HIM

“It all started with me… and I guess it ends with me.Or maybe not”, the words left my lips like a confession carried by exhausted air.

“Love… love… love. Such a simple word. Soft. Gentle. Almost harmless. But love is not harmless. Love is a force. A powerful feeling that cannot be erased, destroyed, or silenced — no matter how hard you try. It builds kingdoms. It burns them down. It saves lives. It ends them”.

A brief pause. “All my life, I searched for love. Not because I was romantic. Not because I believed in fairy tales. But because it was never given to me when I needed it most”.

The voice went softer. “I was abandoned at a young age — left behind by my parents and sent to live with my grandparents. They raised me. Fed me. Protected me. They gave me everything they could. Everything… except the feeling of being chosen. They loved me the only way they knew how. And I loved them too. But somewhere deep inside, there was distance. An invisible wall I never knew how to tear down”.

A brief pause. “They didn’t truly know me. They knew I loved to be alone. They knew I hid inside music. They knew I filled notebooks with writing and sketches. But they never knew why. Sometimes I wonder if even I know why.

After the incident… everything changed. Even she noticed it. The silence. The withdrawal. The way my eyes seemed older than my age.

I often wondered what my grandparents saw when they looked at me. What kind of person did they think I had become? Because I wasn’t even sure myself.

The day I was abandoned, I made a silent vow — one no one heard but me. If love wasn’t given to me… I would find it. Not ordinary love. Not temporary affection. But a rare love.

A love without conditions. A love without reasons.A love that doesn’t ask who you are or what you’ve done. A love that stays — no matter what. And one day, I would build a family rooted in that kind of love. A family where no child would ever feel what I felt.

It was ironic, really. Someone who prefers solitude… dreaming of forever with someone else.Someone who hides from the world… searching for the rarest thing in it. But fate has a sense of humor. Before I could search for love… Love found me.

And when it did, it felt like destiny. Like everything I had ever longed for had finally stepped into my life. I didn’t chase it. I didn’t beg for it. It simply appeared. And for a short while… I was happy. Truly happy.

I found the love I had been searching for. I felt seen. Understood. Chosen. But sometimes, the very thing you pray for becomes the storm that tests you.

The love I found… Seemed determined to be the end of me. I barely had time to hold it before death came knocking at my door.

Now I ask myself— Was it worth it? Was love, in exchange for my life… a fair trade?

You must be confused right now. I can see the questions forming in your mind. Trust me… I had the same ones. So maybe we should go back.Back to the beginning. Back to the moment everything shifted. Back to the decision that changed my fate.

This… is how it all started... ”

---

Blessing was born into the warm embrace of Mr. and Mrs. Adewale. They were not wealthy. They were not influential. But they were rich in something far more valuable — love.

When their first child arrived, a son, they named him Blessing. Not out of tradition. Not because it sounded good. But because that was exactly what he was to them.

A blessing.

Mr. and Mrs. Adewale loved him fiercely. They celebrated his first steps like victories. They laughed at his babbling words as though he spoke wisdom. Their small home was filled with warmth, with simple joy, with the quiet contentment of a family that had enough.

They weren’t rich. They weren’t poor. They were happy.

Three years later, their happiness multiplied. Another son was born. They named him Bolu.

Now the little family of three became four. The house grew louder, messier, brighter. Blessing adored his baby brother. He watched over him with the proud seriousness only older siblings understand. Bolu followed Blessing everywhere once he learned to walk.

The Adewale home was small — but love filled every corner. Until the day fire rewrote everything.

Blessing was nine. Bolu was six. It was an ordinary afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Their mother was away visiting a neighbor. Their father was at work.

Bolu, curious and stubborn as children often are, had found a box of matches in the kitchen drawer.He wasn’t just lighting them for fun this time.

Near him sat a small kerosene lamp that their mother used during power outages. The cap wasn’t tightly sealed. The faint smell of fuel lingered in the air.Bolu struck a match.

The tiny flame danced in his fingers, alive and beautiful. He giggled at the way it flickered.

Blessing saw it from across the room. He warned sharply, “Bolu, stop!”

But Bolu, thrilled by the fire’s obedience, struck another match. The second flame burned brighter. He waved it carelessly — too close to the lamp.Blessing rushed forward.

