In December, when the harmattan breeze curled softly through Eko Hotel & Suites in Lagos, twenty-year-old Simone stood at the back of a crowded ballroom clutching her friend’s hand. It was her first real talent showcase, her first taste of a world that shimmered with stage lights and basslines that thudded like a second heartbeat.
That was the night she first saw them both perform at the same show. She had interviewed the tall one at the record labels house a few years earlier at the age of 17 and went to the studio where the shorter one recorded to interview his producer but she had not yet seen them live together.
Waze stepped onto the stage first — short, cute, with a boyish aura that made the crowd soften before he even sang a note. When he did, his voice poured out like honey over warm bread. Sweet. Effortless. The kind of sound that made you believe in handwritten letters and slow dances. Simone felt something bloom in her chest — tender and curious.
He was taller, broader, every movement deliberate. A bad-boy silhouette under blue lights. His voice was rugged, textured, slightly dangerous. When he sang, it wasn’t a plea — it was a command. The audience screamed. Simone didn’t scream. She just stared.
That December night etched itself into her memory.
Years passed, and life kept circling her back to them.
With Waze, it was always soft. Almost accidental. She’d see him backstage at events, at industry parties, in cities far from home. Once, in London, she found herself lacing up roller skates at a tiny, glowing rink where he was performing an intimate acoustic set. When she walked toward him — hair wind-tossed, laughter still on her lips — he saw her.
It wasn’t a performer’s smile. It was ecstatic, disbelieving, like he’d manifested her with a secret wish. Under disco lights and spinning wheels, his sweet voice felt like it belonged to her alone. In that moment, she loved him in a quiet, hopeful way — the way you love someone who feels safe.
But Waze never stepped forward. Never crossed the invisible line between almost and actually.
With him, everything burned hotter. Louder. Especially the night at a stadium concert in Los Angeles. Thousands of fans roared beneath blinding lights. Simone stood close enough to feel the bass in her ribs. Mid-performance, Bredy’s eyes locked onto hers in the sea of faces.
And then — shamelessly, egomaniacally — he flexed his muscles, slow and deliberate, like the entire stadium was merely a backdrop to their private joke.
But in that charged second, it felt intimate. Like he was saying, *You see me. I see you.*
She loved him then in a fierce, electric way — the kind of love that tastes like adrenaline and bad decisions.
Simone grew. Degrees framed her walls. Her name carried weight in rooms that once intimidated her. She built a life that was solid, intentional, expansive.
Waze still hid behind sweetness, waiting for destiny to do the brave work for him. Bredy still performed confidence better than he embodied it, mistaking flexing for vulnerability.
They circled her. Liked her photos. Sent late-night messages that never said anything real. Invited her to shows but never to their truth.
They had years of her attention. Years of her softness. Years of possibility.
And they wasted every one.
One evening, sitting alone in her apartment overlooking a city she had conquered on her own terms, Simone finally understood something: she had fallen for versions of them — for potential, for moments, for eye contact beneath stage lights.
But she no longer mistook moments for commitment.
She stopped buying tickets. Stopped rearranging her schedule. Stopped answering half-hearted messages. She withdrew the currency of her presence — something far more valuable than money.
Waze would always have that roller rink smile.
Bredy would always have that stadium flex.
But neither would have her.
Because Simone, who once stood wide-eyed at twenty beneath the chandeliers of Eko Hotel, had grown into a woman too accomplished, too intelligent, too self-assured to beg for bravery from men who should have arrived with it.
And in the end, that was the greatest love story of all.
