The One I Let In

My name is Penny.

I was thirty-one when I met Lex, and nothing in my life prepared me for what loving him would mean.

---

It’s past midnight. Lex is asleep beside me, breathing softly, one arm flung possessively over my waist, just like he has a right to be here. Like I belong here. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne, mingled with sleep, usually soothes me. Tonight, it chokes.

He’d been distant lately. More trips, fewer calls. Missed connections. Excuses that sounded plausible but scraped against the raw edge of a fear I thought I’d buried.

Tonight, after a lazy day cuddled on his sofa binge-watching thrillers, the unease wouldn’t settle. It buzzed under my skin, a persistent insect I couldn’t swat away. So, when his breathing deepened into the rhythm of true sleep, I did the unthinkable. I reached for his phone, tucked under his pillow like a secret.

His thumbprint unlocks it.

I open WhatsApp. My thumb hovers. Don’t do this, Penny. Trust him. The voice is weak, drowned out by the pounding of my own heart. I scroll past work groups, male friends… and there it is. A name I don’t recognize: Sophie. Heartbeats hammer against my ribs. I tap.

The messages load. Pictures first. Her. Laughing on a beach, sunlight glinting off impossibly long legs. Her. Pouting at the camera, lips full and glossed, eyes smoky. Stunning. The kind of beauty that isn’t just noticed, it’s felt. Instant, corrosive jealousy floods my mouth with the taste of metal. My fingers tremble as I scroll up.

Flirty banter. Plans made. Dates confirmed. Times that coincide with Lex’s “urgent” trips to Mombasa. Times when my calls went unanswered. My vision blurs.

I scroll faster, desperate and horrified. Words leap out:

Sophie: Dinner was amazing, papii... Can't wait to see you Friday... Miss your touch already💕.

I continue scrolling up. My blood turned to ice. More pictures. Her, in lingerie. Her, on a bed, looking provocatively at the camera. Him, shirtless, the picture clearly taken in this apartment, on the sofa, maybe a month ago. A time he’d told me he was working late. More explicit texts. My eyes scanned, uncomprehending at first, then locking onto specific words.

Sophie: Had such an amazing time last night! Dinner was perf!

Lex: Glad you enjoyed. You looked stunning.

Sophie: Stunning enough for dessert? 😉Haha! Seriously tho, you were INSANE later. Love that energy papii! 😍

“Papii!!!” My heart is pounding.

Then, yesterday’s timestamp. My four missed calls glaring in my memory. And her message, sent just this morning:

"I loved the sex yesternight, ulikuwa beast mode. haha! ❤️"

The world tilts. The air vanishes from the room. Beast mode. The phrase Lex whispered against my neck just last week in this very bed, sweat slick between us. A private joke. Our thing.

A sound escapes me, a choked gasp that isn’t quite a sob. Tears, hot and sudden, spill over, tracking silent paths down my cheeks. They drip onto the screen, blurring Sophie’s perfect, smug face. Yesternight. While I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he hadn’t answered, why he’d only texted a curt 

"Busy, babe. Talk tmrw."

He was busy. Busy being a beast with Sophie.

The weight of his arm on me suddenly feels like a leaden chain. I carefully, silently, lift it and slide out from under the duvet. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. I stand naked beside the bed, looking down at him. The strong line of his jaw softened in sleep, the perfect arch of his eyebrows, the beard I loved running my fingers through. He looks peaceful. Innocent. A masterpiece of deception.

The switch flips.

It’s instantaneous. Like a circuit breaker overloaded. The tears stop as abruptly as they started. The crushing pain in my chest? Gone. Replaced by a cold, clear, ringing silence. An absolute zero of feeling.

The love, the passion, the desperate need for him that had consumed me for months… evaporates. It’s not buried. It’s simply gone. Erased.