“Drop it!” he shouted, grabbing for his brother’s wrist.

They struggled. The match slipped. It fell. For half a second, nothing happened. Then— The vapor from the leaking kerosene ignited.

A sudden burst. A violent flash of flame exploded upward with a whoosh that swallowed the air.

Blessing instinctively shoved Bolu away. The fire surged toward him. Heat slammed into his face.Flame wrapped around the left side of his head like a living thing.

He screamed. The fire wasn’t a gentle touch.It was a flash burn — fast, brutal, unforgiving.Burning fuel splashed, clinging to his skin. His eyebrow curled into ash. His eyelid blistered instantly. The skin along his cheek and temple seared under the heat.

The flame kissed his eye— But by miracle, the eye itself survived.

Blessing’s cry tore through the house — a sound so sharp it didn’t feel human. Neighbors rushed in. Smoke curled toward the ceiling. Bolu stood frozen.

Neighbors would later say it all happened in seconds. But for Blessing, it felt endless. And when the fire finally died… The damage had already been done.

The left side of Blessing’s face had been claimed. His eyebrow. His eyelid. His cheek. His temple.

The skin around his left eye burned and blistered — but somehow, by mercy or miracle, the eye itself survived.

He was rushed to the hospital. Doctors worked carefully, urgently. His parents wept in the hallway, praying for a miracle. And they got one.

Blessing lived. His eye was saved. However, something else was lost. When the bandages finally came off weeks later, the mirror revealed a new reality.

The skin around his left eye had hardened into a permanent scar — twisted, uneven, impossible to ignore. A mark that would not fade. A mark that would follow him into every room for the rest of his life.

Blessing forgave Bolu immediately. He meant it.“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered to his little brother, who could barely look at him without shaking.

Blessing believed that once the pain healed, life would return to normal. He was wrong.

The first shift happened at school. Children who once fought to sit beside him now avoided his desk. Whispers followed him down hallways.

“He looks scary.”“His face is ugly.”“Don’t stare, he might see you.”

Playtime became isolation. Then it followed him home.

When the Adewale family walked outside together, strangers stared. Some didn’t hide it. Others pretended not to look — but looked anyway.

His parents’ smiles grew tighter in public. Shorter. Forced.

Bolu stopped following him around. The same brother who once held his hand now stayed behind their mother’s legs. He avoided eye contact. He flinched sometimes — not out of hatred, but out of fear. Fear of the scar.

Even at home, something had changed. His parents still fed him. Still clothed him. Still provided. But they didn’t look at him the same way.

Their gaze no longer lingered. Conversations shortened. Silences lengthened. It wasn’t spoken. But Blessing felt it.

The scar had not only marked his face. It had marked the family.

The house that once overflowed with warmth now felt colder — not because love had completely disappeared, but because it had become complicated. And slowly… Blessing began to feel like the shame no one wanted to name.

Because of the accident and the tension that followed, Blessing’s parents decided it would be best for him to stay with his grandparents.So, Blessing was sent to live with his mother’s parents.

---

The move didn’t change his love for his parents or for Bolu. He missed them deeply. However, four weeks passed. No calls. No visits.

Every day, Blessing waited, hoping to hear their voices on the phone or see their car pull up in the driveway. But no one came. No one called. The silence was crushing.

He began to think that maybe, if he hid the scar, his parents would return. Maybe they would see him without the mark and everything would be like it used to be.

He asked one morning, “Grandpa, can you get me a mask?”

His grandfather didn’t hesitate. He bought Blessing a mask — a simple one, but it would cover the burn on his face.

Blessing wore it constantly. Only during his baths did he remove it. The mask became his armor, his shield against the world. It hid the scars, but it also hid the pain.

His grandparents promised him one thing: they would always try to make him happy. And within their care, Blessing found a quiet refuge.

At school, he kept the mask on. The headmistress allowed it after hearing his story. But the mask also kept him alone.

Other children noticed him sitting by himself and some tried to approach him. They were curious, friendly even. However, their friendship came with a condition: take off the mask. Let us see what’s underneath. Blessing refused.

He had seen how his own family — the ones who should love him most — had recoiled from him. He knew what would happen if he revealed his face. Humiliation. Fear. Rejection. So he stayed alone. He minded his own business.

