The price of A broken dream episode 2
After the business failed, my life changed not on the outside, but inside my head. I woke up every day with the same thought: If Olanshile had helped me, my life would be different.
I replayed our conversation again and again. The calm way he refused me. The way he looked at me like my dream was too small to matter. Slowly, my pain turned into suspicion.
“He doesn’t want me to rise,” I told myself.
Every time we went out together, I watched him closely. He spent money carelessly, laughing, popping champagne, surrounded by people who admired him. And there I was clapping for him, smiling, while something poisonous settled in my chest.
I began to believe that Olanshile enjoyed my struggle.
That belief was not proven. But pain doesn’t need proof. It only needs a story that feels true.
One night at the club, I watched him order drinks worth more than the amount he refused to lend me. My hands shook. My chest burned. I felt invisible, like I didn’t matter not to him, not to anyone.
Instead of walking away, I stayed.
That was my first mistake.
I started isolating myself. I stopped talking to people who could have helped me heal. I stopped praying. I stopped thinking clearly. My mind narrowed until it held only one thing: Olanshile ruined my future.
I didn’t see my own pride. I didn’t see my desperation. I didn’t see that I was turning my friend into an enemy because it was easier than accepting failure.
Anger makes you creative in the worst way.
The night everything happened, we were at the same club we always went to. Music loud. Lights flashing. Drinks flowing. Olanshile was laughing, alive, careless.
I watched him.
I told myself lies:
He deserves it.
He killed my dream first.
This will balance things.
I crossed a line that night a line I can never uncross.
And when Olanshile collapsed, when the music stopped, when people started screaming, reality finally arrived.
But it arrived too late.
Continue reading Episode 3
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