“Yes. Yeah, um, I was thinking I’m kind of craving home food. You think you can make something and bring it over?”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, okay. If you’re busy now, you can just bring it later.”

“I can’t. I’m busy.”

“What was that? Wait. That was Janet?”

Of course it was.

“Hey, I’d like to see you again. And not by accident this time.”

“I have to go.”

“Janet. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just not available all the time anymore.”

The moment Janet stepped outside the lounge door, something inside her gave way. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But completely. The night air hit her—cold, sharp, almost accusing. For the first time, it didn’t comfort her. It exposed her.

Her steps slowed. Then stopped.

How did I not see it?

She’s not my type. She’ll always be there. I’m just being nice.

Her chest tightened. I was never special. I was just available.

By the time she got home, her vision was blurred beyond recognition.

“Janet! What happened? What did that idiot do?”

She stepped inside unsteadily, then sank onto the sofa and broke. Not quietly. Not neatly. It came all at once. Her shoulders shook as sobs tore through her chest. Deep. Wrecked.

“Hey, look at me. Breathe. Talk to me.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. Tell me.”

“I heard him. At the lounge. I heard everything.” She gasped, struggling to pull air into lungs that felt too small. “They were laughing at me. At everything I do for him. He said I’m not his type. That I’m just there. That I’ll always wait. He said I want him so much that he’s just being nice. That he’s giving me a little of what I’ve been begging for.”

Her friend Ada’s face hardened. “What? That man said that about you? And you’ve been showing up for him? Cooking? Dropping everything? I swear, if I see him, he’ll regret it.”

“He said the reason we’re not intimate is because he never showed interest. That if he did, I’d move into his house the next day.”

“So that’s it. That’s how he sees you? A backup plan he hasn’t activated?” Ada’s voice was low, controlled, the kind of calm that comes right before something breaks. “You gave that man everything. Your time. Your care. Your loyalty. Your love. And he turned it into entertainment. But it stops now.”

Janet didn’t argue. Didn’t defend him. She simply broke again—quieter this time. And Ada pulled her into a hug. Holding her. Not fixing anything. Just staying.

Hours later, the room was quiet. Janet sat alone, exhausted. She reached for her phone. No message. No call. Nothing. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t checked. Hadn’t asked if she got home.

And for the first time, it didn’t break her the same way. It simply settled. Cold. Clear. Final. She had always been the one reaching out. The one showing up. The one holding things together. And now that she wasn’t, nothing reached back.

Janet didn’t call. She didn’t text. She didn’t sit beside her phone waiting for it to light up the way she used to—like her entire day depended on the possibility of his name appearing. At first, the silence felt wrong. Not painful. Just unfamiliar. Like forgetting something important before leaving the house. Like walking away from a door you’d locked every day for years and suddenly realizing you hadn’t checked it.

Her fingers still drifted toward her phone sometimes, out of habit. Then stopped halfway. Like her body hadn’t fully learned the new boundary her heart was quietly building.

For years, reaching for Mike had been automatic. He never really had to ask. And because she was always there, her presence became invisible. Not unimportant. Just expected. So when the messages stopped, Mike didn’t recognize it as loss at first. He recognized it as delay. She’s busy.

But the silence never corrected itself. No random check-ins. No “have you eaten?” At first, Mike tried not to react. Then, he called.

Janet saw his name appear on her screen. Her body reacted before her thoughts did—a small tightening in her chest, an old instinct waking up too quickly. Her thumb hovered over the screen without moving. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. But this time, she stayed still.

The ringing stopped. And what followed wasn’t guilt. Wasn’t panic. Wasn’t emptiness. It was clarity.

Across town, Mike stared at his phone a moment longer than expected. She’ll call back. But she didn’t call back. So he called again the next day. This time sooner. More immediate. Like he was trying to restore a rhythm before it changed permanently.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You didn’t text when you got home.”

“I got home fine.”

“Are you coming over later?”

“No.”

“No? Not today?”

“I’m good.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

No explanation followed. No emotional reassurance. And when the conversation finally ended, Janet let it end completely.

That Saturday, Ada arrived at Janet’s apartment without knocking. “You’re not staying in this house all weekend. We’re going out.”

“Out where?”

“Out to live a little. New hair, new nails, new air—anything that reminds you you’re still here.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Keep saying that. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.” Ada grabbed Janet’s jacket from the hook. “I know you.”

