Oxygen 6

I hung up with Osita, my grin still clinging to my face, and flopped back onto my bed. The silence in my room felt weird—like it was holding its breath, waiting for me to mess up.

My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it, half-hoping it was him again. Nope. Staniel.

“Girl, you alive? Or did Mr. Mec Eng bore you to death already?”

I rolled my eyes, typing back: “Shut up. He’s nice.”

“Nice? Oh, honey, we’re in trouble.”

I laughed, loud and sharp, startling myself. Nice wasn’t a word I’d ever thrown at Maduka—not once in all our years of chaos. Nice was new. Nice was… unfamiliar territory. My thumb hovered over Osita’s number, itching to call again, but I stopped. Too soon. Didn’t want to look like I was chasing him already.

Read Part Five Here

Then my phone lit up again—not a text, but a TikTok notification screaming at me. Sorry dropped a new track. My stomach twisted before I could stop it, that old familiar knot tightening. Against every ounce of sense I’d scraped together, I tapped it.

His voice spilled out—smooth, sharp, cutting like it always did. The beat was heavy, the kind that sank into your bones, and the lyrics? Oh, they were about a girl who “broke him first,” a “queen with a crown of thorns,” a “love he couldn’t keep.” The comments were already a mess—half the world screaming my name, the other half arguing if it was me or some new fling. Estella did him dirty, one said. She’s the thorn queen, no cap, another chimed in.

I tossed the phone onto my pillow like it burned, heart pounding—not the good kind, not the Osita kind, but the Maduka kind. The kind that made me feel like I was drowning and flying all at once. He’d done it again—yanked me back into his orbit just when I thought I’d escaped.

The flowers were still by my door, wilting now, yellow petals curling at the edges. I’d meant to toss them, but every time I tried, my hands froze. Stupid. So stupid. And now this? A song? He couldn’t just leave me alone, could he?

My phone buzzed again—Staniel, calling this time. I picked up, not even bothering with a hello. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

“Girl, the whole damn country saw it. ‘Thorn Queen’ is trending. You good?”

“No,” I snapped, pacing my room. “He’s doing it again, Stan. Dragging me back in with his nonsense. I told him we were done!”

“Yeah, and he heard you loud and clear—then wrote a hit about it.” Staniel’s voice was dry, but I could hear the edge. “Look, block him again. Delete TikTok if you have to. Don’t let him—”

“Too late,” I cut in, glancing at my screen. Another notification: Sorry live on IG. “He’s live. Right now.”

Staniel groaned. “Es, don’t you dare—”

But I’d already tapped it. Maduka’s face filled my screen, locs loose and wild, nose ring glinting under some studio light. He was mid-sentence, smirking that smirk I used to melt for. “…yeah, it’s personal, you know? She knows who she is. Always will.”

The chat exploded—Estella? Thorn Queen! Maduka spilling tea!—and my chest squeezed so tight I couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t just singing about me. He was talking about me, live, for thousands to see.

“Turn it off,” Staniel said, voice firm. “Now.”

I didn’t. Couldn’t. Maduka leaned closer to the camera, eyes dark and unreadable. “I messed up, yeah? Lost the best thing I had. But I’m not done fighting for it.”

My jaw dropped. Fighting for it? After everything? After kissing that girl, after walking out, after telling me I deserved better? The nerve—the audacity—lit a fire in my gut.

“Es, I swear, if you don’t—” Staniel started, but I hung up on him.

I stormed to my wardrobe, yanked out my red bodycon dress—the one Staniel picked for that party—and threw it on. If Maduka wanted to play, fine. I’d show him I wasn’t some broken muse he could sing back into his life. I grabbed my keys, my phone, and headed out, the wilted flowers mocking me as I passed.

His studio wasn’t far—just a twenty-minute Uber ride that felt like twenty years. The whole way, my hands shook, my mind racing. What was I even doing? Confronting him? Yelling at him? Proving something? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t sit still while he painted me as the villain in his sob story.

I got there as the live was winding down—saw it through the glass window of the studio door. He was alone now, headphones off, scrolling his phone. I didn’t knock. Just pushed the door open, the creak loud enough to make him look up.

“Estella?” His voice was soft, surprised, but that smirk crept back fast. “You came.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snapped, arms crossed. “What’s this ‘Thorn Queen’ crap, Maduka? You think you can just—what? Sing me back into your mess?”

He stood, stepping closer, and I hated how my body still reacted—heart thumping, throat dry. “It’s not like that, Es. It’s the truth. I’m a wreck without you.”

“Yeah, I heard. Lost the best thing you had, right? Funny how you only figure that out after you’ve trashed it.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t back off. “I meant it—every word. I’m not done fighting.”

“Fighting?” I laughed, sharp and bitter. “You don’t fight for me, Maduka. You fight for you. For your ego, your image, your stupid TikTok clout. I’m not your muse anymore.”

He flinched, just a flicker, but I saw it. “You think this is about clout? Es, I’m falling apart. You saw me that night—I told you everything. My dad, my mom, the pressure—”

“And I told you we’re done!” My voice cracked, louder than I meant. “You don’t get to spill your guts and then act like it fixes years of hurting me. You don’t get to kiss someone else, then write a song like I’m the one who broke you.”

He ran a hand through his locs, pacing now. “I didn’t kiss her—she kissed me. And yeah, I messed up, but you—you walked away too. Blocked me. Danced with some girl like I didn’t exist.”

I stepped closer, pointing at him. “I danced because I was free. For once, I wasn’t crying over you. And you can’t handle that, can you? That I might not need you anymore?”

His eyes darkened, and for a second, I thought he’d snap—yell, argue, something. But he just stopped, staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time. “You don’t need me,” he said, quiet. “But I need you.”

My chest ached, old habits clawing at me—wanting to fold, to fix him, to stay. But I remembered Osita’s voice, calm and steady, and Staniel’s pinky promise, and the way I’d laughed without weight at that party. I shook my head. “You don’t need me, Maduka. You need a mirror.”

I turned to leave, but his hand caught my wrist—not hard, just enough to stop me. “Es, wait. Please.”

I yanked free, glaring. “No. Write your songs. Cry your tears. But leave me out of it.”

The door slammed behind me as I walked out, the night air hitting my face like a slap. My phone buzzed—Staniel again. I didn’t answer. Not yet. I just kept walking, legs shaky but steps firm, the echo of Maduka’s voice fading behind me.

He wasn’t done fighting. But I was done losing.