I move with robotic efficiency. No sound. No wasted motion. I find my scattered clothes – the silk camisole he loved peeling off me hours ago, my jeans, my underwear. I dress quickly in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

My overnight bag is in his walk-in closet. I retrieve it, pack my toiletries from his ensuite, the spare work clothes I kept here for mornings after. Two dresses. My charger. The expensive bracelet he gave me for our three-month anniversary lies on his dresser. I pick it up, the diamonds cold against my palm. For a second, I consider flinging it against the wall. Instead, I drop it carelessly back onto the polished wood. Let him find it. Let him remember.

Zipping the bag, I take one last look at him. Lex. The man I thought was my forever. The man who dismantled my last fortress, convinced me the wait wasn’t worth it. The man who made me believe, truly believe, I’d found something real. My soulmate. My undoing.

Nothing. No flicker of sorrow, no ember of anger. Just… nothing. A profound, chilling detachment.

I pick up my bag, slip my feet into my sandals, and walk out of his bedroom. Down the hall. Through his immaculate living room, past the framed photos of us – smiling on a Diani beach, laughing at Carnivore, posing awkwardly but happily at a friend’s wedding. Ghosts.

The front door clicks shut behind me with a quiet finality. The cool Nairobi night air hits my face. It’s quiet. Empty. I hail a cab easily.

As I slide into the back seat, the driver asks, "Usiku mbaya, madam? Everything okay?"

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. My voice is steady, unnervingly calm. "Perfectly fine. Just going home."

I pull out my phone. Block Lex’s number. Block him on WhatsApp. Instagram. Facebook. Every point of contact, severed in less than a minute.

As the cab pulls away from the curb, leaving Lex’s upscale apartment building behind, I lean my head against the cool window. The city lights blur past. I don’t cry. I don’t rage. I just… exist.

The switch is off. And I wonder, distantly, if it will ever turn back on.

.

But how did we get here?

.

.

(Flashback - Six Months Earlier)

The loneliness had a specific texture lately. Thick, like the Nairobi humidity just before the long rains broke. It settled in my tastefully minimalist apartment, echoing in the spaces between my carefully curated books and the single wine glass drying by the sink. One year and two months. That’s how long it had been since Larry walked out, his final words still a dull ache: "Penny, love isn’t enough. I need to know what I’m committing to for life. I need to sample the goods."

Sample the goods. As if I were a fruit at City Market.

I promised myself never to have intercourse until I get married. My resolve – the promise I’d made to myself at twenty, reinforced by my faith, solidified by watching too many friends get burned – had been the dealbreaker. Again. Three times now. Three relationships that started with stars in their eyes, ended with them in someone else’s bed, blaming my “frigidity.”

Larry was the hardest. I’d truly believed he understood. We’d come so close… the heat, the friction, his desperate groan against my neck as he pressed against me, just there, but I’d pushed him back, trembling, whispering “Not yet. When we’re married.”

The look of frustrated resignation on his face was the beginning of the end.

Tonight, the loneliness was sharper. It wasn’t just emotional; it was a physical thrumming under my skin. I knew why. The familiar twinge low in my abdomen, the heightened sensitivity, the way my body felt… ripe.

Ovulation.

It always made me feel restless, hyper-aware, like my nerves were wired directly to the surface. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t scroll through old photos tonight. It was a bad habit, a form of emotional self-flagellation.

But my traitorous thumb opened the cloud storage app anyway. Scrolling, scrolling… past graduation photos from Strathmore (First Class Honours, BCom Finance), past work events at the international firm where I’d carved a niche as a sharp, if slightly reserved, tax associate. Past group shots with the girls – Wanjiru, Brenda, Zawadi – laughing, always laughing. Then… him. Larry. That weekend getaway at Lake Naivasha. Sunlight catching his smile, his arm around my waist, pulling me close. We looked happy. We were happy. Until we weren’t.

The pang was immediate. Not just sadness, but a visceral pull. A memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he knew how to touch me almost everywhere. We hadn’t gone all the way, but we’d explored other paths. Paths that left me trembling and gasping, paths that felt like flying even as I clung to my crumbling cliff of principle. Seeing his face, that specific smile he reserved only for me… it ignited something deep and hungry.