Janet didn’t argue. Two hours later, they were in a salon buzzing with dryers, laughter, and music too loud to think deeply. Janet sat in the chair while the stylist sectioned her hair. Ada leaned beside her, scrolling through her phone.

They stopped at a small rooftop lounge later that evening. Nothing fancy. Just warm lights, soft music, and a city view that felt far enough away from everything that used to hurt. Janet sat with her drink untouched, watching people laugh around them.

“You know what your problem was?” Ada asked.

“Please don’t start.”

“I am starting.” Ada set her phone down. “You were loving somebody like it was a full-time job with no pay, no benefits, and overtime you never applied for.”

Janet sighed. “That’s not funny.”

“It is, because now you’re emotionally unemployed.” Ada smirked. “You know, I’m actually glad you heard what you heard.”

“Glad?”

“It hurt. I know. But at least it ended the guessing. No filling gaps for someone who never gave you clarity.”

“I just feel drained. Tired.”

“Of course you do. You were doing relationship duties without a relationship.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“It’s not. It’s accurate. You were the one checking in. You were the one showing up. You were the one adjusting your life around someone who wasn’t adjusting anything for you. You were giving full-time energy to a situation that only needed you when it was convenient. And when it wasn’t convenient, you became optional.” Ada leaned closer. “You’re not heartbroken. You’re exhausted.”

“So what now?”

“Now you stop shrinking your life for someone who never expanded his for you.” Ada’s eyes flicked toward the entrance. “And maybe you stop ignoring that colleague of yours who clearly doesn’t need an invitation to talk to you.”

“Which colleague?”

“The one who always finds reasons to check on you.”

Before Janet could respond, a voice came from beside their table. “Excuse me. Sorry. I hope I’m not interrupting. I walked past and spent too long deciding whether to introduce myself or pretend I wasn’t curious.”

“And you chose curiosity,” Ada said.

“Unfortunately, it usually wins.”

“We were just relaxing,” Janet said.

“Good. I almost didn’t come over. Didn’t want to misread the situation and become a story later.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“That’s survival.”

Ada grinned. “Okay, I like him already.”

“I’m Daniel.” He extended his hand.

“Janet.” She shook it. “And I promise I don’t usually approach strangers. But you look like someone trying to enjoy silence instead of escape it.”

“So, Daniel, what do you do?” Ada asked.

“I design systems that make life easier for people and harder for me when they break.”

Janet laughed. “That sounds expensive.”

“It becomes expensive when people ignore instructions.”

“So what brought you here tonight?”

“My friend dragged me out.” Daniel glanced at Ada. “Good friend?”

“Best friend,” Ada confirmed.

“She’s doing a good job.” Daniel looked back at Janet. “You look lighter.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. I noticed you before I walked over. Nothing intrusive. Just—you seemed a bit withdrawn earlier. But you seem different now. Lighter.”

As the night softened and conversations faded in and out, Janet found herself laughing more than she had in a long time. Not because she was trying to be okay, but because for once, she wasn’t being pulled in five emotional directions at once. Daniel didn’t dominate the space. He shared it. And that difference—small as it was—was new enough to notice.

His phone buzzed. “Sorry, work. I’m not escaping. Just a client who thinks urgency is a personality trait. I’ll be back. I mean that.”

Daniel stepped away. Ada turned to Janet immediately. “Hmm. What?”

“Be honest. He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you start analyzing whether someone is worth getting to know.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that. I don’t even know him.”

“Mhm. Yeah. But notice something.” Ada tilted her head. “He doesn’t make you feel small while he’s talking to you.”

Daniel returned. “So, am I still allowed here, or did I fail the audition?”

“You passed,” Ada said. “Relax.”

“Good to know.” Daniel looked at Janet. “Janet, if I see you again, I’d like it to be intentional. Not accidental.”

“We’ll see.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You are, and it’s annoying me.”

Janet felt lighter than she had in years.

Two days later, Mike sat half-slouched on his couch, phone in one hand, remote in the other. His friend Chidi walked in. “Guy, how far? Abeg, tell me there’s food in this house. I’m actually starving.”

“Food? Not today. We’ll either order or step out.”

“Order? Omo, what happened to your girlfriend?”

“My what?”

“Abeg, Janet. That girl that used to bring you proper food. Not normal food, oh. Full restaurant-level meal. Omo, that fried rice alone deserves respect. So, what happened this time?”

“Nothing.”

“We haven’t really spoken in a while.” Chidi frowned. “Wait, what? Janet? You two haven’t spoken in a while? Is she okay? Is she sick?”

