They never came.
“Aww,” Ejiro crooned, his voice tender. “She sounds absolutely lovely. I’m so sorry she couldn’t be here to see it.”
And Obiora’s heart cracked neatly in two.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Me too.”
He slid his shoes off and laid down on his bed next to Ejiro, staring carefully at the ceiling even though he could feel Ejiro’s gaze burning into him.
God, he missed Ada. He missed talking about her. He wanted to say more, lots more, but it seemed that now he had the opportunity to finally talk about her—without being made to feel guilty about it—everything he wanted to say had slipped right out of his head. He wanted to lovingly recount all the memories they’d shared without the pity and judgement of his friends and family weighing him down, their fear that him showing his undying love for her meant that he would never be able to “move on”; they saw his love for her as something being wrong with him, like he was broken—a wounded man desperately clinging onto his grief as an excuse to keep himself from ever loving another again.
They’d been so happy when he’d met Nick. They’d seen it as proof that he’d “healed”. Oh, how wrong they were. Ada was part of him, a part of his being. She may not be here, and he may not think about her as much as he used to, but she would always be a part of him. Nicholas hadn’t been able to accept that, and it was fine, Obiora couldn’t blame him—he should’ve been honest about it from the start. But he knew it now like he knew how to breathe: Ada had been the love of his life, and that was never going to change. The thought was almost devastating.
Maybe his family was right.
Maybe he was broken.
“I used to want to have a bucket list, when I was younger,” Ejiro said, his voice pulling Obiora from his thoughts. Obiora couldn’t help but look at him. His breath stuttered at the closeness. God, how could he love and miss Ada the way he did, yet want Ejiro just as desperately at the same time? “But now the thought just makes me panic.”
He registered Ejiro’s words and frowned. “Why on earth would the thought make you panic?”
Ejiro’s expression dimmed. He looked down at his bed, fingers fiddling with the folded corner of his duvet. “Well, the plan was always that after I finished my bachelor’s, I would go back to Naija and use my Business Management degree to start up my own business or what have you. I wanted to go back because of my mother.” He smiled, though it was a little strained. “I didn’t want to leave her alone.”
Obiora’s chest warmed, even as a part of him panicked at the thought of Ejiro permanently leaving England. “That sounds like a good thing,” he said with a raised eyebrow, wondering at Ejiro’s self-deprecating tone.
Ejiro laughed. “Yeah, well, it’s been three years since I graduated and I’m still here. I even have a freaking citizenship. Not the signs of someone who’s eager to leave.” He sounded bitter.
“Do you … not want to leave, then?” Obiora asked, trying to mask the hope in his voice.
He must’ve been unsuccessful, because Ejiro looked up at him with a little knowing smile. Obiora’s heartbeat stuttered.
Ejiro sighed. “This is one of the arguments Ajiri and I never seem to win.” It felt nice, Obiora thought, that they could talk to each other about their families so easily; so unguardedly. It spoke of a closeness, an emotional trust that made him ache with want. “She knows—even though I will never admit it—Ajiri knows I don’t want to go back home. I’m only doing it because I feel like I owe my mother.”
“And do you?”
“What?” Ejiro frowned, though he’d clearly understood the question.
“Do you owe your mother?” Obiora clarified anyway.
“I—what? I mean, she’s my mother,” Ejiro said weakly.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” Obiora replied gently.
Ejiro shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, what was I even saying? Right, I feel like if I go back to Nigeria, my mother would probably monopolise all my time, so having a bucket list just isn’t realistic.”
There was a story there—it was in the slightly desolate way Ejiro mentioned his mother monopolising his time, like it wasn’t something he wanted, but it was going to happen anyway, whether he liked it or not. Obiora wanted to ask about it, but Ejiro didn’t seem like he would be receptive to Obiora pushing, so he didn’t.
“I mean, you could still make a bucket list specifically for Nigeria,” Obiora teased, trying to lighten the mood.
Ejiro thankfully laughed, then groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I don’t know. I guess. Maybe. What about you?” he said quickly, obviously desperate to change the subject. He looked up, smiling at Obiora. Obiora blinked, a little dazed. “Did you ever have a bucket list?”
“Nah.” Obiora shook his head. “Trust me, Ada’s list was more than enough for the both of us.”
Ejiro laughed.
Obiora loved his laugh. He wished, for the briefest second, that he could just be in this moment forever.
The silence that followed was the kind of silence everyone probably craved; when you’re in the presence of someone you’re so comfortable with, that silence didn’t feel like silence at all.
