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.