“It’s not that deep.”

“Guy, that babe checks on you morning, afternoon, night. As in, she drops everything once you call. She’s just busy, I guess.”

“Busy? For you? Impossible.” Chidi shook his head. “Oh, yeah. Call her now. Tell her you’re hungry. She’ll appear here in less than two hours. Like Uber Eats, but better.”

“Exactly. That girl doesn’t waste time when it comes to Mike.”

“All right, fine.”

Mike reached for his phone. Not because he was certain. Because they were watching. He dialed without thinking too hard about it. Put the call on speaker automatically. The phone rang. Once. Twice.

“Yes.”

“Yeah, um, I was thinking I’m kind of craving home food. You think you can make something and bring it over?”

“I can’t.”

“Oh, okay. If you’re busy now, you can just bring it later.”

“I can’t. I’m busy.”

“All right, then. No problem.”

“Yeah.”

The call ended. Chidi stared at Mike. “What was that? Wait. That was Janet?”

“Of course it was.”

“No. I mean, are you sure? That didn’t sound like her.”

“She said she’s busy.”

“Since when did Janet become too busy for you?”

“She’s probably really busy.”

“Guy, are you sure something didn’t happen?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this whole thing—it didn’t sound like her at all. Think about it properly. When was the last time you even saw her?” Chidi leaned forward. “Did you do something to piss her off?”

“No. Nothing happened.”

“Wait.” Chidi’s eyes narrowed. “At the lounge, when she left to use the restroom, me and the guys were talking about her.”

“What kind of talking?”

Chidi hesitated. “She wasn’t there at the time.” He didn’t explain what had actually been said. “Are you sure she didn’t overhear the conversation?”

“No. She didn’t hear anything. If she did, I’d know.”

“How? Because she was fine when she came back. She was laughing, normal. If she heard anything like that, she wouldn’t have acted like that.”

“Then something changed.”

Mike didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear it, but because he did. And for the first time, he couldn’t explain it away.

A few days later, it wasn’t planned. That was what made it feel different. No pressure. No expectation. Just a message. Simple. Direct.

“Hey, I was going to grab coffee after work. Thought I’d ask if you wanted to join me. Intentionally this time.”

Janet stared at her phone for a moment longer than necessary. He had said exactly what he meant and left space for her to choose. She replied, “Okay.”

The café was quiet. Not empty. Janet spotted Daniel near the window and walked over. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He stood as she sat. No rush. No awkwardness trying to fill itself. Just two people settling into the same space without forcing it to mean more than it needed to.

They talked about small things at first. Work. Random frustrations. Things that didn’t carry emotional risk. And slowly, it expanded. Not into intensity. Into ease. Janet noticed something without trying to: she wasn’t performing. Not choosing words carefully. Not adjusting tone. Not checking his reactions to see if she was still being received correctly.

Daniel leaned back slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.”

“I’d like to see you again. And not by accident this time. I don’t want to assume anything. But I enjoy talking to you. And I’d like to do it again properly.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Take your time.”

Later that evening, Janet stepped into the house quietly. Ada was already there, sprawled on the couch. She looked up immediately. “Why are you glowing?”

“I’m not glowing.”

“You are smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are trying not to smile.” Ada sat up. “Who is he?”

“Who?”

“I’m waiting. Start talking.”

“It’s not that deep. He just asked to see me again.”

“He?” Ada’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait. Daniel? Are you guys together now?”

“What? No. We’re just getting to know each other. He said he’d like to see me more often. I told him I’d think about it.”

“You’re going to think about something you’ve already decided?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please.” Ada grinned. “I know that face. That smile. That is not ‘thinking.’ That is ‘yes’ trying to behave itself.”

As Ada continued teasing her, Janet didn’t shut it down. She didn’t overthink it. She just stood there smiling.

A few days later, the workday ended the way most ordinary days do—when nothing dramatic is expected. Janet stepped out of the building, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, and started walking. Then stopped. Not because she was startled. Not because fear hit her suddenly. But because she saw him.

Mike. Across the street, leaning against his car.

She crossed the street slowly. Measured. Present inside each step instead of disappearing into instinct. When she finally reached him, Mike straightened slightly.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I was around. Thought I should see you.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been acting weird.”

“I’ve just been busy.”

“Come on. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. We’ll figure it out.”

“I have plans.”

“Plans? With who?”

“Friends.”

“You’re suddenly hard to get, huh?”

“I have to go.”

“Janet.”

“What?”

