12/01/2026
When love is Impossible, we say it was just a crush!
IMPOSSIBLE LOVE.
The rain had been falling since morning, turning the dusty streets of Ilorin into slow rivers of red clay. Ayo didn’t mind the walk home — not when he knew he’d pass by the big white house at the end of the lane.
Mrs. Adesina lived there — the mother of his best friend, Tunde. She wasn’t like the other parents. Where they barked orders, she spoke softly. Where they complained, she listened. Ayo never understood how a woman could carry so much sadness in her eyes and still smile so kindly.
He first noticed her one hot afternoon after school, when she came to pick Tunde up from school, She had looked tired, sitting in her sleek car, the kind of vehicle Ayo only saw in magazines. Ayo and Tunde walked to the car.
Good afternoon Mrs Adesina. Ayo greeted.
Tunde who's your friend? She asked. Mom, this is Ayo my best friend, he responded!
The one down the street? She asked! Yes Mrs Adesina. Ayo responded.
Okay! Come on Boys let's go, Tunde gesture Ayo to get in the car, and they drove off.
On the drive home, Tunde and his mother talked about the day they both had for what seemed like forever, it was possible they had forgotten there was a third party, before Mrs Adesina caught Ayo's gaze from the rear view mirror🪞.
So Ayo, how are your parents? She asked.
My mom is fine, should probably be at the shop right now! Ayo responded!
And your dad? She asked again!
My dad died when I was little. Ayo responded!
That is sad, she paused,what does your mum do? She added
Ehhh! She's ehhh! Ayo stuttered.
Mom the lady we bought grapefruits from last night at the junction before the expressway, that's Ayo's mom.Tunde explained.
Oh! She does fruit business. She said while pulling into her drive way.
Ayo do you mind joining us for lunch? She asked.
something inside him shifted — a question he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.
From then on, he found excuses to visit — borrowing books, helping with errands, fixing small things around the house. Each visit was a test of restraint. He could feel the weight of the distance between who he was — a 17 years old boy from a one-room apartment — and who she was, a woman born into privilege, now cloaked in quiet grief.
Sometimes, when she watched him talk, he caught a flicker in her gaze — part curiosity, part loneliness. But she never let it stay long. Her walls were built with elegance and regret.
One evening, after helping her carry groceries inside, the generator failed and the lights went out. The silence was thick. He could hear the rain outside and the soft rhythm of her breathing nearby. He took a leap of faith, he reached out and held her hands.
“Ayo,” she said finally, her voice low. “You shouldn’t keep coming here so often.”
He nodded, though his heart clenched. “I know.”
“People will talk,” she continued. Then, after a pause, “And I don’t want to hurt you.”
He swallowed, unsure how to respond. The air between them felt charged — a mixture of longing, fear, and the truth they couldn’t speak aloud.
When the lights returned, her expression had changed — composed again, untouchable. She thanked him, pressed a few naira notes into his hand, and turned away.
Outside, the rain had stopped. Ayo stood for a moment, watching the house glow softly against the dark sky. He knew he would still come back — not for money, not even for friendship, but because something in that house mirrored the emptiness inside him.
And maybe, he thought, that was love — the kind that never got a chance to be pure.
The following week, Tunde stopped talking as much.
He wasn’t angry, not at first. But Ayo could tell something had shifted. The jokes that used to echo down the school corridor now died halfway through. When they walked home together, Tunde no longer invited him inside.
Ayo didn’t ask why. He already knew.
Rumors had a way of spreading faster than harmattan fire. Someone had seen him leaving the Adesina compound late one evening. By morning, whispers had turned into stories — stories that grew teeth.
At school, a few classmates laughed behind his back. “Ayo the rich man’s servant,” one sneered. “Or maybe something else.”
He tried to ignore them, but the words bit deeper than he let on.
That weekend, he decided to stay away. He spent the evening by the stream, tossing stones, watching the reflection of the moon dance across the water. But when he looked up, he saw her — Mrs. Adesina — standing across the bank, wrapped in a shawl, her face pale in the moonlight.
“Ayo,” she called softly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He almost smiled. “You shouldn’t be either.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The night felt too still, too fragile. She looked tired again — the same quiet sadness he had noticed the first day he met her.
“People are talking,” she said. “And Tunde… he’s hurt. He doesn’t understand.”