The thrumming intensified, centering low and insistent. My breath hitched. No, I thought weakly. But my body was already responding. The silky fabric of my pajama shorts felt suddenly abrasive against my skin. I shifted on the couch, the movement sending a fresh wave of awareness through me. The loneliness wasn’t just an absence anymore; it was a tangible ache, a hollow space demanding to be filled.

Resistance was futile. I knew that. This biological imperative, amplified by the ghost of past touches and the frustrating reality of an empty bed, was too strong. I closed the cloud app, Larry’s smiling face vanishing, but the heat he’d ignited remained.

I walked to my bedroom, the air feeling thick and charged. Locking the door felt unnecessary but ritualistic. This was private. Sacred, almost, in its desperate solitude. I leaned back against the cool wood, closing my eyes, letting my head fall back. My hands, seemingly of their own volition, drifted down. One slipped under the waistband of my shorts, beneath the thin cotton of my underwear. The other found my breast through the soft fabric of my camisole, thumb brushing over a nipple already hardened into a tight peak. A soft sigh escaped my lips.

My fingers knew the way. They dipped lower, finding the slick heat waiting for them.

The first touch was electric, a jolt that arched my back off the door. Oh God. I was so ready. Swollen, sensitive, drenched. Images flickered behind my closed eyelids – not just Larry, but the imagined weight of a body, the press of lips, the promise of release. My fingers moved with practiced urgency, circling the aching center of my need. My other hand kneaded my breast, pinching the nipple lightly, the twin points of pleasure amplifying the building tension low in my belly.

Faster. Harder. My breath came in ragged gasps now. Yes… oh God, yes… I bit my lip to stifle a moan.

The friction was delicious, maddening.

My hips rocked against my own hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. The coil inside me tightened unbearably. Sparks danced behind my eyelids. Almost… almost… I imagined a mouth where my fingers were, hot and demanding.

A final, sharp cry tore from my throat, muffled against my own arm as my body convulsed. Pleasure, white-hot and blinding, ripped through me, leaving my legs trembling and my heart hammering against my ribs. Wave after wave of release crashed over me, leaving me boneless and panting, slumped against the door.

Afterward, the silence rushed back in, thicker than before. The loneliness was still there, but the sharp edge was blunted, replaced by a hollow satisfaction and a faint, familiar shame. I slid down the door to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. Tears pricked my eyes, not of sadness, but of profound frustration. This wasn’t enough. This mechanical release wasn’t connection. Wasn’t love.

On my 28th birthday, barely a month after Larry, surrounded by my girls and too much wine, I’d made a vow: 

The next one. The next relationship is it. It leads to the altar, or it doesn’t start at all. 

Sitting on the cool floor of my bedroom, the scent of my own arousal faint in the air, that vow felt like a fragile shield against the vast, intimidating void of singledom.

Where was he? The one who would wait? The one who would see my value beyond… this?

(Flashback - The Meeting & The Courtship)

The memory of that lonely night faded, replaced by the vibrant chaos of Brenda’s 30th birthday bash two weeks later. A rooftop bar in Westlands, fairy lights strung overhead, pulsating Afrobeat, and a sea of beautiful people.

I was in my element, sort of. Dressed in a simple but striking emerald green wrap dress that hugged my curves and set off my dark skin, my long hair cascading down my back. Minimal makeup – just mascara and lip gloss. I attracted glances, as usual. Some appreciative, some intimidated. I’d perfected the art of the polite, slightly distant smile that kept most at bay. The “Tax Queen” persona, Wanjiru called it brilliant, beautiful, unapproachable.

I was debating escaping to the quieter bar area when Brenda grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with excitement. “Penny! There you are! Come, I want you to meet someone. He’s perfect for you. Seriously."

Before I could protest, she was dragging me through the crowd towards a small group near the panoramic view of the city skyline. And there he was.

Lex.

