[STORY] How to heal after a toxic relationship

If someone had told me love would find me in a dimly lit café in Lekki on a rainy Thursday night, I would’ve laughed and ordered extra shawarma.

But there I was—heartbroken, makeup slightly smudged, sitting alone with my iced coffee and Wi-Fi, scrolling through “How to heal after a toxic relationship”.

The place smelled like vanilla and rain. Soft lo-fi music was playing. I just wanted peace—not love, not talking stages, not relationship drama.

The Beginning—Or So I Thought

“Hey, can I sit here? Everywhere else is full,” a voice said.

I looked up.

Tall. Hoodie. Dimple. Smelled like fresh citrus and confidence.

I nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

He dropped his laptop on the table. “I’m Daniel, by the way.”

“I’m just trying to mind my business,” I said.

He laughed. “Cool name.”

That was the first time I smiled that week.

We started talking. About music, failed relationships, exes that belong in museums, and why Lagos men are now emotionally unavailable with ring lights.

He told me, “I’m not looking for games. I want something real… if you’re willing.”

I didn’t believe him at first. Love and I were on a break. A permanent one.

But then… morning texts.

Random “Have you eaten?” calls.

Late-night drives to Elegushi Beach.

Soft music. City lights. His jacket around my shoulders.

I started to heal.

The Relationship… Or Whatever It Was

Weeks turned into months.

We weren’t official.

We weren’t strangers.

Somewhere in between—exclusive but label-phobic.

Until one night at his apartment, while helping him with laundry, I found it.

A bracelet.

With the letters: “To D & J — Forever.”

“Who’s J?” I asked.

His smile disappeared. “It’s nothing. Just my cousin.”

But the universe doesn’t like lies. Because that same night, his phone lit up:

“Babe, I miss you. – Jessica”

The room went silent.

Even the ceiling fan stopped for dramatic effect.

Me: “So… am I entertainment? Background character? Rebound?”

Him: “It’s not like that. I love you, but—”

Me: “But what?”

Him: “She was there before you. We’re… engaged.”

My heart dropped.

I swear I heard my soul whisper, “Omo, again?”

I stood up, tears holding a meeting in my eyes.

Me: “Wow. So I’m what—practice for your real relationship?”

Him: “I wanted to tell you. I just… didn’t know how.”

I picked my bag. “You knew how to lie. That counted.”

But just as I reached the door, he said quietly:

“It was an arranged engagement. I ended it yesterday. Because I choose you.”

I turned slowly. His voice shaking. Eyes red.

He pulled out a small ring—not big, not shiny—just simple.

“I don’t want perfect. I want real. With you.”

But Did I Say Yes?

I took a deep breath.

My heart said “stay.”

My brain said “run.”

My trauma said “block him and eat ice cream.”

So I told him:

“If we’re doing this, no more lies. No more almost-love. It’s either we’re in fully, or we’re not doing it at all.”

He nodded, eyes glossy.

“I’m all in.”

And for once… I believed him.

Now, when people ask how we met, I laugh and say, “In a café where I was healing, and he was ruining my peace.”

But secretly?

I thank God I sat in that café.

Because love didn’t show up perfect.

It showed up complicated, messy, honest… and real.