USED

After they had sex, she felt a storm inside her. It was her first time—her body ached, and a dull, deep pain settled in her lower belly. But that wasn’t what hurt the most. It was the shame that crept in quietly, the embarrassment that made her skin crawl, and the guilt that swelled in her chest like a tide threatening to drown her.

She lay there, still for a moment, then slipped out of bed and walked to the bathroom. She turned on the tap, watching the water run as if it could wash away what she felt. She cleaned herself slowly, carefully—tears sneaking down her cheeks. A few minutes later, he joined her. He didn’t say a word. He washed himself too, avoiding her eyes like they were poison. The silence between them grew louder.

Was it over? Had she been deceived all along?

He went back to the room, changed the sheets, and lay down, facing the wall like she no longer existed. She followed him quietly and sat beside him, the weight in her chest making it hard to breathe.

“So… what’s next?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Lie down and sleep,” he replied flatly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She lay beside him, but she didn’t sleep. She stared into the darkness, feeling smaller with every minute. A single thought echoed in her mind—Was I just used?

Around 5 a.m., he shook her awake. “You have to start preparing to leave,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “My girlfriend is coming.”

Her heart stopped.

“Girlfriend?” she asked, stunned.

“Yeah. I’ll call you later. We’ll talk. But please, just start booking your Bolt.” He handed her ₦10,000 like he was paying off a debt, not shattering a soul.

She couldn’t move at first. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her clothes. Her chest felt heavy, her vision blurred. She watched him—this man who once played the lover so well—now desperately trying to erase her from his space.

Then, a knock on the door.

Panic seized him. He grabbed her and pushed her behind the curtains, whispering harshly, “Stay there, don’t make a sound.”

He opened the door, only to find it was a neighbor—someone dropping off money for the light bill. Relief washed over him. He pulled her out from the curtains and walked her outside.

“Book the Bolt,” he said, eyes darting nervously. And with that, he left her there—alone, confused, drowning in emotions he didn’t care to understand.

She waited outside, empty and shaking. The Bolt finally arrived, and she got in, the silence in the car louder than anything she’d ever heard.

That afternoon, he felt a nudge in his chest—guilt, maybe. He decided to call. The phone rang twice, no answer. On the third try, someone picked up.

“Hello?” he said. “I’m a friend… just checking on her.”

A pause. Then a voice, unfamiliar and calm.

“She’s dead. She attempted suicide this morning. She was declared dead on arrival.”

His heart stopped. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just silence. Just him. And the echo of the damage he could never undo.