Thursday

Rihanna leaves on Thursday. Not Friday. She tells Mom the bus time changed. It didn’t. She just can’t stay another night in that flat with Jake’s bed empty and his shirts still smelling like him on the line.

Mom hugs her at the park by Ojuelegba where the buses load. "Read your book. Call me. Eat well."

"I will, ma."

"Your brother say make I tell you safe journey."

Rihanna’s chest clenches. "You saw him?"

"Yesterday. He come drop money." Mom tucks 5k into Rihanna’s hand. "He say make you no worry."

Rihanna nods and gets on the bus. She doesn’t cry until the bus pulls out and Lagos blurs past the window — the hawkers, the yellow buses, the bridge. Then it comes, quiet, hot tears she wipes fast so the woman beside her won’t see.

She keeps the hoodie at the bottom of her bag. Doesn’t wear it.

---

Ibadan is the same. Hostel noisy, roommates asking about holiday, classes starting Monday. Rihanna answers on autopilot. Yes, fine. No, nothing happened. She unpacks, puts Jake’s hoodie in the back of her cupboard behind textbooks.

First night back she dreams about the flat. Jake in the kitchen, tap-tap on the table, turning to look at her. In the dream she says it out loud and he doesn’t leave. He steps closer.

She wakes up gasping, hand between her legs without meaning to. She jerks it away like it’s on fire. She showers twice, cold water, and still feels dirty.

She doesn’t text him.

---

Two weeks pass. Mom calls every other day. "Jake fine. Work dey okay. He no talk much."

"Okay."

"You two still dey quarrel?"

"No ma."

Mom sighs. "Family is family, Ri."

Rihanna wants to scream _what if it’s not?_ She doesn’t.

On the third Saturday her phone rings. Unknown number. She picks up because she thinks it’s a delivery.

"Hello?"

Silence. Then breathing.

"Jake?"

"...yeah."

She sits up so fast her laptop slides off her lap. "You okay?"

"I dey." His voice sounds rough. Far away. "You reach school safe?"

"Yes. Weeks ago."

"I know. Mom told me." Pause. "Why you leave Thursday?"

She can’t lie to that voice. "I couldn’t stay."

More silence. She hears traffic behind him. Bike engine.

"Ri."

"What."

"I’m not coming back to the flat. I found a room near Oga. One room. David dey stay sometimes."

"Okay."

"I told Mom say na because of money. Easier."

"Okay."

"Stop saying okay."

She swallows. "What do you want me to say, Jake?"

"I don’t know." He sounds angry suddenly. "I don’t know! You think I like this? You think I want to... to feel like... ah!" He cuts himself off. "Forget it."

"Jake

"Just — don’t call me. Don’t text. Let me... let me fix my head."

Click.

He hangs up.

Rihanna stares at the phone until the screen goes black. Then she throws it on the bed and punches her pillow until her knuckles sting

That night Amaka sends a message on W******p: _I hear Jake moved out. Good. Some things are better far._

Rihanna deletes it without replying. Then blocks her.

At 2am she opens her cupboard. Pulls out the hoodie. It still smells faintly of him — engine oil, soap, sweat. She presses it to her face and finally cries properly, ugly, shoulders shaking, biting her lip so her roommate won’t hear.

When she’s done she feels empty, not better.

She puts the hoodie back. Zips her bag.

The next morning she goes to class. Takes notes. Eats at the cafeteria. Laughs when her friend Ada makes a joke about the lecturer.

Nobody knows.

On her way back to the hostel she passes a boy on a bike. For half a second she thinks it’s Jake — same posture, same lean. Her heart stops. It isn’t.

She walks faster.

That night she opens her notes app and types one line:

_I love my brother and it’s killing me._

She deletes it.

She types again:

_If we weren’t blood, would you choose me?_

Delete.

Final try:

I’m sorry.

She sends it to Jake at 11:47.

Delivered. Read at 11:49.

No reply.

She turns off her phone and stares at the ceiling, same as that first night on the couch.

Only now the flat is in Yaba, and she’s alone in Ibadan, and there’s no tap-tap.