He wasn’t the loudest in the group, but he was the center. Leaning against the railing, a tumbler of something amber in his hand, listening intently to someone speak. He was impeccably dressed – dark, tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His beard was perfectly groomed, framing a strong jaw and full lips. But it was his eyes. When he turned, sensing Brenda’s approach, and those dark, intense eyes landed on me… it felt like a physical touch. A jolt of pure, undiluted awareness shot through me. His gaze was intelligent, assessing, and held a hint of… amusement? Confidence radiated from him, a quiet magnetism that made everyone else seem slightly blurred.

"Lex, this is my brilliant, beautiful friend, Penny," Brenda gushed. "Penny, meet Lex. He terrorizes… I mean, manages credit for one of those big scary banks."

Lex’s lips quirked into a smile. It transformed his face, making those intense eyes crinkle attractively at the corners. "Terrorize is a strong word, Brenda. We prefer ‘strategically mitigate risk’." His voice was deep, smooth, with a timbre that resonated somewhere low in my belly. He extended his hand. "Penny. A pleasure. Brenda’s been singing your praises. Tax specialist, right? That takes serious nerve."

His handshake was firm, warm. His gaze didn’t waver from mine. I felt oddly exposed, yet strangely safe. "Strategic risk mitigation sounds equally terrifying," I managed, surprised at the steadiness of my own voice. "And yes, tax. Someone has to keep the corporate giants honest… or at least audited."

He laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "Touché." We talked. Or rather, he drew me out. Asked brainy questions about my work, my thoughts on the new Finance Bill 2024, listened intently to my answers. He shared snippets of his own world – the complexities of corporate lending, the pressure, the satisfaction of structuring a major deal. He was witty, self-deprecating in a way that felt authentic, and possessed a quiet intelligence that matched my own.

He didn’t bombard me with charm; he engaged me. And those eyes… whenever they held mine, I felt a flush creep up my neck.

He asked for my number before he left, leaning in slightly, that intoxicating blend of his cologne – something woodsy and expensive – and his own scent enveloping me. "I’d really like to continue this conversation, Penny. Maybe over coffee? Less…" he gestured vaguely at the pulsating music, "...decibels."

I gave it to him, my fingers brushing against his phone screen. "I’d like that."

Then came the wait. Ten days. Ten agonizing days where my phone became an object of obsessive scrutiny. Every notification, every buzz, sent my heart racing, only to plummet when it wasn’t him.

I replayed our conversation constantly. Had I said something wrong? Was he not interested? Was this another beautiful man who’d take one look at my life and decide I was too much? Too intimidating? The loneliness and frustration from that night on the floor came rushing back, amplified by the spark of hope he’d ignited.

My girls teased me mercilessly. "Peninah Njeri (my full name) checking her phone every two minutes? The world is ending!" Wanjiru crowed.

Then, finally, a text. Simple. Direct.

"Penny. Lex. Still up for that coffee? Tomorrow? 4 PM, Artcaffe at ABC Place?"

Relief, sweet and dizzying, washed over me. He remembered.

 At the first date, I learned his full name: Alexander Onyango Shipoto. He casually dropped it: "Everyone calls me Lex."

Alexander? I nearly choked on my latte foam. Sweet, sleek ‘Lex’... short for Alexander?

Seriously? In my head, it was always short for something sharper, more modern – like 'Lexington.'

And Shipoto? Hold on. Isn’t that... you know... the name from watu wa Ingo? For that part? Something entirely anatomical. Nairobians call it ‘Rosecoco.’

Anyway. Who names their child ‘Shipoto’? Genuine question.

“Bold choice. Your parents have a sense of humor,” I teased.

But honestly? At that point? I cared less. Way less. The guy sitting across from me was sleek. So fine. For all I cared, his official name was Lex. End of story.

Coffee stretched into a three-hour conversation that felt like minutes. We talked about everything. Childhoods, his in Kisumu, mine in quiet Nyeri. University days – his at UoN, mine at Strathmore. The pressure to succeed. The dream of building something meaningful. Family. Values. The desire for stability, for partnership, for… children, someday. The resonance was uncanny. He spoke with a quiet conviction about wanting a real connection, a foundation built on trust and shared goals.

