Episode 6: When the Moon Finally Let Go
The days began to melt into each other, and for the first time in a long time, Ifeoma didn’t wake up dreading her reflection. There was a calmness to her now — not because life had suddenly become perfect, but because she had stopped waiting for others to complete her.
She completed herself.
On a breezy Friday night, months after the heartbreak had shattered her illusions, she found herself at a rooftop poetry event in Lekki. Nosa was there, of course — still patient, still kind, still waiting for a green light that might never come.
The air smelled like hibiscus and peppered chicken. Jazz played faintly in the background. And the host called out her name.
She hadn’t planned to perform.
But something in her heart said, “Speak.”
She stepped to the mic.
Took a deep breath.
And let her truth pour out:
*“I used to dream under the African moonlight…
Of kisses that lasted longer than secrets.
Of men who stayed when the fire cooled.
Of love that didn’t come wearing masks.But I learned —
That sometimes, the moon whispers warnings,
And we call it romance.I gave my heart to a ghost in human skin.
And when he vanished, I blamed myself.But no more.
I am not broken.
I am becoming.And tonight… I no longer mourn what left.
I dance for what stayed.
Me.”*
There was silence. Then, roaring applause.
But it was her own heartbeat that applauded the loudest.
Later that night, Nosa found her standing by the edge of the rooftop, her curls swaying in the wind.
“That was beautiful,” he said gently.
She turned to him.
“It was necessary.”
“So… what happens now?”
She looked up at the moon — the same one that had once watched her fall, grieve, and now… rise.
“Now I live. For me. Maybe later… for us. But tonight, just me.”
He nodded, respecting her pace, offering his presence without pressure.
And that — that was love.
Not fireworks. Not chaos.
Just a man standing still beside a woman who had finally learned to fly.
The End
🌙 Some stories don’t end in wedding bells. Some end in growth. In truth. In choosing yourself — over and over again.
And beneath the moonlight, Ifeoma did exactly that.
© A Coolvalstories Production
Valentine Nkemjika
