By the second month, Kemi started declining invitations. Sunday dinners. Family movie nights. Even a quick coffee with a friend. "Busy," she said each time, though she knew she wasn't.
Tunde never asked why. He simply suggested better times, rearranged plans, adjusted schedules. His politeness hid subtle corrections: the way she greeted visitors, how loudly she laughed, the topics she mentioned.
Kemi began apologizing without reason. She apologized for noise before playing music, apologized for spending money she had earned, apologized for words she hadn't yet spoken.
Her silence didn't stay contained. Her younger sister started mirroring it, learning that endurance might be proof of love. Her mother stopped asking questions during family meetings, leaving gaps where conversations used to live. Even the neighbors, who once greeted her with smiles, now whispered quietly among themselves, noticing only the absence of her laughter.
And still, no one raised their voice.