Over and Over

Contraction

KANO,
NIGERIA.

LAYLA'S POV

The voice calling my name was all too familiar. I turned instinctively, a mixture of surprise and disbelief crossing my face.

"Imam?" I exclaimed, my hands flying to my mouth. "What are you doing here?"

He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "This is the wedding I told you about," he replied, his tone equally startled.

I felt my heart lift slightly, unbidden.

His presence was both unexpected and comforting in a sea of unfamiliar faces. "Imam, meet Hakeem," I said, gesturing to the man beside me. "Hakeem is a... friend. And Hakeem, this is Imam, my... friend's brother."

IMAM'S POV

Friend's brother.

The phrase reverberated in my head like a cruel echo.

Why would she call me that? The label stung, but not as much as the sight before me: her hand resting in his.

My hands itched to yank hers away from him, to sever whatever connection they had.

She'd always been elusive, deflecting my attempts to bridge the gap between us, but now—now she stood there, holding his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A wave of jealousy surged through me, sharp and consuming.

Before I could say anything, Layla's Dada approached us, her gaze darting to me in confusion.

"Layla, what happened?" she asked, her eyes scanning Layla from head to toe.

NARRATORS POV

"Dada, inawuni," Hakeem greeted her politely.

But before she could reply, Imam cut in. "Hello, Dada.

It's good to see you," he said, clearly trying to hide the agitation brewing beneath his calm facade.

She frowned, clearly as surprised as Layla had been. "Imam, what are you doing here?" she asked.

"I'm a friend of the groom," he said smoothly, though his eyes flickered to Hakeem again, narrowing slightly.

LAYLA'S POV

Hakeem helped me to a nearby chair. Imam followed, his agitation barely contained.

"Layla," he said, kneeling before me, his voice heavy with concern.

"Why are you so careless? I've told you time and again to take better care of yourself, but you never listen."

I blinked at him, stunned by the raw emotion in his voice. Before I could respond, Hakeem cut in.

"Relax, man. Are you her father or something?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

Imam rose abruptly, towering over Hakeem, his fists clenched.

"No," he said, his voice tight. "I'm not her father, but I am her—" He stopped himself, his face paling slightly as the words tumbled out unbidden. "Her lover."

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. My breath hitched, and I felt Hakeem stiffen beside me.

Imam's eyes widened in realization, and he scrambled to correct himself.

"I mean... her well-wisher," he stammered, the flush of embarrassment spreading across his face.

The night passed in a blur, and by the time the bride and groom entered, the hall had erupted into lively music and dancing.

I stood with Dada, watching the festivities, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Imam's outburst—and the tension it had created.

Across the room, I felt a pair of eyes on me.

Turning slightly, I saw Imam staring at me, his expression unreadable.

When he caught my gaze, he quickly turned away, but not before shattering the glass in his hand. The sound echoed, drawing attention.

Without thinking, I excused myself and followed him as he stormed out of the hall.

"Imam!" I called, but he kept walking, the tension in his shoulders clear. Rain began to fall, soft at first, then heavier. I shivered as the drops soaked through my dress.

He stopped suddenly, his car screeching to a halt beside me. The window rolled down, and he gestured sharply. "Get in," he said, his voice clipped.

The silence inside the car was deafening. My eyes fell to his hand, still bleeding from the shattered glass.

"Imam," I whispered, reaching for his hand. "You're hurt."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't pull away. "You made me hurt myself," he said, his voice low and accusing.

"Me? How?" I asked, bewildered.

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed ahead. Finally, he muttered, "You wouldn't understand."

I sighed and opened the glove compartment, retrieving a first aid kit.

Taking his hand in mine, I cleaned the wound, wrapping it carefully. His hand rested on my lap, warm and solid, and though he kept his expression neutral, I saw the flicker of something softer in his eyes.

When I finished, I handed his hand back. "There," I said, straightening. "You're all set."

He didn't move, his gaze locking with mine. "Layla," he said, his voice softer now.

"What is it?" I asked, wary of the sudden shift in his tone.

"I like you," he said, the words falling between us like a stone in water.

I blinked, unsure how to respond. "Thank you," I said, fumbling for something—anything—to say. "I like myself too."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it faded quickly.

"Layla, I'm serious," he said, leaning closer. "I've tried to keep my distance, to stay just your friend, but I can't. I love you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and full of meaning. I pulled my hand from his, shaking my head. "Imam, no. We're just friends—nothing more."

"Friends?" he echoed, his voice laced with disbelief. "Layla, I can't be just your friend. Not when I feel this way."

I hesitated, the intensity of his gaze unnerving me. Finally, I forced myself to speak. "Then maybe it's better if we're nothing at all," I said, my voice firm.

"Goodbye, Imam," I said, stepping out of the car into the rain.

As I walked away, I felt the weight of his gaze on my back, but I didn't turn around.