Someone will look through my old photo album and find those pictures of us together. The one we took under that tree, with you completely unaware of the camera, would most likely catch their eyes, and they would ask about you. I wonder where I will start from. I wonder what I would say.
Random question, Sophia, if it were you, what would you have said? What would you call me? Where would you say you first met me? Would you even still remember? We both know you don’t have a lasting memory, but, if you did remember, I am sure you would have said you met me in front of the Med class.
We were both late to Dr Maxwell’s class and he would not let us in. I stood by the window to at least listen and jot down what he was teaching, and you came to join me. You asked if you could copy my notes and I agreed. I was curious though, and I think it was that same curiosity that made me ask you that night what made you walk up to me. People have always said I have a resting bitch face, and you were the shy one, so where did you get the courage to walk up to me?
You told me that night it was because I smiled when I looked up at you. You said I had a welcoming face and that even if it were stern, you would still approach me. I know we laughed it off that night and I didn’t say anything more, but I should have said something — I regret it now. I should not have denied smiling at you when you walked up to me. I hardly ever smile, so I am sure I actually did smile at you. Only you could make me smile that wide. One thing I also failed to tell you was that that was not the first time I met you, Sophia.
The first time I laid my eyes on you was during our medicals in 100L. You came with someone who could pass as your boyfriend, and so I assumed he was. I didn’t know it was Kelechi, your brother. I hardly ever pay attention to other girls, but you, Sophia, passed by me, and I remember you smelt like petals that had just released a soft warmth into the air, almost sunlit but lighter. I had never smelt anything like it before, and I remember trailing you to the Lab just to catch that scent again. I will never forget that smell. I am glad I told you about it eventually — at least I was honest about that. You smelt heavenly, and you were all I thought about that day: you, your scent, and the length of your hair.
The second time I saw you was in the general hall. You were sitting two rows in front of me, munching popcorn and laughing loudly with your friends. I didn’t listen to the lecture that day. Instead, I focused entirely on you. I watched your every move – how you threw your head back when you laughed with one hand covering your mouth and how you hit your friend on the arm when she whispered something funny. How you bent your head to scoop a handful of popcorn into your mouth and how you pretended to write when the lecturer glanced your way. I watched you. When you finally picked up your dark green bag and left with your friends after the lecture, I followed you. I wasn’t stalking you, Sophia. I just wanted to watch you a little longer. You were such a delight.
The next time I saw you was in our first departmental microbiology class. I intentionally took a seat directly across from you so I could watch you, and that was how I began looking forward to every class. I should have said thank you when I still had the chance, because it was you who made me start showing up even on the days I didn’t want to. I knew you would be there, and seeing you would make my day. Each time I arrived before you, I would feel agitated; I would curl my toes and shake my legs with my eyes fixed on the door, and only when you walked through it would I finally feel at ease. You were my medicine, Sophia.
I wonder how you never caught me looking at you, or maybe you did and that was what made you free enough to walk up to me. I could close my eyes and draw you. I knew exactly where your birthmark was; I knew the way your lips arched upwards when you smiled and how your cheeks rose and fine lines gathered there. God, you had no idea. So when you said I smiled at you when you walked up to me that day outside Dr Maxwell’s class, I thought to myself, how could I not have? If you had looked down at my left hand hanging by my side, you would have seen it trembling, especially when I asked for your number so I could snap and send you the notes. That was the best excuse I could come up with in such a short time, but can you blame me? I wanted a chance to be your friend.
One of the best nights of my life was the second night we chatted. The first night was just introductions and me sending you the images; we didn’t really talk that much until the next day. Fun fact, I didn’t move from my bed because I didn’t want to delay my response to you, and oh, how much we talked that night. Or rather, how much you talked — you were always the one doing the talking, and I enjoyed every bit of it. It was that night I learnt about your brother Kelechi and how your lastborn had gone missing and was never found. It was that night I learned about your mother – how your father would beat the living hell out of her after drinking. I regret just listening to your voice notes and replying to your messages instead of sharing my own life with you. I know that my silence became a major issue between us as we grew closer, but I didn’t know how to open up. I didn’t want to bore you with long talks. I just wanted to hear you speak. I loved to hear and watch you.