He listened – really listened – when I spoke about my work, my passions, even my cautious optimism about finding the right person. He didn’t flinch when, tentatively, I mentioned my past relationship struggles, framing it as "taking things slow." He simply nodded thoughtfully. "Integrity matters," he’d said. "Especially in something as important as this."

Let me tell you, Maina! Wajaka have their way with words. They’ll love-bomb you straight into next Tuesday. Usicheze! So smooth, so convincing.

The second date was dinner at Talisman in Karen. Candlelight, exquisite food, even better conversation. The ease between us was palpable. He was fascinating – well-read, well-traveled, with a dry sense of humor that made me laugh genuinely.

And the way he looked at me… it wasn’t just appreciation; it was admiration. Respect. It made me feel seen, not just as a beautiful object, but as Penny. The whole package.

Then came the Friday surprise. I was buried in year-end tax provisions at the office, my hair probably escaping its messy bun, when the receptionist called, her voice tinged with excitement. "Penny, there’s a delivery for you up front!"

A massive bouquet of blush-pink roses and lilies, breathtakingly beautiful. Nestled among them, a small, sleek box. Tiffany & Co. My breath caught. Inside, nestled on blue velvet, was a delicate diamond pendant on a fine platinum chain. Stunning. Simple. Utterly perfect. The card, written in a strong, elegant hand:

“Hey you, beautiful mystery,

Every time we talk, I feel something special.

Just petals & possibilities,

L.”

Petals & Possibilities. It felt like a promise. My hands shook as I fastened the necklace. It lay cool against my skin, a tangible symbol of this whirlwind that felt terrifyingly right.

The third date sealed it. He picked me up in his sleek, black Mazda CX-5. "Dress nice," he’d said, a playful glint in his eye. He drove us to Sanctum in Westlands, one of Nairobi’s most exclusive restaurants. It was all low lighting, plush velvet banquettes, and an atmosphere of hushed luxury. He’d reserved the best table; secluded, with a stunning view of the city lights twinkling below. The food was art on a plate, the wine exquisite. He was attentive, charming, his gaze never leaving mine for long. The conversation flowed, effortless and deep. We talked about future trips, silly dreams, the comfort of silence.

Over dessert – a decadent chocolate fondant – he reached across the table, taking my hand. His touch sent warmth radiating up my arm. “Penny,” he said, his voice low and serious, those dark eyes holding mine captive. "These past few weeks… talking to you, getting to know you… it’s been incredible. You’re incredible. Intelligent, beautiful, grounded. You challenge me. You make me laugh. You feel like… home." He paused, took a breath. "I don't want to just keep dating. I want you to be my girlfriend. Exclusively. Seriously. Will you?"

The world narrowed to his face, his eyes, the earnest hope in them. My 28th-birthday vow echoed in my mind. The next one leads to the altar. Looking at Lex, feeling the rightness of this moment, the connection that felt deeper than anything before… I believed it. This was it. My Mr. Right.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "Yes, Lex. Absolutely yes."

The drive home was charged with a new energy. Happiness fizzed in my veins like champagne. He parked outside my apartment building, the engine idling softly. The air inside the car was thick with unspoken tension and the scent of him. He turned to me, his eyes dark pools in the dim dashboard light.

"Penny…" he murmured, his hand reaching up to cradle my cheek. His thumb brushed my lower lip. The touch sent shivers through me. He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I didn’t. His lips met mine, soft at first, questioning. Then deeper, more insistent. It was a kiss that held the promise of everything: passion, tenderness, a future. His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head. My hands found his shoulders, then tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. The world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his beard against my skin, the low groan that vibrated in his chest. It was perfect. Electrifying. A kiss that felt like a beginning written in the stars.

When we finally pulled apart, breathless, our foreheads resting together, he whispered, “Goodnight, girlfriend.”

