. The night before, I had been talking to a friend about death, how my brain can’t fully grasp the idea of the world simply existing. Earlier that day, a close friend had said something to me, just three harmless words, but they burrowed into my mind. I kept replaying them, remolding them until they meant more than they should have.

And then I woke up, not sad or angry, just gone. Like my emotions had quietly exited the room without explanation, leaving me unable to fully enter my day.

I try to make sense of it, but there’s often no clean reason. And that’s what makes it hardest. Not the presence of pain, but the absence of reason. So now I’m left wondering: do I keep deleting the album and pretending it never existed, or do I finally try to face the photographer?

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https://open.spotify.com/track/2QZ7WLBE8h2y1Y5Fb8RYbH?si=rJmiieU5T1qbYge_kFXjag&context=spotify%3Aplaylist%3A2ux53vamBMY0aeuKepTeo3

Always,

Zarah🤎.

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The End

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled in the quietness of the cold hospital reeking with the smell of antiseptic. A little ray of light filtering in through the small gap between the white opaque curtain and the wall, reflecting on her pale skin, the same as caramel golden skin he fell in love with.

He sat beside her bed, his hands holding her warm, yet cold hands. Her fingernails painted the same floral pattern he recognized from the first day they had met at the restaurant.

“Mr. Collins,” the nurse called out from the corner of the room. He had barely paid attention to her. “Visiting hours are over” she said gently. She spoke as though she was pitying him.

“Will you be coming another time?” The nurse asked so she could fill it in. After all, she never got any other visitors.

He nodded, his eyes not leaving the frail little girl, the product of the girl he loved who left him for another man. The same love he could have sworn would last a lifetime but instead, he was taking care of a little girl of another man who has the eyes of the girl he won’t forget.

She was dying soon… had a week left there about but she was still as active as the day he found out about her, 2 months ago.

“Tell me about you and mom again” the little girl asked of him. A request reminding him of how it all started.

Two years Earlier

The unraveling

The silence filled the air while he pondered about what she had just said to him. For a while, he had considered if he had imagined her words… but after three consecutive pinches, he had reasons to believe it was damn real.

“What?” He asked again just to be sure he heard right.

“I don’t wanna be with you anymore” Amnah repeated without hesitation, breaking his heart into numerous pieces more than it did the first time.

“Why?… I thought we were okay. Is this about the proposal? I told you I could wait till you’re ready baby.” He fumbled for words as he tried to forsake the situation. Maybe, just maybe, she might change her mind but deep down, he knew she had her mind made up. She had been retreating from him for the last 2 weeks and now? A break up! It was crushing him immensely.

“I thought I could do it but I’m sorry. I can’t. I found a better guy and I’m not going to pick you over him” Each word she said felt like a dagger to his already shattered heart but she didn’t care. His love didn’t matter anymore.

“Okay” he replied dejectedly with tears in his eyes. “Okay” he repeated to reaffirm himself of what he had just uttered.

Afterwards, he walked her out of his apartment. No hand holding, no goodbye kiss. Just silence from two hearts, one that used to be in love, and one that still was.

“You were everything but I guess everything just wasn’t enough” Amnah said as she stepped into the elevator. The moment lingered as he almost asked “could we start over?”

But the moment passed and she left.

Five years Earlier

The golden years

They were on a date, a picnic. Laughter in the air where 18 by One direction played in the background.

Amnah’s feet were on Imran’s lap. He absentmindedly massaged her ankles while she sipped on her favorite red wine.

“We’ll always be like this” she said softly… a precious moment vibrating through the air.

He didn’t respond right way… he didn’t need to. The moment felt infinite.

But nothing was.

Seven Years Earlier

The beginning of forever

The restaurant staffs appeared with flowers, balloon, money bouquet and lastly a dessert with “Will you be my girlfriend?” written on it. Perfect by Ed Sheeran played in the background while the lights focused on them.

He took the flowers and removed a jewelry box from his blazer. “Amnah Isabella Ranti, would you be my girlfriend officially?”

She gasped and then laughed. “Of course, I will you idiot”

They tumbled into each other’s arm, both laughing sheepishly in happiness. A couple on a nearby table claps, unnoticed by the two, caught in the middle of what was meant to be the beginning of their forever.

Seven years and six months earlier

The beginning

She entered the restaurant with her friends, laughing at what one of her friends whispered in her ear as they came in through the door. She looked ethereal as she laughed, her ruffled orange sundress showcasing her beauty against her caramel skin while her hair caressed down her shoulder.

He stood to say hi, stumbling over his legs. They both laughed as his ears turned pink.

“I’m Imran” he said, offering his hand.

“Amnah” she shook it. Something electric passed between them.

Her friends stared at the cute meet. In plain sight, it felt like nothing but inside, something began.

Epilogue

He visited the hospital one last time. He brought a book his love used to love, read it aloud but she didn’t stir.

When he finished, he kissed her forehead like always. And for a moment, a slight moment, he saw her head drop. The heart monitor flattened, noise echoed and silence filled the cold hospital room.

She died.

To my one subscriber… this is for you 🥺💕

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His hands were like bricks on her chest

‎That kept her pinned to his mischievous will

‎She tries to leave, maybe fly away from him

‎But she's like a butterfly with wet wings

‎He took each part of her with deep thrust

‎Pearl-like tears fell off her eyes with shame

‎The beautiful limbs of her body bare in the air

‎While her lips pleaded away from his whispered breath

‎Her hair tightly held in his hands

‎Strands of her hair on the floor

‎With her torn clothing is his pants

‎Looked into his eyes and saw his smile

‎A smile that still haunts her in reality and dreams

‎His warm touch like a vaccum

‎Cleansing the purity out of her body

‎The blood that followed shortly after

‎A reminder of the deed she couldn't control

‎Reminded her of his cruel touch

‎And the way he pulled her body closer to his

‎The feelings of those warm fingers in her

‎Just that she didn't want it

‎And the feeling of it became worse and worse

‎And all she wanted was to die in a ditch

‎She tried to wash the feelings away after

‎But each scrub was torture to her scarred body

‎She lived her life in constant fear of that noon

‎The pain she holds inside is of one they'll never know

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I haven’t written anything in this mode of writing since 2023 neither have I been able to talk about this before 2023. Run like a girl but it depends if you can actually run. After all, we don’t choose how we survive

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Always,

Zarah🤎.