Today, let’s dabble in a bit of literary prose.

 

Yetunde and I met at Twirling Spoon, a cosy creperie bathed in golden light. The scent of caramel and butter clung to the air, wrapping itself around us as we picked at our desserts, weighed down by the ache of disappointment.

She had always been the fearless one — the serial adventurer in love. She had thrived in the excitement of dating, revelling in the chase, the possibility, the thrill of what if? But then, she chose stability. She chose him. She chose to believe in forever.

And yet, forever had unravelled.

 

One morning, her partner had simply woken up and decided that monogamy wasn’t for him. Just like that. As if love were something he could slip off like an ill-fitting coat.

I watched her stir her coffee, her voice hollow. “Maybe love just isn’t for us,” she murmured, and something inside me clenched.

Because I had spent years navigating love’s battlefield, emerging each time with fresh wounds, new scars. It had almost always been me doing the crying — he didn’t love me back, he was gay, he was emotionally unavailable, he was a philanderer. The list was exhaustive.

And yet, despite the heartache sitting in front of me, despite my own catalogue of failed romances, I knew exactly what I would do.

I would go home. I would press powder to my cheeks, paint my lips red, slip into a dress that whispered elegance, and step into the night.

Because somewhere, a man was waiting to meet me.

He greeted me with a look that lingered just a second too long.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced.

I smiled. We danced through the usual pleasantries, both playing our parts. Then, after a sip of his drink, he leaned in slightly, his voice dipping lower.

“So… what are you looking for?”

I exhaled and let the question settle. And then, with quiet certainty, I spoke.

I yearn.

I yearn for a love that sees me — not just as a beautiful distraction, not as an option, but as a woman with depth, with substance, with an #unshakable spirit.

I yearn for hands that trace the calluses of my own, pressing soft kisses into each hardened ridge, whispering, does it hurt? Does it feel better when I do this? Because I, too, will kiss his calluses, every single one.

I yearn for a love that catches me mid-fall, that steadies me, that says I got you; a love that does not turn affection into currency; a love that chooses me, over and over again, not because I am convenient, but because I am everything.

I yearn for a love that is easy. That does not make me question my worth; that does not feel like a battle I must keep winning just to be kept.

I yearn for the kind of love that is simple and ordinary in the most beautiful way; a love that feels like home; a love that does not exhaust me.

I yearn for a time when I no longer settle just to fill voids; a time when my pleasure isn’t just a momentary high, but a full-bodied, soul-quenching experience.

I yearn for something real.

And yet — perhaps my hunger is too vast. Perhaps this yearning is an ache that will never be soothed.

Perhaps true romance is only meant for fairy tales. Perhaps the ones who find it don’t actually have it all — they just learn how to make do.

And if they do have it all, well —they won the lottery. And we both know what the odds of that are.

So perhaps one day, the love I deserve will find me. And until then, I will sip my whiskey, paint my white roses red, and pretend sometimes. Perhaps one day, my yearnings will return something worthy of all I have to give.

Until then…

We just yearn.

I looked at him then, waiting. Hoping.

He exhaled. A slow, quiet sigh. And then—

“It’s not you. It’s me,” he said, his voice measured, rehearsed.

A small, almost imperceptible laugh bubbled up inside me.

Of course, it was.

Of course.

 

Comments? ‘See’ you next week.

 

Sally Chiwuzie
+ posts

IG Handle: @unshakable.is.a.state.of.mind