The workshop smelled the same.
Oil. Metal. Heat. Old promises soaked into concrete.
Leo noticed it the moment he stepped inside, like the air itself had memory. The ceiling fan hummed lazily, pushing warm air in tired circles. Sunlight slipped through the cracked windows and settled on the tools the way it always had—wrenches laid out like loyal soldiers, rags folded where his hands had left them the night before.
Nothing had changed.
And yet, everything had.
He set his bag down slowly, as if the floor might reject it. The sound echoed louder than it should have, a dull thud that seemed to announce his presence to a room that already knew him too well.
"Morning, boss," Tunde said from under the hood of a sedan. His voice was light, casual. "You're early."
Leo forced a nod. "Couldn't sleep."
Tunde chuckled. "Must be nice. Sleep's been running from me since rent reminder came in."
Leo almost smiled. Almost.
He moved to his usual corner, fingers brushing over the workbench. The grease stains were layered—years of labor stacked on top of each other like rings inside a tree. Every mark told a story. Every scratch had a reason.
This place had taken everything from him.
And given him everything, too.
That was the part that hurt the most.
By noon, the heat was unbearable.
Leo wiped sweat from his brow and leaned against the wall, watching his workers move around him. They laughed. They complained. They worked.
Life went on.
He wondered when his had quietly paused.
His phone buzzed.
Sophia.
Just her name on the screen made his chest tighten.
He stared at it, thumb hovering, the old reflex screaming at him to answer immediately. For years, that had been his instinct—to respond, to fix, to show up.
He didn't answer.
The phone buzzed again.
Then stopped.
Leo exhaled, long and slow, like he'd been holding his breath for weeks.
"Everything okay?" Musa asked, glancing up from tightening a bolt.
Leo nodded. "Yeah. Just… work stuff."
The lie tasted bitter.
Later, when the workshop finally quieted, Leo sat alone on the wooden stool by the door. The sky outside had softened into dusk, orange bleeding into purple. The streetlights flickered on, one by one, like hesitant witnesses.
He remembered another evening like this.
Sophia sitting right there, on that same stool. Her legs crossed neatly, books balanced on her lap.
"Leo," she'd said softly, "do you think I'll really make it?"
He'd laughed then, confident. Certain. "Of course you will. You're smarter than all of us combined."
She'd frowned. "But what if I fail?"
He'd reached for her hand without thinking. "Then we try again. Together."
Together.
The word echoed now, hollow.
Leo stood abruptly, the stool scraping loudly against the floor. He grabbed his jacket and locked up the workshop with hands that trembled just slightly.
He didn't go home.
The café was dim, quiet. The kind of place people went to think, or to hide. Leo sat by the window, untouched coffee growing cold in front of him.
That was where she found him.
"Leo."
Her voice was the same.
He didn't look up right away. He didn't trust his face.
"Can I sit?" Sophia asked.
He nodded once.
She took the seat across from him, smoothing her skirt, placing her handbag carefully by her feet. Everything about her was polished now. Controlled.
She'd learned that world well.
"I called," she said gently.
"I saw."
Silence stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid.
"You didn't answer."
"No," he agreed.
Sophia inhaled. "I wasn't sure if you would."
He finally looked at her then. Really looked.
She looked good. Confident. Whole.
And somehow… distant.
"Why are you here?" Leo asked quietly.
She hesitated. Just a fraction. But he noticed.
"I wanted to check on you."
A humorless smile tugged at his lips. "I'm still breathing."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
Her fingers tightened around her cup. "You don't have to be like this."
"Like what?"
"Closed off. Distant."
Leo laughed softly, disbelief lacing the sound. "You walked away, Sophia. You made it very clear where I stand."
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't walk away from you. I walked toward my future."
"And left mine behind," he said calmly.
She flinched.
"That's not fair."
He leaned forward, eyes steady. "Was it fair when you said I wasn't enough anymore?"
Her voice dropped. "I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
The truth hung between them, sharp and undeniable.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," Sophia said after a long moment.
"I know," Leo replied. "That's what makes it worse."
She swallowed. "I just… I outgrew the life we planned."
He nodded slowly. "And I stayed behind to build it."
Her eyes glistened, but she didn't look away. "You chose that life too."
"Yes," he agreed. "I did."
He paused, then added, "But I never chose to be ashamed of it."
That was the moment something shifted.
Sophia looked down.
"I was scared," she admitted. "Everyone around me was moving so fast. Talking about status. About image. And I—"
"And I didn't fit the picture," Leo finished.
She nodded.
He leaned back, exhaustion settling into his bones. "You know what hurts the most?"
She shook her head.
"I would've been proud of you," he said. "No matter how high you climbed. I never needed you to shrink."
Tears slid down her cheeks then, silent and unguarded.
"I didn't know how to carry us both," she whispered.
Leo stood.
"I carried you for years," he said gently. "And I don't regret it."
She looked up at him, hope flickering. "Does that mean—"
"No," he said softly, shaking his head. "It means I'm done carrying things that don't carry me back."
He picked up his jacket.
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Sophia."
She reached for him, stopping just short of touching his sleeve.
"And you?" she asked.
He smiled. Not bitter. Not broken.
"Me?" He glanced down at his hands—still stained with grease, still honest. "I'm finally learning their worth."
Then he walked away.
The night air was cool against his skin.
For the first time in a long time, Leo felt lighter—not because the pain was gone, but because he wasn't running from it anymore.
Some losses didn't break you.
They taught you what you'd been giving away.
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