The house felt too quiet after they left.
You sat motionless on the couch long after the door had closed, staring at nothing. The echoes of Adam's disappointment and Sola's cold certainty lingered in the air, louder than any sound the city outside could make. Port Harcourt no longer felt like home. It felt like a witness.
Kemi did not come with questions.
That was the first thing you noticed when you opened the door and saw him standing there. His face was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that comes after a storm has already destroyed everything in its path.
"Kemi" she said softly.
"I know," he replied.
Those two words crushed the breath from your lungs.
"Know… what?" you asked, though your heart already understood.
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "Sola told me."
Your knees weakened. You closed the door slowly, as if delaying the moment might soften the truth.
"How long have you known?" you whispered.
"Long enough," he said. "Long enough to hear everything—from Sola's name to how you begged her not to tell."
Shame burned through you. "She had no right—"
"No," Kemi cut in quietly. "You had no right."
"How did you come to know Sola?"
He gave you a long stare. "This shouldn't be the right question to ask right now. But since you care to know, I'd tell you. I've known her even before I knew you. Met her through my sister at a friend's birthday party. She was a platonic acquaintance and I've kept her on the low until I saw her contact in your phone on the night I spent her. Gave her call, asked her if she knew you so well, and she said she did. That was how this whole thing started."
The words were calm, but they struck harder than anger ever could.
You both sat opposite each other, the air thick and heavy.
"I waited," Kemi continued. "I hoped you would tell me yourself."
Tears filled your eyes. "I was going to."
"When?" he asked. "After the wedding? After ten years? After I stopped trusting my own instincts?" Or you probably thought I wouldn't marry you, that's why you did what you did? You thought I'd give six years of my life to some meaningless commitment? I had plans for us Etta. I was putting finishing touches to my house. The house that could have been ours. I wanted to settle everything up before bringing you in as my wife, but thanks to you, all of that are ruined." He was already crying.
You had no answer.
"I defended you," Kemi continued, his voice choked with tears. "Every time Sola me hinted something was wrong, I defended you. I told myself you wouldn't hurt me like that. I told her you're too soft hearted to go that extreme. I protected you and promised her she was lying."
You bowed your head. "I never meant to."
He laughed bitterly. "No one ever means to. But choices are louder than intentions."
You reached for him, then stopped, your hand falling back into your lap. "I'm sorry."
He looked at you then—really looked at you. "Was I ever enough? Was I the man of your dreams? Were you ever satisfied with me? Did I ever mean anything to you? Was I ever competent to be your man, your husband?"
The question shattered you.
"Yes," you cried. "You were. You are. I was the problem."
"Then why Adams?" he asked. "What did he give you that I didn't? What did he make you feel that I didn't? Is it the distance? Tell me? I was ready to bring you down to Illorin if you had said the word. I never wanted anything, anything at all to come between us. I was ready to give you all of me. In fact, I gave you all of me. So why!"
You shook your head helplessly. "Attention. Escape. A version of myself that didn't feel accountable."
Kemi leaned back, pain etched into his face. "So I was real life, and he was fantasy."
"Yes," she whispered.
"And you chose fantasy."
He stood up and paced slowly. "Do you know the worst part?"
You looked up.
"It's not that you loved someone else," he said. "It's that you lied so well. I was sharing my future with someone who was hiding an entire truth. You should be given a doctorate degree in lying you know, because you're so damn good in it."
Your sobs grew louder. "I hated myself every day."
"But you kept going," he replied. "Guilt didn't stop you. Guilt was never enough to stop you and tell you that what you were doing was wrong. You had every opportunity to tell me. You had the chance to refuse him at first, but you didn't. You swarm easily into your unfaithful affair. And what did I get, a cold shoulder, attitudes, excuses, your silly, dirty shenanigans here and there. I was your baggage for hurts, pains, betrayals, name it."
You flinched.
"I spoke to Adams," Kemi said suddenly.
Your head snapped up. "You did?"
"Yes," he said. "I needed to hear it from him too. I needed to know how deep the betrayal went."
Your chest tightened painfully. "What did he say?"
"That he cared about you," Kemi replied coldly. "That he didn't know because you never mentioned anything to him. That he would never do anything to hurt me. That he didn't plan to ruin me this way."
You laughed through tears. "He already did."
"No," Kemi corrected. "You did. You effing did. You're satisfied now I guess. You've had your fill now that you've crushed me in the cruellest way you could think of. Bravo, you did a good job."
Silence followed.
Kemi walked toward the door, then paused. "I came here for one reason."
"What?" you asked desperately.
"To tell you I'm walking away," he said. "Not because I don't love you—but because loving you like this would destroy me."
Your heart shattered. "Is there no chance?"
He looked back at you, eyes full of grief. "If I were the one in your shoes right now, would you give me a second chance? I doubt it. Trust is not something I can borrow. And right now, I have none left. Also, tell your parents we're over. I'm done loving someone who doesn't deserve it."
He opened the door.
"Kemi," you cried. "I will never forgive myself."
He nodded slowly. "You shouldn't rush to. Some lessons need to stay painful so we don't repeat them."
Then he left.
You collapsed onto the couch, your body shaking with sobs. The house felt empty, hollow, like a shell abandoned by something once alive.
Your phone buzzed.
Adams: Did he come to see you?
You stared at the message, then typed slowly.
You: Yes. And this ends here.
You blocked his number.
As the night deepened, you sat alone with the full weight of what you had done. The truth had come without your consent, without your courage—but it had come all the same.
And in the silence that followed, you realized something devastating:
A guilty conscience does not shout.
It waits.
And when it speaks, it leaves nothing standing.