“Goodnight,” I breathed back, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I floated up to my apartment. That night, sleep was impossible. I replayed the kiss, the look in his eyes when he asked me, the feel of his hand in my hair. I touched the diamond pendant at my throat. Mr. Right. He was real. He was here. And he was mine.

(Flashback - The Bliss & The Breaking Point)

The following months were a golden haze. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

Lex became my sun, my moon, my entire galaxy. My carefully compartmentalized life blurred at the edges as he filled every available space.

The fortress fell not with a siege, but with a whisper. It happened a few weeks after we became official. We’d spent the day exploring the Nairobi National Museum, holding hands like teenagers, debating the exhibits. Back at his apartment in Kilimani, we ordered in, drank wine, talked for hours curled up on his huge sofa. The conversation turned intimate, charged. His hands traced patterns on my arm, his lips brushed my temple. The air crackled. One kiss led to another, deeper, more urgent. Clothes became obstacles. His touch ignited a wildfire within me I didn’t know existed. He was patient, worshipful almost, but the desire in his eyes was a tangible force.

We stumbled towards his bedroom, a trail of discarded garments marking our path. The cool sheets against my bare skin, the weight of him above me, the sheer intensity of the moment… my resolve, my lifelong promise, crumbled not out of pressure, but out of an overwhelming, all-consuming want. "Lex," I breathed, my voice trembling, "I… I haven’t…"

He understood instantly. He stilled above me, his breath warm on my skin. "Love?" His voice was rough with desire, but laced with concern. "Are you sure? We don’t have to…"

But I was sure. In that moment, bathed in the low light filtering through his curtains, feeling the connection thrumming between us like a live wire, the years of waiting felt less like a sacred vow and more like a self-imposed prison. Larry’s words “sample the goods” echoed, but they sounded hollow, cynical, against the sheer rightness of being with Lex. This wasn’t sampling. This was choosing.

"I'm sure," I whispered, pulling him closer, sealing the words with another kiss. "I want you. All of you."

The breaking of the promise wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fraught with guilt or regret in the moment. It was a surrender to a tidal wave of sensation I’d only ever skirted. His touch was electric, mapping my body with a reverence that stole my breath. He explored me slowly, learning the curves and hollows, the places that made me gasp, the spots that drew soft moans from my lips. And when he finally entered me, there was a sharp, fleeting pinch, quickly drowned by an overwhelming wave of fullness, connection, and a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. It was messy, slightly awkward, profoundly intimate. And then… release. A shattering, all-consuming climax that left me trembling, tears pricking my eyes. Tears of release, of vulnerability, of a barrier finally breached.

Afterwards, curled against his chest, listening to the frantic beat of his heart slowly steady, I felt… free. Liberated. And insatiably curious. "Did I…?" he started, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

“I’m honored to have been your first."

A breathless laugh escaping me. "Lex, I think I was missing out. That was…" Words failed me. Transcendent. Addictive.

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, holding me tighter. "Good. Because I plan on doing it again. Often."

And we did. The floodgates had opened.

My overnight bag became a permanent fixture at his place. I’d pack work clothes, ready for mornings when we’d lose track of time tangled in his sheets and I’d have to rush straight from his bed to my desk, the scent of him clinging to my skin, a secret smile playing on my lips.

Weekends with the girls dwindled to hurried brunches where I’d be distracted, checking my phone, itching to get back to him.

"Someone’s smitten!" Wanjiru teased over mimosas one Sunday, watching me text Lex under the table. "Penny, reduced to a lovesick puppy! Who is this man?"

"He’s different," I insisted, warmth flooding my cheeks. "He’s… it. The real deal."

Brenda raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in her eye. "Famous last words, darling. Remember Larry? Remember Mark? Remember how they were all 'different' until they weren't?" She leaned in, her voice dropping playfully. "Just promise you’ll come back to us when he inevitably screws up. They always do."

