I gave without measure, a heart unguarded, a life mapped in eternity’s ink.
It was as though God Himself had carved us separately, fashioned you as the key, and me as the lock— a door meant to be sealed forever.
We walked in the confidence of destiny, partners in a covenant that felt unbreakable.
Then you turned, and with a voice colder than silence declared it meant nothing.
No backward glance, no tremor of regret, only a sun that breaks its routine and refuses to ever shine again.
And I, left with the ruins of devotion, learned the cruelest truth: living on, and knowing that love was never shared.
Life ticks on— like a clock that never stops.
Tick. Strike. Pulse.
Each sound a reminder. Each beat a sentence.
The journey ahead— not chosen, not welcomed, only endured.
And yet, one question remains: How can such a heart be pieced together again— to love, to share, to trust?
The beauty of life is solemn: a flower may die, but the plant will regenerate.
By Dr Alex Nwuba