“What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just not available all the time anymore.”

Mike stared at her. “You’re acting different.”

“I know.”

No apology followed. No emotional cushion. Just acknowledgment. And this time, when Janet turned to leave, she didn’t pause for permission from the moment. She simply walked away.

No backward glance. No hesitation that hoped he’d call her back. Just the quiet sound of her own footsteps, steady and sure, carrying her away from everything that had once held her in place like a cage she’d mistaken for a home.

The weeks that followed were strange in the best way. Not because Janet had suddenly figured everything out, but because she had stopped pretending she needed to. She went to work. She came home. She laughed with Ada. She texted Daniel—short messages at first, then longer ones, then phone calls that stretched past midnight without either of them noticing the time.

Daniel never pushed. That was the thing. He asked questions but not like he was collecting information. He listened like he was actually interested in the answer. He showed up when he said he would. He remembered things she’d mentioned in passing—her favorite takeout order, the name of her childhood pet, the way she took her coffee.

It wasn’t extravagant. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply consistent. And consistency, Janet was learning, was a kind of love that didn’t need to announce itself.

Mike, meanwhile, was learning something else entirely. He sat in his apartment one evening, scrolling through his phone. Janet’s name was still in his contacts. Her photo still there. He opened their chat. The last message was from him. Three weeks ago. She hadn’t replied.

He typed something. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted it. What was there to say? “I’m sorry” felt too small. “I miss you” felt too entitled. “I was wrong” felt too late.

He put the phone down. Picked it up again. Scrolled through her Instagram—not stalking, just watching. There was a photo of her at a rooftop restaurant. She was smiling. Really smiling. Not the tired, hopeful smile she used to wear around him. Something brighter. Something lighter.

And there, in the corner of the photo, a man’s hand resting on the table beside hers. Just a hand. But Mike knew. He didn’t know how, but he knew.

He locked his phone and sat in the dark.

Janet didn’t know that Mike had seen the photo. She didn’t know that he had spent the last week replaying every conversation, every moment she had shown up for him, every time he had taken her for granted. She didn’t know, because she had stopped tracking him. Stopped wondering. Stopped waiting for a version of him that had never existed outside her own hopeful imagination.

She was sitting on her couch, feet tucked under her, a glass of wine in her hand, when her phone buzzed.

Daniel: “I know it’s late. But I was thinking about something you said last week. About your grandmother’s garden. I think I want to plant something. Any advice for a beginner?”

Janet smiled. She typed back: “Start with something that’s hard to kill. Basil. Mint. You’ll feel like a hero.”

Daniel: “Basil it is. If it dies, I’m blaming you.”

Janet: “If it dies, you didn’t water it enough.”

Daniel: “Noted. Goodnight, Janet.”

Janet: “Goodnight.”

She set the phone down, still smiling. And for the first time in years, she didn’t think about Mike at all.

The next morning, Janet woke up to sunlight streaming through her window and the smell of coffee from the kitchen. Ada was already there, standing at the counter in her pajamas.

“You’re up early,” Janet said, padding in.

“Couldn’t sleep. Too busy thinking about how proud I am of you.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. Three months ago, you were crying on this couch. Now you’re—” Ada gestured vaguely. “I don’t know. Glowing.”

“I’m not glowing.”

“You are. It’s annoying.” Ada handed her a mug. “So. Daniel.”

“What about him?”

“He asked you out again yet?”

“He doesn’t have to. He just shows up. Not in a creepy way. Just—he’s consistent.”

“That’s the baseline, Janet. That’s not impressive. That’s the bare minimum.”

“I know. But it’s more than I ever got before.”

Ada was quiet for a moment. Then she said, softer now, “Yeah. I know.”

That afternoon, Janet was at the grocery store, picking up ingredients for dinner—nothing fancy, just something she wanted to cook for herself because she felt like it. She was reaching for a jar of tomato sauce when a voice came from behind her.

“Janet.”

She turned. Mike stood there, hands in his pockets, looking like a man who had been rehearsing this moment for days and still wasn’t ready.

“Mike.”

“Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“It’s a grocery store. People shop.”

He winced. “Yeah. I know. I just—” He ran a hand over his jaw. “Can we talk?”

“We’re talking.”

“Not like this. I mean—properly. Over coffee or something.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Janet, please. I just need five minutes.”

She looked at him. Really looked. The Mike she had loved was still there—same face, same voice, same posture. But something was different. Not in him. In her. She didn’t feel the pull. Didn’t feel the hope rising in her chest like it used to. She just felt tired.