I swatted her arm, laughing, but a tiny sliver of the old fear pricked me. "Not Lex," I countered, conviction ringing in my voice. "He’s my soulmate." I believed it utterly. The connection felt cosmic.

The sex was a revelation – not just physically explosive, but deeply connective, a language we spoke fluently. I initiated it shamelessly, craving the closeness, the oblivion it offered.

Was I addicted? Maybe. It felt like making up for lost time, for years of yearning unfulfilled.

We got adventurous. One rainy Nairobi afternoon, parked in a secluded lookout spot, the city misty below us, the steamed-up windows of his car became our private cocoon. The confined space, the risk of being seen, added a thrilling edge.

Another time, during a blissful weekend getaway to a luxury villa in Diani, the private Jacuzzi became our playground. The warm, bubbling water swirled around us as twilight painted the sky in hues of orange and purple. I straddled him, the water buoying me, the jets pulsing against sensitive skin. His hands gripped my hips, guiding me, his mouth hot on my neck, my collarbone, capturing my moans. The sensation was amplified, surreal. The warm water, the friction, the open sky above, the sheer decadence of it. Our movements created small waves that lapped against the tiled edge. I arched back, water sluicing over my breasts, crying out his name as the orgasm ripped through me, intense and liquid, mirroring the element surrounding us. He followed moments later, his groan muffled against my shoulder, his body shuddering beneath mine. We stayed entwined in the cooling water, breathing heavily, sticky with chlorine and satisfaction, utterly lost in each other. It felt like paradise.

The first six months were pure, unadulterated magic. We were inseparable. My world revolved around Lex – his schedule, his smile, the sound of his key in the lock. My apartment gathered dust. My life felt full, complete.

Then the travel started. "Big deal in Mombasa, babe. Client meetings. Be back Friday." Then it was "Regional strategy session in Kampala. Three days." Then "Head office needs me in London. Ten days." The absences grew longer, more frequent. The nightly FaceTime calls, where we’d share our days, sometimes just fall asleep looking at each other’s pixelated faces, became less frequent. Then they became rushed. "Signal’s bad, babe. Talk tomorrow?" Then they became texts. "Long day. Exhausted. Sleep well. xx"

The anxiety, that old, familiar serpent, began to coil in my gut. I shared my worries with the girls during a rare, full girls’ night.

"He’s just busy, Penny," Zawadi offered, trying to soothe. "He’s a credit manager for a tier-one bank. It’s demanding."

"But he never used to be too busy to call," I countered, swirling my cocktail nervously. "Even in Kampala, he’d find time. Now… silence. Or one-word texts."

Wanjiru gave me a sympathetic look. "Just… be careful, okay? Keep your eyes open. Don’t lose yourself completely in him." Her words echoed Brenda’s earlier teasing, but now they held a weight, a grim familiarity.

The breaking point came on a random Tuesday night. He was supposedly back in Nairobi, working late. I’d cooked, hoping to surprise him. Called at 7 PM. No answer. Called at 8. Straight to voicemail. Called at 9. Nothing. Called at 10, my knuckles white around the phone. Ring… ring… ring… Voicemail again.

The silence was deafening. The anxiety solidified into cold, hard suspicion. It wasn’t just busyness. It was avoidance. It was… something else.

The next weekend, he was back. We spent a lazy Saturday at his place – brunch, cuddling on the sofa watching a series, takeout for dinner. It felt almost normal, but there was a tension beneath the surface, a distance in his eyes even when he smiled at me. He fell asleep early, exhausted from the "grueling week." I lay beside him, wide awake, the cold dread in my stomach refusing to thaw. The silence of the apartment pressed in. The suspicion was a living thing now, gnawing at me.

Check his phone. The thought was intrusive, poisonous. I’d never done it before. I believed in trust. But the unanswered calls, the growing distance, the ghost of Brenda and Wanjiru’s warnings… I couldn’t silence the voice.

His phone lay on the nightstand, charging. His thumbprint unlocked it. I slipped out of bed, heart pounding like a war drum, and took it into the dimly lit living room. My hands were ice-cold, trembling. I opened WhatsApp.

