The rain had passed by morning, leaving the campus streets washed clean. Drops still clung to leaves and metal railings, glistening in the sunlight like leftover stardust.
Emmanuel stood outside the student café, scanning the tables through the glass walls. He was early again—nervous, though he wouldn't admit it out loud.
He saw her.
Ella. Already seated. A paperback in her hand and a steaming mug of something dark beside her. No makeup, no fancy outfit—just her usual jeans and calm presence.
He pushed open the door, a soft bell chiming above him.
She looked up. "You're late."
He blinked. "I'm—what?"
She smiled slightly, the corner of her mouth rising. "I was joking."
He exhaled a laugh. "You almost scared me."
"Maybe you needed it."
He slid into the seat opposite her, shaking droplets off his jacket. "So... you agreed to coffee."
"You asked nicely," she said, then took a slow sip of her drink.
"Is that the trick? Asking nicely?"
She gave him a look. "It's a start."
---
They sat for a while, the space between them filled with soft music and the clinking of spoons on ceramic. For once, Emmanuel didn't feel the urge to fill every silence. Ella had a strange way of making quiet feel comfortable.
"What do you want to be?" she asked suddenly.
He raised an eyebrow. "In life?"
"No. I mean, in the next hour," she teased, then nodded. "Yes, in life."
He paused. No one had asked him that seriously before.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I used to say a TV presenter. Or a PR guy. You know, something fun, something flashy."
"And now?"
He hesitated. "Now… I'm not so sure. Lately I've been thinking too much."
"Good. Thinking's underrated."
He laughed. "You always talk like a book."
"Books don't lie."
"People do?"
She looked away briefly. "Sometimes."
There was a pause. Her fingers traced the rim of her mug absently. Emmanuel studied her—really studied her. There was something deeper beneath the quiet confidence. A wound, maybe. Or a wall built from past storms.
He changed the subject gently.
"What about you?"
"I want to write," she said. "Travel. See things most people overlook."
"Sounds poetic."
She shrugged. "It's not poetry. It's survival."
He blinked. "You've been through a lot, haven't you?"
Her eyes met his—steady, unreadable. "Haven't we all?"
And for the first time, Emmanuel didn't respond with charm or a clever line. He just nodded.
---
That night, he couldn't stop thinking about her words.
"Books don't lie."
"It's not poetry. It's survival."
Ella wasn't just different. She was real. And in a world of fake smiles and shallow promises, realness hit like thunder.
For the first time, Emmanuel found himself pulling away from the empty flings, the girls who flirted just to feel noticed, the late-night texts that led nowhere. He didn't reply to Sasha. He ignored Anita's call. Jessica sent him a photo—he deleted it.
His friends noticed.
"Guy," Kingsley asked one evening in their room, "you dey okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You've been acting... weird."
"I just don't want the same things anymore."
Kingsley whistled. "Is this about that girl?"
Emmanuel didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure himself.
---
A week passed. They kept talking. In class, after lectures, sometimes over coffee or short walks around campus.
He found out Ella lost her dad at sixteen. That she lived with her mum and little brother. That she loved old jazz music and hated the idea of being anyone's second choice.
And Ella learned things too—that Emmanuel wasn't as shallow as he seemed. That his laughter sometimes covered silence. That he hated arguments because of what he'd grown up with. That maybe, just maybe, he wanted something honest for once.
But still, she kept her guard up.
He noticed the way she shifted topics when conversations got too personal. The way her smile vanished when people talked too loudly behind her back. The way she observed the world like she never fully trusted it.
And Emmanuel knew—it would take more than flowers or flattery to reach her.
It would take time. Patience. Proof.
But for once, he didn't mind waiting.
---
It was a Friday evening when he saw her standing near the faculty building, looking lost in thought. The sky was turning orange, the breeze light.
He walked up beside her. "Penny for your thoughts?"
She turned, startled, then smiled faintly. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
She looked at him—really looked. "You."
His heart skipped.
"Me?"
"You're different too now," she said softly. "You're not who I first thought you were."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Good different?"
"I haven't decided yet."
A beat passed. Then she added, "But I want to find out."
And that was all he needed.
Not a kiss.
Not a label.
Just that sentence.
A door finally cracked open.
And Emmanuel, the once heartless playboy, felt something inside him shift.
Hope.
Real, aching, beautiful hope.