The Illusion of Us

still remember the first time someone said it.

“You two would look so good together!”

It was at a neighbor’s party in our Surulere street, and I was standing near the food table when Chioma, my longtime friend, nudged me and whispered it with a mischievous smile. I looked across the room at Tunde, who was laughing with some guys by the drinks. He was tall, good-looking, with an easy charm that drew attention wherever he went. And yes, I admit it people often said we “matched” somehow, like we belonged in the same frame.

I laughed at first, brushing it off. But then it happened again. And again. And soon, it wasn’t just a passing comment; it became a running joke. Every time Tunde and I crossed paths at church, at the market, at community gatherings someone would comment on how perfect we looked together. “You two should just date already!” people would say, smiling.

The comments started to weigh on me. Not because I had feelings for him honestly, I didn’t but because everyone else seemed invested in the idea. I was suddenly “the girl who could be with Tunde,” and it became easier to lean into the role than to constantly explain myself.

So, I asked him out. Or, rather, I suggested we “try it” in front of our friends, half-joking, half-exasperated by all the pressure. Tunde smiled, probably flattered, and agreed. And just like that, we were a couple.

From the outside, everything looked perfect. We went on casual dates, attended events together, and posted pictures for our mutual friends. People cooed over us. “Finally! You two!” they’d say. “You look amazing together!”

But inside, it was hollow. I didn’t love him I didn’t even really like him in a romantic sense. I liked the idea of being admired, of fitting the picture everyone had painted for me. Being with Tunde became a performance, something to satisfy the expectations of the people around us.

Sometimes, I caught him looking at me with affection, and it made me feel guilty. He believed in us. He believed I cared. And the truth was, I didn’t. I wanted the convenience, the attention, the way people complimented us, but I didn’t want him. Not really.

The guilt grew heavier over time. I started avoiding private conversations, making excuses to skip certain events, and keeping my distance emotionally. Tunde didn’t notice or maybe he did and chose to believe that I was “shy” or “reserved.” Either way, I knew I was living a lie.

The breaking point came at a mutual friend’s wedding. Everyone was there, celebrating, taking photos. People came up to us constantly: “You two are perfect together!” “Finally, a real couple!” They posed us, held our hands for pictures, and even whispered, “You should just get married already!”

I felt sick. Sick not because of Tunde—but because of me. I had trapped someone who genuinely liked me into a relationship that meant nothing to me. And at that moment, I knew I had to end it before it got worse.

A few days later, I asked him to meet me at the park near our neighborhood. He looked happy, thinking it would be a casual date. I took a deep breath and told him the truth.

“Tunde… I never loved you,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “I dated you because people said we looked good together. I thought it would be easier than constantly explaining myself. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I can’t pretend anymore.”

He stared at me in shock, his smile disappearing. “Wait… you mean… all this time?”

I nodded. “I’m so sorry. I hope someday you can forgive me, but I can’t keep doing this.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, quietly, he stood up. “I guess I should’ve seen it,” he said. “I just… thought we had something real.”

“I know,” I whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

We parted ways that day. The neighborhood gossip buzzed for weeks afterward, but I didn’t care. I learned something important: people’s opinions are never a good reason to love someone or to pretend to. I realized that being admired for the wrong reasons is empty, and that honesty, though painful, is better than a life built on appearances.

I don’t hate myself, though I regret the pain I caused. I’ve learned to trust my feelings, not the expectations of others. And I’ve learned that love can’t be directed by anyone else’s eyes. It has to come from the heart and mine never belonged to him.