Scrolled past familiar names. And then I saw it: Sophie. A name I didn’t recognize. A profile picture of a stunning woman – flawless skin, captivating eyes, radiating confidence. Beautiful in a way that instantly made me feel inadequate. Jealousy, sharp and acidic, flooded my mouth. I tapped.

The messages loaded. Flirtation. Banter. Plans. "Dinner Friday? That new place?" "Can’t wait to see you, Lexy." "Missing you already, dzaddy." Dates that coincided with his "business trips." Times that matched my unanswered calls. My vision blurred. I scrolled faster, a sickening dread rising.

Then I saw it. Timestamped the night of my four frantic calls. My unanswered calls. And Sophie’s message, sent the next morning:

"I loved the sex yesternight, ulikuwa beast mode. haha! ❤️"

Beast mode. Our private joke. Whispered in our bed. Used with her.

The world stopped. The air vanished. A strangled gasp tore from my throat. Hot tears spilled over, splashing onto the screen, blurring Sophie’s perfect, triumphant face. Yesternight. While I sat alone in my apartment, staring at a cold plate of food, wondering why the man I loved couldn’t spare two minutes to text back.

He’d been busy. Busy being a beast with Sophie.

(The Aftermath & The Spark)

The tears flowed silently, a hot, shameful river. But beneath them, something else was happening. A profound numbness began to spread, starting from the core of my being where the love, the passion, the desperate need for him had resided. It was like watching a fire get doused not with water, but with liquid nitrogen – an instant, absolute extinguishing. The crushing pain? Snuffed out. The love? Gone. Not buried. Erased.

I looked back towards the darkened bedroom. He slept peacefully, oblivious. The man I thought was my forever. The man who shattered my last defense, who made me believe waiting was foolish. The man who made me break a promise to myself, only to break my heart.

Nothing. No sorrow. No rage. Just… void. A chilling, absolute detachment.

I moved with eerie calm. Silent. Efficient. I gathered my clothes from his floor, his chair. Dressed mechanically. My overnight bag was in his closet. I packed my toiletries, my spare work clothes, my charger. I saw the expensive bracelet he’d given me for our three months – diamonds winking coldly in the low light. I picked it up. For a second, I imagined hurling it through the window. Instead, I dropped it carelessly onto his polished dresser. Let him find it. Let him remember.

Zipping the bag, I took one last look at him. Lex. My soulmate. My undoing.

Nothing.

I walked out. Down the hall. Past the photos of us – smiling on Diani beach, laughing at Carnivore, happy ghosts in his immaculate apartment. The front door clicked shut behind me. The cool night air hit my face. I hailed a cab.

"Usiku mbaya, madam? Everything okay?" the driver asked, eyeing my tear-streaked face in the rearview mirror.

"Perfectly fine," I said, my voice unnervingly steady. "Just going home."

Inside the moving cab, the numbness held. I pulled out my phone. Blocked Lex’s number. Blocked him on WhatsApp. Instagram. Facebook. LinkedIn. Every digital tether severed in under a minute.

As the cab sped through the sleeping city, leaving Lex’s life behind, I leaned my head against the window. The streetlights blurred into streaks of gold. I felt… nothing. Just a vast, echoing emptiness where Lex had been.

The next two weeks were a whirlwind of detached activity.

The girls were stunned.

"He what?" Brenda shrieked when I told them, my voice flat, over coffee. "That bastard! Oh Penny, I’m so sorry!" She reached for my hand, but I pulled back slightly.

"Don’t be," I said, sipping my latte. "It’s done."

"But… you seem… okay?" Wanjiru ventured, concern warring with confusion. "Too okay. After how you felt about him…"

"I feel nothing," I stated simply. It was the truth. The absence of pain was almost as startling as the pain itself would have been.

"He’s irrelevant."

They exchanged worried glances. My lack of visible heartbreak unnerved them more than tears would have.

Where was the devastation? The anger? Nothing!

* * * * *