Raw Confide

She reflects more of my thoughts than I ever speak aloud. Hung upon the emotions of many, she sways thicker and thicker in my mind, in the absence of light. I sit by the window tonight, staring at the rain smudging the glass. Each drop feels like a memory I forgot to keep safe. I can almost hear her voice in the hush of the downpour — soft, but carrying the weight of every secret I couldn’t tell her when she was here. Sometimes I wonder if she knew. That we were all so frustrated by our inabilities — the stubborn pride that built walls between us, the silence that grew like mold in the dark corners of our hearts. We were blinded by our greed and pursuit, revolving through life’s hassle like moths around a porch light. The same hell with different faces — all of us pretending we were fine while we burned inside. But she — she always carried that subtle smile. A smile mixed with tear and love, like she held the whole world’s ache in her hands and forgave it anyway. I wish I’d said it mor...

There’s always that one moment — quiet but electric — when you feel it shift. Two friends sitting close enough to share secrets, close enough for shoulders to brush, close enough to wonder what if. He’s the type who overthinks before he speaks, always careful not to lose what’s already there. She’s the type who smiles with her eyes, sending signals she won’t put into words — not yet. Tonight they’re talking about nothing and everything. A laugh about an old joke. A confession about how life’s been heavy. He says “It’s good to have someone I can count on.” She says “Count on me, but I don’t do much for you.” He wants to say, You do more than you know. But instead, he lets it hang — so the silence fills with possibilities. He remembers how earlier he almost hugged her, how she turned and caught him watching. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t want to break the spell or the friendship. Now he tests the waters: “You make me think a lot about us. Maybe we should figure out what we both want.”...

There’s a man who lives in a small room with walls that know too many secrets. His name drifts through other people’s prayers like a whispered hope — because whenever someone’s hungry, or sad, or short on transport fare, he finds a way to help them stand. He’s not rich — in fact, his pockets are often lighter than the breath he uses to comfort everyone else. But he gives anyway. He gives the money he was saving for his own meal. He gives his time, his listening ear, his shoulder, his last good shirt if you ask nicely — sometimes you don’t even have to ask. He just knows when you need it. And at first, this made him feel proud — needed — worthy. But over time, he noticed something: the people he rescued never stayed. They never circled back with food when he was hungry. They never knocked on his door just to say, “How are you?” He was a lighthouse — guiding others to shore while waves crashed silently through him, over and over, day after day. Then he met a girl. He thought maybe she’d ...

I’ve always believed I could run — from debt, from loneliness, from the city’s unlit corners whispering my name when I try to sleep. But her? I can’t run from her. She calls when it’s late, when the street outside is so quiet you can hear your own regrets. I shouldn’t answer, but my fingers know her number by heart. She says she needs me — just for tonight, just until the cold is gone. I tell myself it’s nothing. But I’m lying to her and to me. Her flat smells like sweat and secrets — her hair damp, her eyes daring me to say no. I don’t. She knows I won’t. She drags me to her tiny couch, the leather sticky under my elbows as she straddles me like she owns the debt in my veins. I tell myself this isn’t real — that tomorrow I’ll be stronger. That I’ll say no when she calls again. But I’m stuck. Stuck between her thighs, my promises pressed against her heat, the taste of her mouth reminding me I never meant a word I told myself. Her nails dig into my shoulders. She says my name like it’s ...

Most nights, the office was empty by nine, the building humming with the ghosts of unfinished work and half-remembered promises. But tonight, she stayed behind, alone — or so she thought. I watched her from the glass door, the light from her desk lamp cutting her silhouette into something I wasn’t supposed to crave. Her blouse half open, bra strap slipping off her shoulder like a secret begging to fall. She didn’t know I’d forgotten my keys. Or maybe she did. I tapped once. She didn’t turn. I stepped in anyway. The air smelled like her — warm coffee, cheap perfume, and the electricity that buzzes between two people who shouldn’t touch. “You’re working late,” I murmured. She didn’t flinch, didn’t lift her head. Just slid another file into a drawer she never locked. “Couldn’t finish it at home,” she said, voice soft enough to crack something in me. “Too many distractions there.” I stepped closer. Close enough to see the goosebumps on her neck, the shiver when my shadow covered her. She t...