What I didn’t tell you then was how much I looked forward to those messages. I would read them twice, sometimes three times, just to feel close to you a little longer. You had a way of talking about ordinary things that made them feel sacred, like they really mattered. The way you described your mother humming in the kitchen before the nights turned bad. The way you said your brother used to steal her wrappers to make capes for himself. You told me these things as if they were just words, not knowing they were slowly becoming the most important things anyone had ever shared with me.
I loved the small routines we fell into. How you would send me a voice note every morning complaining about the walk to the lecture hall, even though we both knew you enjoyed it. How you always stole one bite of whatever I was eating before saying you weren’t even hungry. How you tucked your feet under you whenever we sat on my bed talking and how you would rest your chin on your knee and look at me with those eyes when you were thinking hard about something. I would pretend to be looking elsewhere. I was not.
I loved how you slowly began to distance yourself from your other friends and grew close to only me. I loved how people started calling us best friends and how soon you started saying it too. I was happy with your friendship. I loved being in your space. I loved being around you and loved breathing your air, and you knew that. You teased me about it, and I would laugh it off, even though I knew it was not far from the truth.
There was an afternoon I kept coming back to. We had nothing to do and nowhere to be, and we spent the whole day indoors eating crackers. At some point, the power went out and we sat there and talked until it came back. I don’t even remember what we talked about. I just remember thinking that I had never felt so full in my life. That afternoon made me realise what people meant when they said home was a person. I understood, but I said nothing.
There was also a particular night. We had come back from night reading and decided to skip school the next day. We should have slept, but we didn’t. Instead, you started talking about that Femi guy who wouldn’t leave you alone. I could tell you knew how much it irritated me to hear about him, but you continued anyway, as if waiting for a reaction from me. And a reaction I did give you when I kissed you suddenly, without any warning. I remember the shock on your face as you pulled back, and I quickly apologised and stood up. You never said a word after that. I wanted to know how you felt, whether you liked it or felt repulsed by it, but I was too scared to ask.
I started being careful around you after that; I started calculating everything, my words, my glance, every time my hand lingered a second too long near yours. I kept waiting for things to become strange between us but they didn’t. You were still you, and I hated myself a little for not knowing what to do with that.
I finally knew how you felt the day I brought you food. I hated cooking but I loved cooking for you. I loved how you praised my cooking and how your face lit up when you took your first bite. I remember how surprised you were that day, so surprised and happy that you kissed me. I couldn’t even believe my luck; cooking for you was all it took. I was shocked but quick enough to return the kiss. You can never imagine how you made me feel. You can never imagine how your moans made me feel, or how I felt when your tongue found me. It baffles me how people saw us as friends despite our chemistry. We both knew, but we never just said it. We played along and laughed when people called us friends.
I used to think we had time. That there was later for all the things I didn’t say. I thought we would get there eventually, maybe one night or a lazy afternoon. I used to think about the day I would finally say it out loud and we would laugh at how long it had taken. I was so sure about you, and I was so sure of that later. I held it like a promise I had made to myself.
And that was why I ran when the call came in that day. I raced to the hospital with one slipper on. I just wanted to see you, except I couldn’t even recognise what was in front of me. It smelt like you, though, except your scent was mixed with blood. Oh, how fickle life is: one day before I had held you, and the next, you lay lifeless on a slab with your face barely recognisable. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just stood there, calm, with no thought whatsoever. That was the first time the voices in my head went quiet. It was still quiet and I was still calm until your aunt arrived and introduced me to the attending doctor as your friend. I screamed at that word, and even though your aunt believed I was just overwhelmed by grief, I knew it was a lie. I hated that she and the rest of your family only ever knew us as friends. I hated that we never got a real chance; I hated that they never knew the real you. I hated that we never had the opportunity to be open, to be seen.
There are so many things I regret, Sophia. I regret all the times I laughed off what we were. I regret every night I told myself there was still time. I regret that the last thing I cooked for you was that stupid catfish stew that you never really liked but I had to make you eat it because I liked it. I regret that I never once said it plainly, out loud, in daylight, where you could hear it properly and I couldn’t take it back.
I love you, Sophia.
You were my past, my present and my future.
If someone looks at our album one day and asks, “Who is this pretty girl beside you?” I will run my fingers across your face in the picture and, like that coward I’ve always been, I’ll still say, “She was my best friend.”
Except you are not. You are the love of my life that was snatched from me.
