Chapter 12 Saal's pov
The office hadn't changed.
That was the problem.
The glass walls still shimmered under the Abuja sun. My name still sat on the door in bold letters, like a claim I wasn't sure I deserved anymore. Everything was exactly where I left it— the sleek black desk, the leather chair, the two oversized potted plants Nnaemeka swore kept the air "alive" but only looked thirsty and overwatered. The same smell lingered too, that cold blend of polished surfaces and ambition.
It should have felt like home. Instead, it felt like walking into someone else's life.
People noticed me the moment I stepped in. Some smiled too widely, like relief was a currency they couldn't spend fast enough. Some hugged me, their arms quick and careful, like I might break. Others avoided eye contact altogether, pretending their screens needed them more than this awkward resurrection of mine.
I heard the whispers anyway.
"He looks good."
"He lost weight."
"I thought he was gone for longer."
The last one stung more than it should have.
My inbox had 134 unread messages. I deleted half without opening them. The rest…I'd deal with later. For now, I just sat. Let the leather swallow me whole while I stared at the skyline outside the glass. Abuja was still moving, fast and indifferent. Meanwhile, I was trying to remember how to belong here again.
How to feel like I was still the man whose name shone on the door.
---
Nnaemeka came in around noon, sharp as always in a charcoal three-piece suit. He wore them like armor, and in some ways, they were. No one could tell what was beneath that kind of perfection. Maybe that's why I kept him close.
"You're back early," he said, voice even but eyes scanning me like a diagnostic machine.
I nodded once. "Felt like time."
He didn't smile. Didn't call it brave or smart. Just studied me for a beat too long before asking, "You feeling strong?"
"Stronger," I lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe strength was just not collapsing where people could see.
"Good." He dropped a file on my desk like a peace offering. "Intern's starting today. Bright kid. Might even outpace you if you blink."
I gave a faint smile. "Unlikely."
He chuckled, but the sound didn't linger. On his way out, he glanced back, his voice dropping softer. "Take it slow, boss."
I didn't answer. Couldn't promise what I didn't believe.
---
The intern showed up at one. Her name was Aisha—round glasses, a neat scarf framing a face that carried more curiosity than fear. She didn't try to impress me with a speech. She didn't trip over compliments. She simply stood there, composed, her tablet in one hand like an extension of herself.
We walked through the archives together, and she absorbed everything like the walls might quiz her later. She took photos of labels instead of scribbling notes, asked questions people twice her age would've swallowed out of pride, and didn't laugh nervously when silence fell.
I liked her immediately.
Halfway through, she glanced at me, brows drawn. "You sure you should be back already?"
I blinked. "Why?"
"You walked slower than your shadow getting off the elevator."
I laughed under my breath. "Noted."
She shrugged like it wasn't personal. "My dad had surgery last year. Didn't tell anyone how much it took out of him until he passed out mid-meeting."
I smirked. "I'm not your dad."
"No offense," she said lightly, "but men lie to themselves the same way."
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. What could I say? That I wasn't lying, just…holding? That the truth was a luxury I couldn't afford to hand out yet?
She smiled like she'd already read the answer. "Just saying."
---
By evening, the numbers blurred on the screen. Every file looked like a stranger's handwriting. My head pulsed in that dull, insistent rhythm I'd been ignoring for weeks. I closed the laptop, leaned back, and let my eyes shut for a breath too long.
And then, like a habit stitched into my bones, I reached for my phone.
Ibtisam still hadn't messaged.
I didn't blame her.
Silence was safer than the storm waiting under our words.
I typed: You working late?
Deleted it.
Typed again: Miss you.
Deleted that too.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard like maybe it could summon courage if I waited long enough. But all I could feel was the gap between us—an empty hallway neither of us had walked yet.
So I sent a photo instead. The coffee cup I'd kept since that movie night. Her pink lipstick still kissing the rim like a secret.
One minute passed.
Then three.
Then five.
Finally, my screen lit up. A photo. Her car's dashboard. Speedometer kissing 120.
Caption: I'm alive.
I stared at it longer than I should have, the hum in my chest louder than the ache in my bones.
And for a fleeting, dangerous moment…
That felt like enough.
But even then, a part of me knew—
This wasn't enough.
Not for her.
Not for me.
Not for whatever time we had left.