They say money talks — but in this part of Lagos, it only whispers behind your back, laughing at your empty pockets. I sit by the window of my single room, where the walls sweat in the night and my thoughts sweat on my head. I’m tired. Tired of promises that never pay. Tired of advice that sounds rich but lives poor. Tired of this vanity — this hungry ghost called money that eats my sleep and spits out shame. Tonight, though, I refuse to kneel for it. I grab my pen, my battered phone flickering under the weak bulb. If I must bleed, I’ll bleed ink. I’ll confess stories they dare not whisper in daylight. I’ll turn secrets into paragraphs, confessions into currency. Maybe nobody will pay me today, but someone will read — and that’s how it starts. They took my pride, my peace, my nights — but they won’t take my words. This is the debt I never owed — and yet I’ll pay it back, word by word, until I’m free.

 He had me against the wall before I could say his name — fingers digging into my hips like he’d paid for the right to bruise me. He kissed me like he was angry, tongue sliding against mine until I gasped — that sound he loved, the one that made his grip tighten. By the time he slid his hand between my thighs, my knees were gone — soft, trembling, useless. I whispered don’t stop but I didn’t need to. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knelt right there, lips on my inner thigh, mouth making promises my body already believed. And when his tongue finally found me — hot, slow, devastating — my back hit the wall and I heard him laugh into my skin. “Weak in the knees for me, baby?” All I could do was moan — and give him everything he’d come for.

 He said my name like he wasn't supposed to. Slow. Deep. Like it tasted better than anything else on his tongue. And every time he said it, something inside me responded — tightening, softening, aching. We weren’t lovers. Not officially. Just long glances, slow smiles, and the kind of tension that made silence feel sexual. That night, we sat too close on the couch. His thigh brushed mine — once, then again — until neither of us pretended it was by accident. He leaned in and whispered, "I know what you're doing." I raised an eyebrow, lips parted. “What am I doing?” His hand slid under my chin, lifting it just enough. And he said my name again — that same slow, low burn. Like he wanted to say it between my legs next. My breath caught. My body gave itself away. I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. He kissed me like he was claiming something. One hand behind my neck. The other sliding up my thigh, fingers stopping just before heat turned to fire. And when I moaned — soft, b...

 I didn’t expect him to notice. People rarely do. I’m the strong one. The smiling one. The “I’m okay” one. Even when I’m clearly not. That night, I was barely holding myself together. I’d skipped dinner. Ignored calls. Just sat in the dark, phone in one hand, thoughts in the other. And then — his message. “Are you actually okay, or just saying you are?” I stared at the screen for a minute. Maybe longer. No one had ever asked that before. Not like that. I replied: “I don’t know.” He didn’t double-tap it or type back “It’ll be fine.” Instead, he showed up. No flowers. No promises. Just a quiet presence that filled the silence I was choking in. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. I leaned my head on his chest and for once, I let someone else carry me. His hands held my back like he was trying to hold my pieces together. He didn’t try to fix me. He just stayed. And in that moment, with my mascara on his shirt and my secrets soaking into his skin — I felt something I hadn’t felt in ...

 He told me he wasn’t ready. Not for love. Not for commitment. But he stayed anyway. He stayed long enough to make me laugh again. Long enough to teach my body what gentle could feel like. Long enough for me to fall — hard, quietly, and without permission. I never asked for promises. Just presence. Just honesty. Just… something real. And for a while, it felt like he gave it. The way he held me like I was fragile. The way he memorized my laugh. The way he looked at me like I was everything — even if only in the moment. But then he started pulling away. Texts slowed. Eyes shifted. Energy changed. I asked, "Is something wrong?" He said, "No. Just life. I’m just tired." But the truth was — he wasn’t tired. He was detaching. Quietly. Carefully. Preparing to disappear in a way that would leave no fingerprints. And when he finally said, "I think we should stop," he said it like it was mercy. But mercy doesn’t sound like silence after goodbye. Mercy doesn’t feel l...

 He wanted her. That much was obvious. The way his eyes tracked her lips when she talked. The way his voice dropped a tone whenever they were alone. The way he brushed her arm in passing, pretending it was nothing. But she’d been wanted before. Desired. Chased. Fucked. Forgotten. So this time, she watched him — from behind her lashes, from across the room. Testing. Waiting. She flirted with distance. Let him walk her to her car, but never invited him in. Let him touch her hand, but not her skin. Let him text until 2 a.m., but never gave more than words. One night, he leaned against her doorframe and said, “Why do you keep holding back?” She stepped closer, slow, deliberate — until her breath touched his mouth. Her lips hovered just above his, and she whispered: “Because I’ve given my body to people who didn’t deserve my soul.” “And you… you don’t get either, until I see loyalty.” His jaw tightened — not in anger, but restraint. His hands stayed by his sides. That night, he didn’t t...

