The truth

Rihanna stops pretending in Chapter 8. Even to herself.

It starts three days after she sends _I’m sorry_ and Jake doesn’t reply. She keeps her phone on, checks it every ten minutes, then hates herself for checking. By Friday she turns it off completely. If he wants to answer, he can wait.

She sits through her 8am lecture without writing anything. The lecturer is talking about consumer behavior. Rihanna draws circles on the edge of her notebook. Inside one circle she writes _Jake_. She stares at it until the ink bleeds.

After class Ada drags her to the cafeteria. "You dey sick? You look like ghost."

"Just tired."

"You get boyfriend for Lagos?" Ada grins. "That’s why you rush go back?"

Rihanna almost laughs. Almost. "No."

But the word sits in her mouth wrong. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? If Jake was just a boy from Lagos, she’d tell Ada everything — his smile, the scar, how he taps the table. Ada would squeal and ask for pictures.

Instead she says nothing, because the truth would make Ada look at her like Amaka did. Like she’s rotten.

---

That night she drinks. First time since secondary. Cheap vodka from the kiosk, mixed with malt in her hostel mug. Her roommate is out. The room is hers.

She drinks until the edges go soft, then opens her notes app again. Not to text Jake. To write what she can’t say out loud.

_I don’t want to be your sister. I never did, not really. When we were kids I used to get jealous when Mom braided other girls hair and not mine, but I got more jealous when you held Bola’s hand in JSS3. I told myself it was because she was annoying. It wasn’t._

_I came home because I missed you. That’s true. But I also came home because I wanted to see if it was still there. The thing in my chest. It was. Worse._

_I don’t want to marry you. I know that’s crazy. I don’t want to kiss you in front of Mom. I don’t want a future. I want one night where you look at me and don’t see Ri, your sister. Just Ri. I want to touch your face and not feel guilty after. I want to stop hating myself for wanting it._

_That’s it. That’s all. I’m not trying to ruin your life. I just want to stop lying in my head._

She reads it three times. Then deletes it line by line. Not because she changed her mind — because if anyone saw it she’d never recover.

She opens W******p. Jake’s last seen: yesterday.

She types: _If you weren’t my brother, would you have kissed me that night on the balcony?_

Doesn’t send.

Deletes.

Types again: _I don’t want forever. I want once. Then I’ll leave and never come back. I swear._

Finger hovers over send for a full minute. Her heart is beating in her throat.

She sends it.

Delivered instantly.

Read at 12:03.

No reply for ten minutes. Then typing...

Then nothing.

Then at 12:17: _Ri. Delete this._

She types back, fast, drunk, honest: _No. You delete it if you want. I meant it._

Three dots. Gone.

At 12:22 his message comes: _You don’t know what you’re asking. If I do that I won’t be able to look at Mom again. Or myself. Please. Stop._

Rihanna reads it five times. Her chest hurts like someone pressed on it.

She writes: _I already can’t look at myself. So what’s the difference?_

Send.

Read.

No reply.

She waits an hour. Then she calls. He rejects it. Calls again. Rejects.

The third time he picks up but doesn’t talk.

She hears his breathing. Bike in the background. He’s outside.

"Jake," she says, voice breaking. "I’m not asking you to love me. I’m asking you to let me... to let this out once so it stops eating me. Then I’ll go. I swear on Dad."

Silence. Then his voice, low and broken: "You think I don’t want to? That’s why I left. Because if I stayed one more night I would have done something we can’t come back from. You think you’re the only one sick?"

Rihanna stops breathing.

"You don’t want this, Ri," he says. "You want it to stop hurting. It won’t. It will get worse."

"So what do we do?" she whispers.

"I don’t know." He sounds like he’s crying but holding it. "But not this. Not you begging me on phone like... like..."

"Like what?"

"Like you don’t deserve better."

She laughs, but it comes out as a sob. "I don’t."

"Stop." His voice hardens. "Just stop. Delete my number."

"Jake—"

He hangs up.

Rihanna throws the mug at the wall. It cracks. Malt drips down the paint.

She slides to the floor and puts her head between her knees. She isn’t crying for him anymore. She’s crying because he said _you don’t want this_. And she realized he’s right.

She doesn’t want a kiss. She wants him to choose her over everything — Mom, God, himself. And he won’t. And some ugly part of her hates him for that.

That’s the real intention. Not once. Always.

She stays on the floor until sunrise, phone face-down beside her.

No more messages.