Nia, I hear the soft echoes of my mother's voice as she spoke those words—words wrapped in a truth I could not ignore. "There are many young women finishing school, some in universities. They are all beautiful. If Will decides to break up with you, another girl will seize the opportunity. You are living a good life now. Don't ruin it." The weight of her words sank into me like cold stones in a river, impossible to escape. It was 16:45 when the call came in, but the impact lingered much longer.

  I despise Will, a bitterness that burns every time his name passes my lips. I hate how small I feel around him, how I fall to my knees, not from love, but because poverty forces me to bend in ways I cannot escape. I hate my sister. I hate my mother. Today, reality punched me in the gut again—so brutally, so harshly—that I've made a vow to myself. This will be the st time I need to be reminded. I've decided to grow up, to become silent, to hold my thoughts close to my chest like secrets that cannot be shared. I've learned that speaking my mind only paints me as childish, as Will has so often reminded me.

  At 12:56 a.m., Serina's messaged me. She had met a Senegalese man named Amadu at Chasewood Park Serviced Apartments. I could feel her loneliness in her words, even though it was painfully clear that Amadu wasn't interested in her. Yet, I found myself weaving a narrative, sugar-coating his indifference, crafting a story of romance where there was none. I told her what she needed to hear, what would keep the hope alive for a little longer, even though I knew the truth. She craved affection, the kind of distraction that would make her forget the gnawing ache of being alone. She needed someone to talk to, and I, despite everything, was there. I listened, measured my words with careful precision, and offered the comfort I could.

  Serina, as much as she is a part of this twisted tale, isn't an angel. She isn't the complete victim she sometimes believes herself to be. There's a sharp edge to her, a tendency to be rude, to push away those who care. But in this moment, I couldn't fault her for it. She's a product of her own battles, her own unresolved wars with the world. And so, I stayed quiet, wrapped my response in kindness, and let her vent until her pain softened.

  The words felt cold, each sylble striking with a force I couldn't shake. I wasn't sure what to say to ease Serina's pain anymore. She was unraveling, and I felt powerless to fix it. In the midst of it all, I messaged Will, hoping for some sembnce of understanding. "Can we talk?" I typed, unsure of what I even wanted from him.

  His reply came almost immediately. "What have I done now?" His words, so casual, stung deeper than I expected. A wave of anger surged through me, but it wasn't just the frustration with him. It was the pain for Serina, the sadness that had built up in me over the years, and now, it all collided. I was fuming, my chest tight with emotions I couldn't pce. I had reached my breaking point.

  I fired back, my words sharp, den with everything I had been holding in. "It's surely not always about you. Can't I just need someone to talk to?"

  But he didn't hear me. He never did. He was too caught up in himself, always feeling entitled, always needing to be right. He dropped the daggers, just like he always did. His first text came through, dripping with disdain: "What's your problem, so I can't crack a joke? Fine, then don't call."

  It wasn't about the joke. It never was. But I knew that, deep down. This was just another one of his ways of twisting things, of making me feel like the vilin in my own life. The same pattern repyed itself in my mind—his constant accusations, his need to remind me how ungrateful I was. His words echoed in my head: "You take me for granted. You're ungrateful. One day, you'll know my worth. A day will come when you'll know who I am."

  There was a hunger in him for affection, attention, power—his need for submission bled through every interaction, draining the joy out of me like water through a sieve. And when I finally gave in, when I became the obedient, quiet dog he wanted me to be, he would say: "I miss the bubbly you. Don't change."

  But I was done. I didn't reply this time. I ignored the message, letting the silence stretch between us. For once, I was gd my chats were marked as read—he wouldn't know if I saw his text. I could hold on to that one small piece of control.

  Then, my phone buzzed again, twice. Two notifications, both from him. The first: "I hate repeating the same thing every day." His frustration, his annoyance, his sense of superiority all poured into those words. The second came right after: "When will you stop behaving like a baby? You really disappoint me."

  I stared at the screen, feeling the familiar pang of hurt twist inside me. I sent a screenshot of Will's message to my sister, with the caption "I don't want to talk about it." Honestly, I did it just to divert her attention from Amadu, to give her something else to focus on. And, as usual, it worked. She was quick to respond, "It's good if you tell me. I need to know."

  Serina was always a caring person and giving. She's always been the apple of my mother's eye, the one my parents dote on. I know parents aren't supposed to have favorites, but let's be real—it's impossible to deny. It's gringly obvious, even though my mother tries to hide it. And I've learned to live with that, though it's never sat right with me.

  But there was a shift the day I met Will. For the first time, I wasn't just dependent on my parents, especially my mother. I had my own money, some change I could send to both of them, and sometimes even to my father through my sister. Will gave me that, he gave me that independence. He made my mother start to respect me more, to appreciate me in ways I hadn't known before. Never once have I ever felt like they didn't deserve a single penny I sent them. And yet, with every transfer, every offering, I felt this creeping sensation that I was trading something of myself for it—like I was nothing more than an object, a vessel exchanging sex for money.

  The messages came in like rain—fast, relentless, and stinging in pces I hadn’t yet learned how to cover. "I won’t call you if hutaki but you are destroying the retionship you have with Will with your own hands... I have a lot I need to tell you." I stared at the screen, my breath caught in my chest. Serena's name glowed like a warning light, her words sharp and ced with something deeper—fear, maybe. Or bitterness dressed as wisdom. She meant well, I told myself. They always do. But meaning well and speaking truth weren’t always the same thing. "But if you can’t listen to me or anyone, that’s okay. Maybe there are things you need to experience for yourself. Right now you’ll think I’m not making sense, but you need to learn how to speak up and stop getting mad so easily. Sit down and reflect." Her voice echoed in my chest, louder than it ever did in real life. I could imagine her—head slightly tilted, lips pursed, probably pacing her small room in a dera, phone in one hand, frustration in the other. Was I overreacting? Maybe. Was I tired? Absolutely. "If you want to join me out here, where people just use you and dump you, you’re welcome, my sister." My throat tightened. That kind of invitation wasn’t made out of love. It was made out of resignation. Out of knowing. She wasn’t warning me—she was handing me the map to her own brokenness, daring me to follow the same path. "There are no patient men anymore. They leave the moment you argue. If that’s what you want for yourself, then be my guest."

  I dropped my phone onto the bed. The mattress bounced lightly. My chest didn’t.