When Love Bleed

The early morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting long, golden rays across the hardwood floor of the apartment. The warmth it brought seemed almost deceptive—gentle, calm, like a balm. But within the walls of the modest two-bedroom apartment, tension pulsed beneath the surface, quiet and unseen.

Mike stirred first. The alarm had buzzed earlier, but he'd ignored it, preferring instead to lie in bed and watch Danika sleep. Her lashes fluttered slightly, as if chasing something in a dream. The curve of her shoulder peeked out from beneath the blanket, her hair fanned across the pillow like a halo. To any outsider, they would seem peaceful, blessed.

But inside him was a war.

Mike exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. He felt it again—the weight. A heaviness that sat on his chest from the moment he opened his eyes. Balancing work and his side hustle, chasing invoices from slow-paying clients, making sure their rent was covered, trying to be emotionally available, spiritually grounded, and still a man Danika could lean on. It felt like he was juggling knives in the dark.

He hadn't told her how many nights he lay awake after she'd gone to sleep, staring into nothing. Or how the silence sometimes screamed louder than Lagos traffic. Lately, it felt like if he let go of one thing, everything else would come crashing down.

Danika stirred beside him.

Her eyes opened slowly, meeting his. "You're already up?"

Mike nodded. "Couldn't sleep."

She offered him a small, sleepy smile, but something in her eyes betrayed her. A dull ache. A kind of distant tiredness that wasn't from lack of rest. He reached out, brushing her cheek with his knuckles.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

"I'm fine," she replied automatically.

But she wasn't. Neither of them were.

Later that day, Danika stood in front of the mirror at her salon, adjusting a client's weave. Her hands moved skillfully, her mouth forming polite smiles and enthusiastic small talk. But her mind was far away.

Last night, she'd had another dream—of standing alone in a room with locked doors. No matter how hard she screamed, no one heard her. It was a feeling that had clung to her since childhood—being unheard, unseen, abandoned.

Running a business, dealing with difficult customers, managing staff who didn't always show up on time—those were things she could handle. But the little voice in her head that whispered she wasn't enough? That was the real fight.

What if I fail? What if I can't hold it all together? What if Mike starts to resent me?

She masked it well, even to herself. Kept the energy high. Pushed. Smiled. Gave discounts. Posted consistently on Instagram. But inside, she was tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. And though Mike had been supportive, he too had seemed distant lately. Like he was present but unreachable. Like something unseen was swallowing him from within.

She told herself it was just stress. But that evening, the silence in their home stretched long and heavy.

The sound of keys dropped into a bowl. The rustling of takeout bags. The clink of a water glass.

Ordinary things.

But the apartment felt thick with unspoken words.

Danika stood by the window, arms crossed as she looked out at the cityscape. The streetlights below cast soft glows on the buildings, cars weaving like ants through the road. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the glass, a shadowed outline of a woman holding herself together.

Mike entered the room quietly, the scent of jollof rice and fried plantain trailing behind him. "Got your favorite," he said, attempting a smile.

"Thanks," she replied without turning.

He hesitated. "Everything alright?"

"I'm fine," she said again, too quickly this time.

Mike set the bag down and walked toward her. "Danika."

She exhaled, her shoulders dropping. "You ever feel like... you're doing everything right, but still falling behind?"

He stopped beside her. "Every single day."

They stood in silence for a beat. Then she said, "I've been trying so hard. To stay strong. To stay positive. But some days, it feels like I'm carrying so much and I'm scared if I drop one thing, I'll fall apart."

Mike's jaw clenched. That sounded so familiar, so close to what lived in his own chest.

"I know," he whispered. "I feel it too."

She looked at him now, really looked. And something shifted in her eyes.

"Then why don't we talk about it?" she asked. "Why do we keep acting like we're fine when we're both clearly not?"

He sat down on the couch, motioning for her to join him. When she did, the air between them softened. He took her hand and looked at it—slender fingers, calloused from years of hard work, beautiful in their resilience.

"I didn't want to burden you," he said quietly. "I thought... if I told you how overwhelmed I was, you'd feel like you had to fix it. And I know you've already got your hands full."

Danika let out a shaky laugh. "That's exactly how I feel about you. Like if I unload everything, I'll just weigh you down."

They stared at each other, the realization dawning. They'd both been trying to protect each other by suffering in silence.

But silence had only widened the distance.

"I miss us," she whispered.

"So do I."

Then, in a moment of raw courage, Danika leaned her head on his shoulder. "Maybe we can't fix everything overnight. But I don't want to keep pretending we're not hurting."

Mike kissed the top of her head. "Then let's stop pretending."

That weekend, they sat side by side on a small couch in a therapist's office.

It had taken courage. A referral from one of Danika's clients. A lot of swallowing pride. But they were there.

The therapist—an older woman with kind eyes and a voice like honey—asked them both the same question.

"What are you afraid of losing?"

Mike didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "Her trust. Her love. If I fall apart, I'm afraid she won't see me the same."

Danika nodded slowly, eyes glistening. "I'm afraid of losing myself. That if I'm not strong, everything I've built will crumble."

And in that space, held by compassion and truth, they began to unravel the patterns that had trapped them.

In the weeks that followed, things didn't magically become perfect—but they became real.

They scheduled individual therapy as well—Mike to address childhood expectations of masculinity and responsibility, Danika to face the lingering ghosts of abandonment and emotional neglect. They learned to ask questions instead of assuming. To say "I'm tired" without guilt. To hold space for silence, not as avoidance but as healing.

There were still days where tempers flared. Days when exhaustion won. But the difference was—they no longer fought alone.

On one particular morning, Danika found Mike in the kitchen, burning toast for the third time. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes hollowed from lack of sleep.

Instead of teasing him, she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. "Let's sit. Just for ten minutes."

He turned to her, surprised. "I've got emails—"

"They can wait. You can't."

And so they sat, toast forgotten, just breathing together.

One evening, after a long day at the salon and a frustrating call with a vendor, Danika came home to find a small handwritten note on her pillow.

Even on your worst days, you are worthy of rest. You are worthy of peace. You are enough—exactly as you are.

She clutched the note to her chest, tears prickling her eyes. It wasn't grand. But it was love.

Not the kind that danced in ballrooms or lived in Instagram captions.

But the kind that endured—through the quiet nights, the difficult therapy sessions, the shared tears, and the soft, hard-won victories.

As the weeks became months, Mike and Danika found themselves re-learning each other.

Not as perfect partners.

But as people.

Flawed. Fearful. Fierce in their loyalty. Fragile in their hope.

They discovered that love wasn't the absence of struggle.

It was the choice to show up in the midst of it.

To hold hands even when fingers trembled.

To say "I'm scared" and still stay.

To bleed—and heal—together.

And in those moments, they found something stronger than passion or infatuation.

They found intimacy.

The kind that grows in soil watered by vulnerability.

And so, on a soft Sunday morning, Danika stood in the doorway watching Mike water the plant they'd nearly killed twice but somehow brought back to life. She smiled.

He turned, caught her watching, and grinned.

"What?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. Just thinking how far we've come."

Mike walked over and pulled her into his arms.

"We've still got a long way to go."

She nodded. "But at least now, we're walking it together."

He kissed her forehead. "Always."

And with the weight of the past no longer crushing them, but shaping them, they moved forward—one day, one honest word, one act of love at a time.