I never thought my body count should matter to anyone. I’ve had fun, I’ve had sex, I’ve lived. Every time I lay with a man, it was because I wanted to, not because I was desperate or being used. I wasn’t reckless either; I just didn’t think I owed anyone an explanation for the choices I made with my own body.

That was until I met Mayowa.

From the beginning, he felt different. Gentle, attentive, the kind of man who listened with his whole body, like every word I spoke mattered. He smelled like promise, like the type of man I could finally let myself fall for. With him, I thought maybe the chase was over. Maybe this was the one who would see me as I was.

But then there was that question.

The first time he asked, it was over drinks at his apartment. “So… how many guys have you been with?” His voice was casual, but I caught the way his eyes lingered, searching my face.

I laughed it off and changed the topic. I thought maybe he was just curious, or maybe it was one of those random questions men throw when they don’t know what else to say.

But he asked again the next week. And the week after that.

At first, I brushed it aside, teasing him, dodging. But by the fourth time, I couldn’t hide my disgust. “What is it about my body count, Mayowa?” My voice was sharper than I intended.

He frowned, his jaw tight. “I just want to know the kind of woman I’m with.”

That stung.

The air between us was thick with heat that had nothing to do with desire. I told him he had no right to measure me with numbers. He said he had the right to know.

And then I snapped.

“Oh, are you sure this is about me, or is it about you?” I shot back, my voice trembling with anger.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re projecting, Mayowa. You’ve been with half of Lagos. You’ve slept with women who had boyfriends, even serious girlfriends, and now you think every woman is like you. You don’t trust because you know the rubbish you’ve done.”

His jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t turn this on me. At least I’m being honest about who I am. I just want to know if I’m wasting my time.”

“Wasting your time?” I laughed bitterly. “With me? Mayowa, you’re not scared of my past; you’re scared of yourself. You can’t imagine a woman being faithful because you’ve never respected boundaries yourself.”

“That’s not fair!” he barked. “I’ve changed. I don’t do those things anymore.”

“Then why does it matter so much to you what I’ve done?” I fired back. “If you’ve changed, why can’t you believe that a woman can make her own choices without being labelled unworthy?”

We were both breathing hard now, words ricocheting between us like bullets.

He rubbed his hand over his head, frustrated. “You don’t get it. I’ve seen things. I know how women can be…”

“No, Mayowa. You know how you can be. Don’t paint me with your brush.” My voice cracked, but I didn’t stop. “I don’t care about your past. I don’t care about how many women you’ve been with. But you judging me because of the way you lived your life? That’s something I will never accept.”

Silence. Heavy. His chest rose and fell, his eyes dark, searching my face like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

For the first time, I felt the distance between us like a wall. And maybe that was the problem, we weren’t fighting about me at all. We were fighting about his shadows.

I turned away, swallowing hard. “If you can’t see me beyond the ghost of your own mistakes, then maybe this isn’t going to work.”

The room was quiet except for our breathing. Neither of us reached for the other. The tension hung thick and unbroken.

And just like that, I knew love alone wasn’t enough.

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