The first time I saw Fiyin, I was thirteen. He was the senior boy every girl secretly liked; smart, calm, always smelling of that faint soap scent that stayed even after he walked past. I didn’t understand what I felt back then. It wasn’t just admiration. It was something deeper, something that made my stomach flutter whenever he smiled at me during morning assembly.

I didn’t know the word for it then, but I felt a connection between us.

We never dated. He left school after senior secondary school, and life moved on. I told myself it was just a childish crush, the kind that fades with time. But every once in a while, his face would sneak into my thoughts.

Years went by. I graduated, got a job, moved to a new city, and built a life of my own. I dated other guys, even had my share of experiences that came with growing up, but nothing ever felt the same. Some nights, when I was alone, his face would appear in my mind out of nowhere. Not because I still loved him, but because he was the first person I ever felt something pure for. The first time my heart beat for someone without calculation.

Then two months ago, I was transferred to a new branch of my company in Lagos. On my first day, while trying to find the HR office, I heard a familiar voice behind me say, “Cassy?”

I froze.

I turned around slowly, and there he was. Older, broader, finer. The same gentle eyes, now framed by faint lines that only made him look better. For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

“Fiyin?” I managed to whisper.

He smiled. “Wow. It’s really you.”

That was how it started again, in a hallway filled with fluorescent lights and office chatter.

Working together was both easy and complicated. Easy because we clicked instantly. Complicated because every time our eyes met during meetings, my chest tightened. He was my team lead, which meant we spent a lot of time together, brainstorming, staying late to finish proposals, sharing lunch, and laughing about nothing.

The more time we spent together, the more the air between us changed. It wasn’t just nostalgia anymore; it was tension, quiet but strong.

One Friday night, after a long day, he offered to drop me off. The traffic was heavy, but neither of us complained. We talked about secondary school, about how innocent we were, about the things we didn’t understand back then.

He laughed softly. “You used to avoid me like I carried bad luck.”

I smiled. “That’s because I didn’t know what to do with how I felt.”

He turned to look at me, curiosity in his eyes. “And how did you feel?”

I hesitated. “I liked you. A lot. But it was more than that. I just didn’t have the words for it then.”

Silence filled the car. Then he whispered, “I liked you too, Cassy. You had this… quiet energy. I just didn’t think you saw me that way.”

When we reached my gate, I should have said goodbye and gone inside. But neither of us moved. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his hand lingering longer than necessary. I felt my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

“Cassy…” he said, voice low.

I didn’t let him finish. I leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that comes from curiosity; it was the kind that comes from waiting too long. Twelve years of buried feelings, curiosity, and longing all found their way into that one moment.

Everything after that felt inevitable. The way he held me. The way I let him. The way time stopped, like the world had been waiting for this, too.

When I woke up the next morning, sunlight streamed through my curtains, painting soft lines across his skin. I didn’t know what label to give what happened: love, desire, or just closure. But I knew one thing: after nine years, I finally understood what I felt for him back then.

And this time, I wasn’t too young to name it.

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