 Somebody’s shoulder is tired. Not from lifting weights — but from carrying everyone else’s silence. She smiles like she’s fine, but she’s tired of being the strong one. The listener. The fixer. The one who holds everyone together — even while she’s falling apart. She answers texts when she’s the one who needs comfort. She claps for others even when no one claps for her. She gives. She bends. But she’s starting to break. You’d never notice. Because she hides it like a pro. But if you look closely, her eyes say: “I need someone to carry me now.” Somebody’s shoulder is about to give up. And the saddest part? She’ll still ask you if you’re okay — while she's quietly drowning.

 It was supposed to be just the weekend. A quiet visit. Family, food, harmless catching up. But no one told her he'd be there — him. The one with the voice that lingered. The one whose cologne filled the hallway before he even entered the room. The one who always looked at her just a second too long. The house was full, so she ended up in the guest room. Small. Warm. One window. And no lock on the door. That night, after everyone went to bed, she lay still under the sheet — just a tank top and thin panties between her and the night. The floor creaked. Soft knock. Then silence. And then… he stepped in. Quiet, like he wasn’t supposed to. “Couldn't sleep,” he whispered. But the way his eyes slid over her body said he didn’t want to. She didn’t say a word. Just shifted slightly — an unspoken yes. And he moved closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand found her thigh first. Warm. Slow. Testing. Her breath caught — not in protest, but permission. Fingers traced the line...

 I don’t talk about it. People think we just move on — laugh it off, find someone new. But the truth is, I haven’t been the same since she left. It didn’t break me all at once. It happened slowly — in the way she stopped reaching for my hand. In the silence between her “I love you” and mine. In the nights she turned away, and I stared at her back, wondering when I became a stranger. I still remember her laugh. The way she used to look at me like I was enough. But somewhere along the way, I stopped being that man. Or maybe she stopped seeing him. I don’t blame her. Not really. I just hate how quiet it was — the way she left emotionally long before she walked out physically. Now I go about my days like everything’s fine. I joke with the boys. I post. I work. But at night — when no one’s looking — I sit in the dark and replay everything I could’ve done differently. My chest still feels heavy when I see a photo of her. My stomach turns when I hear someone say her name. And when people ...

"Lagos. Rain. A stranger I shouldn’t have kissed." Lagos heat had a way of making everything feel heavier — the traffic, the tension, the thoughts she tried to ignore. She had just finished work in Victoria Island, shoes in one hand, frustration in the other, when she finally found a KabuKabu heading toward the mainland. She slid into the back seat and barely noticed the man already inside until the door shut behind her. Tall. Dark-skinned. Clean fade. Eyes like he’d seen trouble — and maybe started it. “Ojota,” she told the driver. “Same,” the stranger said. His voice was deep, like slow thunder. She glanced at him. He didn’t smile — but he didn’t look away either. As the taxi crawled through traffic, the silence stretched. Sweat trickled down her back, but it wasn’t just the heat. She could feel him watching her from the corner of his eye. Not boldly. Not rudely. Just enough to make her thighs press together. The first jolt came when the driver swerved too hard ...

She had five minutes left on her lunch break when she stepped into the elevator. Head down. Phone in hand. Just trying to get through the day. The lift hummed quietly as it climbed floor after floor, until it stopped on the 8th. He stepped in. Tall. Well-dressed. Confident without trying. He didn’t say a word — just stood across from her, close enough for her to smell the clean, warm spice of his cologne. The doors slid shut. The numbers blinked. The silence grew. Then — a jolt. The elevator stopped. “Power cut,” she muttered nervously, trying to stay calm. “Lucky me,” he said, a slight smirk touching his lips. “Trapped with the prettiest woman in the building.” She looked up. Met his gaze. Something flickered between them — unexpected, magnetic. His stare didn’t ask for permission. It waited to see if she’d say no. She didn’t. “Tell me,” he said softly, stepping closer, “what would you do… if we weren’t strangers?” She smiled, her pulse loud in her ears. “I’d break the rules.” “Good,”...

> She never told anyone what she truly wanted. Not her best friend. Not even her ex-boyfriend who once begged her to share her fantasies. But tonight — alone, dressed in silk, and halfway through a glass of red wine — she couldn't hide it anymore. The air was too still. Her thoughts too loud. And when the knock came at the door… she didn’t even ask who it was. She just opened it. He stood there — black shirt, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. No words. Just eyes. The kind that looked through you like secrets had weight. She swallowed. “You came.” He stepped inside. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as she had. No names. No expectations. Just tension so thick it made her skin prickle. He walked past her without touching her, but her body burned like he had. She followed him wordlessly to the living room. Her heart pounded. Was this crazy? Reckless? Or just… freedom? He sat. “You said you had a fantasy.” She paused, her lip...