By Owie Aideyan
The Wrong Number Love
Amara’s hands trembled as she stared at her phone. Her heart was raw—shattered after another night of silence from her ex. It was past midnight when she dialed his number, desperate for closure.
“Hello?” a man’s voice answered, deep and calm.
Her breath caught. It wasn’t him. “I’m… I’m sorry. I dialed the wrong number,” she whispered, embarrassed.
There was a pause, then the man chuckled softly. “You sound like you needed someone to pick up tonight, even if it wasn’t the right person.”
She wanted to hang up, but something about his tone—gentle yet unguarded—made her stay. “I… I just needed to hear a voice,” she admitted, her words catching in her throat.
“I don’t know what you’re going through,” he said quietly, “but you can talk. I’ll listen.”
That night turned into two hours of conversation. His name was Dapo, a man with a laugh that felt like warmth in the cold places of her soul. He didn’t ask for details, just listened as she poured out heartbreak she hadn’t been able to share with anyone else.
The calls became a habit. Every night at 11:30 p.m., Amara found herself dialing that same “wrong” number. They talked about everything—books, music, regrets, the strange way life never turns out the way you plan.
One night, she confessed, “It’s crazy. You’re the first person I can be completely myself with. And we’ve never even met.”
“I know,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “But maybe that’s why it works. We don’t owe each other anything except honesty.”
They finally met on a quiet Sunday afternoon at a café in Victoria Island. Dapo walked in wearing a white shirt, looking both nervous and relieved. He was taller than she imagined, with kind eyes that carried secrets.
Over coffee, the laughter came easily, and so did the silences. There was a magnetic pull between them—like they had known each other long before that first wrong call.
But then he told her. “Amara… I need to be honest. I’m married.”
The world tilted. She felt as though every word they’d shared had suddenly become heavier. “Then why… why let me feel this?” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“Because I couldn’t stop it,” he admitted. “You’ve been a light in a place I didn’t realize had grown so dark. I love my family. But with you… I see myself again.”
They tried to stop talking. For weeks, they fought the connection, but their souls found each other anyway. A text. A voice note. A song shared at midnight.
It wasn’t a love they could define or claim. It was a love that lived in stolen moments and quiet prayers, one too real, too complicated, and too sacred for the world to understand.
