Some things live in your chest, like stones.

You get used to their weight, so you forget they're even there — until someone is nice and asks, and the stones come to rest. And you remember how heavy they've been.

Alex asked that night.

---

It was late. Luis had dozed off, one arm across his pillow. The window stood slightly open, letting in hot air and the distant thud of music on the street.

We two sat on the floor, shoulders against the wall, knees tucked up. Between us: a heavy silence, awaiting.

"Tell me about you," he whispered, blushing.

I almost laughed — not that it was funny, but that it sounded so strange that anyone would care.

Others inquire about what you do. Where you're from.

But you? The hard, knotted story under your breastbone? Nobody ever asks about that.

"Where do I start?" I breathed.

"Anywhere," he said. "Anywhere you can."

---

So I did.

“I was born in Ajegunle,” I began, the words tasting like rusty nails. “Concrete house. Two rooms. The sort of place that taught you to listen for footsteps outside before you slept.”

“My mother died when I was eleven,” I went on. “Fever that turned into something worse. I remember holding her hand until it went cold.”

Alex didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away. Just… listened.

---

"My father drank," I continued, low voice. "When she died, it got worse. Bottles under the bed. Slurred apologies cut off by my disbelief."

"One night, he just left and never came back. Maybe he died. Maybe he just… couldn't stand to look at us anymore."

I swallowed hard. "By then, there was only me and Luis. He was barely two years old."

---

Alex's eyes did not pity me — they pinned me in position.

I continued.

I was fourteen when I got my first real job," I said to him. "Selling groundnuts at Mile 2. And then sweeping in a shop on the Island."

"School?" Alex asked gently.

"I attempted," I whispered. "But survival always took priority. By the time Luis got sick, I'd dropped out for good."

---

The hardest thing to admit was next.

"Six years old, he passed out at school," I breathed. "Asthma, they told us. Then worse — weak heart, they told us. The doctors gave us pills that I couldn't afford."

"Now and then, he couldn't walk up the stairs. So I carried him. Always up, sometimes down."

Alex's mouth drew into a tight line. "And you were still just a child yourself."

"I didn't think like one," I said. "Poverty doesn't let you stay small."

He breathed deeply, eyes burning. "How did you do it?"

"One day at a time," I gasped. "You don't plan years when you're poor. You plan lunch."

Silence stretched between us, thick and somehow gentle.

Then Alex asked: "And love?"

---

I snorted, sharp and bitter. "I thought I had it, once," I admitted. "His name was Femi. He made me feel seen."

Memory failed him — his smile, "my strong girl" said softly.

"And then?" Alex asked softly.

"And then the anger came," I breathed. "Soft to loud. Loud to bruises."

"Luis saw," I went on, voice cracking. "That was it. I left."

---

Alex's fists clenched, knuckles white.

"I promised no man would ever lay hands on Luis again," I said, going lower. "And then…

"And then I came," Alex finished, voice quiet.

"You're different," I whispered. "But that scares me too."

He furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"Because you make me need things I promised myself I couldn't have," I admitted, shame burning in my cheeks.

---

"What things?" he asked, softer than air.

"Rest," I said. "Softness. Someone who stays."

He was silent for a very long time.

Then: "Everyone deserves that," Alex whispered. "Even you."

---

I shook my head. "Especially me? No. Women like me never get fairytales."

"Then maybe it doesn't have to be a fairytale," he told me. "Maybe it can simply be true."

The words stung deep in my chest. True.

What did true even look like?

---

I dared to ask my own question: "And you? What do you want?

Alex stared at his hands, shoulders furrowed. "Forgiveness," he exhaled. "And the chance of being. just a man. Not who I was."

"Who were you?" I asked.

His eyes met mine. "Someone with power," he admitted. "Too much, maybe. And too little honor."

My heart gnawed. "And now?"

"I'm trying," he said, voice breaking. "Trying to be someone you'd want to linger for."

---

I didn't know what to say.

So I touched him, fingers gliding by his hand — just so.

He didn't grab, didn't pull. Just sort of flipped his hand up, let me leave my fingers there.

A little thing. But my chest felt like it could shatter from the softness of it.

---

Luis shifted in sleep, mumbled gibberish, then stilled.

The city outside was still in motion: sounds of music drifting up from a bar, laughter from the gate of the compound, palms swishing in the breeze.

But inside that small room, it was all completely still.

"I'm sorry," Alex whispered.

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry for not telling you everything," he said. "And sorry for wanting to stay anyway."

"Do you promise you'll tell me, one day?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I swear," he said to me. "If you still want to hear it."

"I do," I gasped.

And that was the lie that scared me more than any.

---

The fan spun lazy loops overhead.

For the first time in years, I told my story out loud — and the world didn't end.

And in Alex's quiet attention, something inside of me felt free.

Maybe what we carry isn't for burying.

Maybe it's meant to be shared — if only with somebody brave enough to ask.

---

End of Chapter 8