The workshop was quieter than usual that morning.
Not silent—never silent—but subdued, like even the machines understood restraint. The radio murmured low in the background, an old highlife song drifting between static and memory. Leo stood over the open hood of a Corolla, hands black with grease, eyes unfocused.
He had been like this since yesterday.
Since her message.
He hadn't replied.
Not because he didn't know what to say—
but because he knew exactly what he felt, and that frightened him more.
The phone lay face down on the workbench, as if hiding it could erase the words burned into his mind.
I hope you're doing well, Leo.
I heard about the shop.
I just wanted to check in.
No apology.
No explanation.
No acknowledgment of the years she took, the love she outgrew, the way she had left him standing in oil-stained clothes while she walked into a brighter life.
Just… concern.
And somehow, that hurt more than cruelty ever did.
"Guy, you go finish that engine or you go stand there till night?" Musa called from the other end of the shop.
Leo blinked. "I'm working."
"Your body dey here, your mind dey somewhere else," Musa said, wiping his hands. "That kind thinking no dey pay bills."
Leo forced a nod and leaned back into the car, tightening a bolt that didn't need tightening. His hands moved on instinct, muscle memory guiding him where his thoughts could not.
But memory was stubborn.
It dragged him backward.
He remembered the first time Sophia had stepped into this very shop.
She had wrinkled her nose at the smell of oil and heat, clutching her handbag like a shield.
"Do you have to work here every day?" she had asked, voice careful.
"This is my work," he'd replied, smiling. "It's honest."
She had smiled back then. Proud. Or pretending to be.
That version of her felt like a ghost now.
By noon, the heat became unbearable. Leo stepped outside, sitting on the low concrete ledge near the gate. Sweat ran down his neck, soaking into his shirt. He drank water slowly, eyes scanning the street without really seeing anything.
A familiar voice cut through his haze.
"Leo?"
He froze.
He didn't turn immediately. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—heart tightening, shoulders stiffening.
She stood there.
Sophia.
She looked… different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe distance had stripped away the sharp edges of his anger, leaving only the rawness behind.
Her hair was pulled back simply. No dramatic makeup. No sharp heels. Just her, standing awkwardly, hands clasped in front of her.
"I didn't think you'd actually be here," she said.
"This is where I work," he replied, finally looking at her.
"Yes," she nodded quickly. "I know. I just meant… you know."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.
"How did you find me?" he asked.
"Musa," she admitted. "I ran into him at the spare parts market."
Of course she did.
He stood. Not to leave—just to remind himself he still had height, still had presence.
"You sent a message," he said. "Why come in person?"
She hesitated. That hesitation used to mean she was choosing her words carefully. It still did.
"You didn't reply."
"And that should tell you something."
Her lips parted, then closed. She nodded once.
"I deserved that," she said quietly.
That surprised him.
"I'm not here to reopen wounds," she continued. "I just… I heard the shop expanded. I wanted to see for myself."
He let out a humorless laugh. "So now it's impressive?"
"No," she said quickly. "It was always impressive. I just didn't see it then."
The honesty landed like a bruise.
Leo folded his arms. "Why now, Sophia?"
She swallowed. "Because life has a way of slowing you down when you think you're running forward."
He watched her carefully. The confidence she once wore like armor had cracks now.
"You look tired," he said before he could stop himself.
"So do you," she replied.
They shared a fragile smile. Not warm. Not bitter. Just… human.
"I'm not here to ask for anything," she said. "I just wanted to say—I see now. The sacrifices. The way you carried everything without complaining."
He shook his head. "You saw it then too. You just didn't want that life."
"That's not entirely true," she said. "I wanted it… until I wanted more."
The words stung, even softened by time.
"And when you got more," he said, "I became less."
She looked down. "I made mistakes."
"Yes," he agreed. "You did."
Silence again. But this time, it wasn't hostile.
"I don't expect forgiveness," she said. "I just wanted you to know that what you gave me mattered."
Leo felt something shift in his chest—not relief, not closure, but acknowledgment.
"I didn't give so you'd remember me," he said. "I gave because I loved you."
She nodded, eyes shining. "I know."
A horn blared down the street. Life continued, indifferent to their moment.
"I should go," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
She took a step, then paused. "I'm glad you're still here."
He met her gaze. "I never left."
She smiled sadly and walked away.
Leo watched until she disappeared into the crowd.
When he turned back toward the workshop, Musa was watching him.
"Old flame?" Musa asked.
"Old lesson," Leo replied.
Musa nodded slowly. "Some lessons burn. Some temper."
Leo wiped his hands on a rag, feeling the weight he'd carried for years loosen just a little—not gone, but lighter.
That evening, he closed the shop later than usual. Not because there was more work, but because he needed the solitude.
He sat alone, staring at his hands.
Still stained. Still rough.
But steady.
He realized something then—not with fireworks, not with dramatic clarity, but with quiet certainty:
He didn't need her regret to validate his worth.
He didn't need her return to feel whole.
He had already survived the loss.
And survival, he was learning, was its own kind of victory.
Leo picked up his phone.
Not to text her.
But to write a note to himself:
You were never small. They just grew away from you.
He locked the shop and stepped into the night, shoulders lighter, footsteps steadier.
Tomorrow, he would open again.
And this time, not as a man waiting to be chosen—but as one who had already chosen himself.
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