Some students grew impatient and tried to force the mask off. But Blessing, fierce and determined, defended himself. He fought back, and after that, most children learned to keep their distance. Fear surrounded him now — not the friendly kind, but the kind that kept people away.

At home, life was quiet. Blessing’s grandparents understood him in six ways: Sketching. Listening to music. Writing. Eating when hungry. Sleep when sleepy. Watching TV when he felt like it

Beyond that, Blessing offered nothing. No chatter. No complaints. No laughter. No anger.

His grandparents worried, often asking if he was okay. He would always reply, “I’m fine”.

They raised him the best way they knew. They bought him gifts — a bicycle, toys, little indulgences — even though he never asked for them.

He never refused. He always thanked them, but the mask stayed. And with it, the silence.

Blessing’s world had become small. A house filled with love, yes, but also with distance, shadows, and the quiet echo of what he had lost.

In the neighborhood, only a few people who visited Blessing’s grandparents even knew he existed. And he never spoke to them.

Blessing had become an introvert, drawn to his own solitude, and the few things that brought him quiet happiness. Music. Sketching. Writing. Riding his bicycle.

His grandparents understood why. They knew the root of his withdrawal: his parents didn’t call. Stopped checking on him. Stopped showing any sign of care.

Despite their efforts — pleading with his parents, calling them again and again — nothing changed.

By the time Blessing was twelve years and a few months old, he made a quiet, solemn decision. If his parents would not come back… then he would live his life without them. He would forget them, just as they had forgotten him.

The only acknowledgment they ever sent after abandoning him were gifts on his birthdays. Small tokens, hollow gestures, but no real love.

Blessing’s grandparents, however, never wavered. They still cared. Still wanted the best for him.

---

One night, after ensuring his grandparents had gone to bed, Blessing slipped quietly out of the house. He didn’t want them asking where he was going — and he didn’t want to answer.

His bicycle waited where he had parked it earlier. He mounted it, intending to ride through the quiet streets, letting the city lights and empty roads clear his thoughts.

But then… he heard it. A sound that didn’t belong in the stillness: crying.

Curious, he followed it. It led him to the next compound, where he saw a girl seated on the ground, her shoulders shaking, her face hidden in her hands.

Blessing stopped and watched her for a few moments. He turned to leave, ready to return to his routine, to his silence, to his own thoughts, but then something stopped him.

A surge of pity, a wave of sadness that seemed to rise from nowhere. It was strange — this intense, inexplicable pull toward a girl he didn’t know, a girl whose pain had no connection to him.

He tried to push it down. Tried to ignore it. But the feeling persisted, insistent and heavy.He could not turn away. So, hesitantly, he approached.

The girl’s cries had quieted for a moment, only to be replaced by a cruel voice: “No one gives a fuck if you cry or not. So why don’t you shut up?”

Her shoulders stiffened. She opened her eyes slowly, looking up, and saw him.

A boy of her age, wearing a mask that partially hid his face — a mask that made him look both intimidating and mysterious. Even with it, though, there was a strange handsomeness about him.

For a moment, she continued to cry, her body still curled inward, wishing he would go away, but Blessing didn’t.

“Will you sit here and continue to cry for someone or something that doesn’t care about you,” he said softly, “or will you come with me so I can change your mood, make you happy… make you smile?”

He didn’t know why the words came out of his mouth. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to approach her.

He didn’t know why, ever since he had set eyes on her, his chest ached with something new — a mixture of concern, curiosity, and something he had never felt for anyone before. But he said it anyway, and there was no taking it back.

Hearing Blessing speak, the girl slowly looked up, her tear-streaked face searching his masked one.

Was he… the same boy who had just spoken to her so harshly a moment ago? The one who had told her to shut up?

Her gaze met his. Yes. It was him. Then, almost without thinking, Blessing stretched out his right hand toward her.

“Will you stay here and continue to cry,” he asked softly, “or will you let me show you a little bit of my world? Let me ease your pain… let me bring you a smile, some happiness?”

The girl froze. Her eyes lingered on his outstretched hand, the mask that hid most of his face, the strange intensity in his tone.

Who was this boy? Why was he speaking to her this way? Why did she feel… something stirring inside her chest — a spark of curiosity, maybe even hope — toward a complete stranger?

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She just stared.