The Second Chance We Didn’t Deserve

They say not all love stories deserve a happy ending. But some endings refuse to stay buried.

It had been five years since Zainab left Lagos in tears—tears that had scalded her heart, not just because of heartbreak, but because of betrayal from the one man she trusted more than God.

Jide. Her Jide.

They met at the University of Ibadan. She, the daughter of a northern judge, was quiet and calculating. He, the son of a Lagos mechanic, smooth-talking, brilliant, and bold enough to charm any woman in a crowded room, chose only her.

Their love had been loud and reckless. Midnight suya by the roadside. Sneaking into mosques and chapels to “pray” side by side. Riding on his okada into the rain, just to feel alive.

But it ended with silence.

The week before their wedding, Zainab found out about Seyi — the woman who showed up at her doorstep, heavily pregnant, claiming Jide was the father.

Zainab didn’t scream. She didn’t even cry that night. She packed her things, returned to Kaduna, and buried herself in law school, then in a firm that took her to Abuja, far from the scars Lagos left behind.

She never answered his calls. Never read his messages. Never forgave.

Until the day fate locked them in the same elevator.

It was at a legal-tech conference in Victoria Island. She had flown in for the keynote address, wearing her power suit like armour, her hijab wrapped in calm defiance. The elevator stopped on the 9th floor. A man stepped in.

It was him.

Older. Leaner. Wearing a black suit that did nothing to hide the shock in his eyes when he saw her.

“Zee,” he whispered.

She blinked. The elevator moved. Her heart did not.

“Jide.”

A hundred words sat between them in that small metal box. None escaped.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said finally, voice quieter now, almost reverent.

“I didn’t expect to ever see you again,” she replied coldly.

The doors opened. She walked out without looking back.

But Lagos has a funny way of closing the gaps destiny tries to avoid.

He showed up again — this time, as a consultant for the same tech startup her firm was representing. And just like that, Zainab’s carefully built emotional walls began to crack.

Over the next few weeks, she tried to avoid him. But everywhere she turned — boardrooms, client meetings, late dinners — Jide was there. And different.

He no longer chased every laugh in the room. His eyes were quieter now. Sadder. Honest.

One evening, after a long meeting, he asked, “Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please. Just ten minutes. Then I’ll disappear.”

She sighed. “Five.”

They sat in his car, the smell of old mint gum and coconut air freshener still the same.

“Seyi lied,” he began. “I wasn’t the father. The test proved it later. But by then… You were gone. And I knew I had no right to drag you back.”

Zainab’s heart clenched. “Then why didn’t you fight for me?”

“I did. I came to Kaduna. Spoke to your cousin. Sent letters. Emails. But your silence was louder than anything I could scream.”

Tears stung her eyes.

“And then I tried to forget you,” he continued. “I dated. I travelled. I even started therapy. But nothing — nothing-no one — ever filled that space.”

Silence again.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said, voice cracking. “But maybe I’m selfish enough to want your friendship.”

That night, she lay in her hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. Memories swirled like dust in a storm. The laughter, the heartbreak, the what-ifs.

Weeks passed. They began to talk more. First as acquaintances. Then as reluctant allies. And finally, as two people cautiously stepping around old wounds.

Zainab met his mother again — now older, gentler, her once sharp tongue softened by time and illness. She apologised for the way she had treated her in the past. Zainab, shocked, smiled through wet eyes.

Then came the night Jide almost died.

A car crash. Midnight. On the Third Mainland Bridge. A drunk truck driver. Broken bones. Broken glass. A broken heart.

She flew in from Abuja the next morning, breathless, hijab undone, face bare of makeup but full of fear. She saw him in the ICU, fragile but alive.

“I thought I lost you again,” she whispered.

“You did,” he said weakly. “But maybe… just maybe… we’re finding each other now. Even if we don’t deserve it.”

Love isn't always loud. Sometimes, it comes quietly after the storm, carrying both guilt and grace in equal measure.

When Zainab finally kissed him again — in the courtyard of his recovery ward — it wasn’t passionate or rushed. It was trembling. Earnest. Full of fear and faith.

They didn’t announce it to the world. No dramatic Instagram captions. No recycled rings. Just two hearts learning to beat again, slowly, painfully, but together.

Some second chances are gifts.

Others are stolen.

And then… there’s the kind you fight for — even when you believe you don’t deserve them.