An Imperfect Love

The cursor on my laptop screen blinked with a rhythmic, mocking consistency. Blink. Blink. Blink. It was the only sign of life in my  apartment overlooking the Lekki-Ikoyi Link Bridge. Outside, the Lagos heat was heavy, even at seven in the evening, but inside, the air conditioning hummed a cool, indifferent tune.

I leaned my head back against the plush velvet sofa, staring at the ceiling. I was Amara Williams. To the rest of Nigeria, and to a significant portion of the romance-reading world online, I was the woman who had it all figured out. I wrote about grand gestures, sweeping declarations of devotion, and men who knew exactly how to heal a broken spirit. My last three novels had topped the bestseller lists, earning me a comfortable life, a beautiful view, and an unrelenting pressure from my publisher to deliver the next big hit.

The irony was heavy enough to choke me. The reigning queen of romance was entirely, utterly hollowed out.

"Just write a scene about two people falling in love, Amara," I muttered to myself, rubbing my temples. "It's literally your job."

But every time I tried to type a sentence about trust, about letting one's guard down, my mind often hijacked the narrative. Instead of a dashing hero, I saw Alex Nwankwo's face. I heard the sharp, dismissive tone of his voice during our final argument in this very room two years ago. I remembered the humiliating realization that while I had been writing him into my dedications as my muse, he had been spending his weekends with a string of women who didn't care about him but only cared about his status. Alex hadn't just broken my heart; he had changed my belief system. He had made me feel like an amateur storyteller who couldn't even read the plot of her own life.

My phone vibrated against the glass coffee table, shattering the silence. I didn't even need to look to know who it was.

"Chi, please tell me you're calling to tell me the world is ending so I don't have to meet my deadline," I answered, slide-locking the phone to my ear.

Chidera Emma's voice sounded through the speaker, brimming with the energy that kept her alive as a top-tier public relations executive in Lagos. "The world is fine, Amara, but your social life is dead. I am currently staring at a guest list for a gallery opening in Victoria Island tomorrow evening, and your name is on it because I put it there. You are leaving that fortress of solitude."

"I have a chapter due by Monday, Chi. I can't."

"You haven't written a single paragraph in three weeks, Amara. Your mother called me yesterday, by the way. She's worried you're turning into a recluse. She actually asked me if you were fasting for a husband again."

I groaned loudly, rolling onto my side. "Oh my god. Please tell me you didn't encourage her."

"I told her the truth-that you are mourning a relationship that expired two years ago and using your laptop as a shield. Put the computer away, Amara. Tomorrow at seven. A driver will be outside your building. Wear something that doesn't look like sweatpants."

Before I could protest, the line went dead. Chidera didn't negotiate; she executed. I set the phone down and looked back at the blank document. The cursor was still blinking. With a sigh of defeat, I closed the lid of my laptop, the small click sounding like a temporary truce in a war I was losing.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The lights of the bridge stretched across the water as a string of diamonds dropped carelessly into the dark. Lagos was a city of noise, of ambition, of relentless movement. Everyone was chasing something-money, fame, power, love. I used to be one of them. Now, I was just trying to protect the pieces of myself that hadn't been trampled on.

I went to my bedroom, my eyes drifting to the vanity where a single, framed photograph of my parents stood. Mr. and Mrs. Williams Uchenna, married for thirty-five years, smiling on a beach in Badagry. Their love was a monument, solid and unchanging. I had spent my entire life trying to replicate that monument, only to find out that the materials I was using were cheap, fragile, and easily broken by a man like Alex.

"Tomorrow," I whispered to the empty room, pulling the duvet over my shoulders. "Tomorrow, I'll pretend to be the woman who writes about love."

But as I fell asleep, the dreams that came were not of romance. They were of falling, of hands slipping away, and of the terrifying realization that some things, once broken, can never be glued back together.