“Five minutes,” she said. “Here. In the pasta aisle.”

Mike glanced around at the shelves of spaghetti and marinara. “Here?”

“Here.”

He took a breath. “I heard what you heard. At the lounge. Chidi told me. He said you might have overheard us talking about you.”

“I didn’t overhear. I heard. Every word.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“You meant exactly what you said, Mike. That’s why it hurt.”

He was quiet. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. An old woman pushed her cart past them, eyeing them curiously.

“You were right,” he finally said. “I took you for granted. I thought you’d always be there. I thought I could say whatever I wanted and you’d still—” He stopped. “I was wrong.”

“Yes. You were.”

“So what do I do now?”

Janet looked at him for a long moment. The man she had loved. The man she had cooked for, waited for, hoped for. The man who had laughed at her with his friends and called her a backup plan.

“I don’t know, Mike. That’s not my problem anymore.”

She picked up the jar of tomato sauce, placed it in her cart, and walked away. Not fast. Not slow. Just walked.

She didn’t look back.

That evening, Daniel called. “So, I bought the basil.”

“Already?”

“I told you I was serious. It’s sitting on my windowsill. I named it Janet.”

“You named a plant after me?”

“After the person who gave me gardening advice. Don’t read into it.”

“I’m not reading into anything.”

“Good. Because I also bought mint. That one’s unnamed. Open to suggestions.”

Janet laughed. It was a real laugh. The kind that came from somewhere deep and didn’t need permission.

“How about ‘Ada’?” she said. “She’ll appreciate it.”

“Ada it is. Consider the mint formally christened.”

They talked for another hour—about nothing, about everything, about basil and bad bosses and the best way to spend a Sunday afternoon. By the time they hung up, Janet’s face hurt from smiling.

Ada was in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to look pleased. “You’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything.”

“You have a man who bought plants in your honor. That’s basically a proposal.”

“Ada.”

“I’m just saying. Mike never bought you anything but stress.”

Janet didn’t argue. Because it was true. Mike had given her late nights and empty promises and the occasional text when he was bored. Daniel had given her basil.

And somehow, that was everything.

Three months later, Janet stood in Daniel’s kitchen, watching him fail to chop an onion. His apartment was small but warm—bookshelves filled with engineering manuals and mystery novels, a couch that had seen better days, a balcony with a single chair and a view of the city.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she said.

“I’m doing it fine.”

“Your eyes are watering.”

“That’s emotional. I’m connecting with the onion.”

Janet laughed, reached around him, and took the knife. “Like this.” She demonstrated. “Short strokes. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying. I’m having a moment.”

She looked at him—at the flour on his shirt, the earnest expression on his face, the basil plant on the windowsill, still alive, still growing.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said.

“You’re here anyway.”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “I’m here anyway.”

They cooked together. Messy, imperfect, laughing at nothing. And when the food was done—burnt on one side, undercooked on the other—they ate it anyway, sitting on the floor of his living room because his table was covered in paperwork.

“This is terrible,” Janet said, chewing.

“It’s the thought that counts.”

“The thought was terrible too.”

“We’ll get better,” Daniel said. “Practice makes perfect.”

Janet looked at him. At the man who had asked for nothing but given her everything—attention, consistency, the quiet assurance of someone who showed up. She thought about Mike, about the years she had wasted waiting for him to become someone he never was. She thought about the night at the lounge, the overheard words that had broken her open and let her rebuild.

“I think I’m ready,” she said.

“For what?”

“To stop being afraid.”

Daniel set down his fork. “Janet—”

“I’m not saying I know what this is. Or what it’s going to be. But I’m not going to spend another year wondering if someone wants me. I want to be with someone who doesn’t make me guess.”

“And who’s that?”

She looked at him. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Daniel smiled. Slow. Wide. Real. “Basil Janet,” he said. “Always has been.”

They didn’t kiss that night. They didn’t need to. They just sat on the floor of his messy apartment, eating bad food, talking about nothing, being present. And for Janet, that was enough.

In his own apartment across town, Mike sat alone. His phone was in his hand. Janet’s contact was open. He had typed “I miss you.” He had deleted it. Typed “Can we talk?” Deleted that too. There was nothing left to say. He had spent months waiting for her to come back. And only now, sitting in the dark, did he realize she had already moved so far away that he couldn’t even see her anymore.

He put the phone down. The silence was absolute.

Janet didn’t think about him at all.

She was too busy living.