Ayo lowered his gaze. “Neither do I,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
She stepped closer, her voice trembling. “You remind me of who I used to be — before all this. Before my husband left. Before I started living in a house that feels too big and too empty.”
He wanted to reach out, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Then maybe it’s not me you’re seeing. Maybe it’s your past.”
That made her flinch. The silence between them thickened. Finally, she turned away.
“Go home, Ayo. Please.”
When she walked back toward the dim lights of her estate, Ayo stayed by the water, listening to the crickets hum. The distance between them wasn’t just class, or age, or circumstance — it was something deeper, carved by loneliness and the cruel timing of life.
By Monday, he and Tunde spoke again — brief, careful words that pretended nothing had changed. But every time Ayo saw Mrs. Adesina’s car outside the school gate, he felt that quiet ache in his chest again.
Some loves, he realized, are not meant to be lived — only survived.
It happened on a Thursday afternoon, the kind of day when the air felt too heavy to breathe.
Tunde hadn’t come to school. No one said why, but Ayo knew. A sinking feeling sat in his stomach all day, like the calm before a storm.
When he finally walked home, he saw the familiar black car parked outside his house — Mrs. Adesina’s.
His mother was at the shop. The compound was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. She was standing by the gate, still in her office clothes, her face hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He hesitated, then nodded and led her inside.
The small room looked even smaller with her in it — her perfume clashing with the scent of palm oil and soap. She didn’t sit. She just stood there, hands trembling slightly, her voice low.
“Tunde knows,” she said. “He found the letters.”
Ayo froze. He had written those letters — unsent, hidden in a notebook. Words he never meant for anyone to see. Somehow, they had found their way to Tunde.
“He came home angry,” she continued. “He said he never wanted to see you again. He thinks…” Her voice cracked. “He thinks something happened between us.”
Ayo turned away, his chest tightening. “Nothing did.”
“I know.” She stepped closer, searching his eyes. “But sometimes the truth doesn’t matter when a heart feels betrayed.”
He could see the pain in her face — not just guilt, but fear. The fear of losing the only People who made her life feel less empty.
“I’m sorry,” Ayo whispered.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said softly. “You were kind. That’s all.”
Then she did something unexpected — she reached out and touched his cheek, her hand trembling. It wasn’t romantic. It was something sadder — a goodbye between two people who had met in the wrong life.
When she left, the air in the room felt thinner.
That evening, Tunde showed up at Ayo’s door. His eyes were red, his voice hoarse. “You could’ve told me,” he said quietly.
Ayo looked at him, unable to speak.
For a long time, they just stood there — two boys divided by silence, class, and a woman they both loved in different ways.
Finally, Tunde said, “My mum’s leaving. She got a job in Abuja. We’re moving next week.”
Ayo nodded. He didn’t try to stop him. There was nothing left to say.
When the car finally drove away days later, Ayo stood by the road and watched until the dust cleared. The white house at the end of the lane would stay, but it would never mean the same thing again.
And in that stillness, he understood:
Some love stories don’t end in fire or betrayal.
They just fade — quietly — leaving behind a shadow that never quite lets go.
Five years later, Ayo stood at the edge of the university campus, watching the rain fall the same way it had that first day outside her gate.
He was taller now, leaner, with calloused hands and the calm of someone who had learned to carry silence like a second skin. He was studying literature — something few from his neighborhood ever dreamed of. His professors said he had a gift for stories that ached.
Sometimes, in the middle of writing, he’d catch himself thinking of her — Mrs. Adesina — though he no longer dared to say her name aloud.
He had heard that Tunde was abroad now, studying business in London. That the house in Ilorin had been sold. That she had never remarried.
He never tried to find her. Some people, he realized, live inside you long after they’re gone, like a song you can’t stop humming even when you’ve forgotten the words.
One evening, while reading under a leaking roof, a letter arrived. The envelope was plain, no return address. Inside was a single line written in familiar handwriting:
“I hope you’ve found peace, Ayo — the kind neither of us had the courage to hold.”
He sat there for a long time, the paper trembling in his hand. The rain outside softened into a mist, and in its rhythm, he thought he heard her voice again — gentle, distant, and full of unspoken things.
When he finally folded the letter and placed it inside his notebook, he didn’t feel the ache anymore — only gratitude.
Because some loves, he now understood, are not meant to last a lifetime.
They’re meant to teach you how to live one.
Ruth Writes
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