PERIS — THE LOVE WE NEVER REALLY BURIED

There are some people you break up with

and then there are people you break up with but somehow never stop loving.

Peris was both.

It was 2024 when she walked into my life, and at the time, I had no idea I was meeting someone who would eventually become my favourite memory, my biggest headache, my greatest source of happiness, and one of the hardest people to forget.

If somebody had told me then that two years later we'd be living completely different lives, I probably would have laughed.

Because back then, Peris and I were convinced we had something special.

Maybe we did.

The problem was that something special doesn't automatically mean something healthy.

At the beginning, everything felt effortless.

Our conversations could stretch deep into the night. We'd talk about our dreams, our families, our past relationships, money, Nairobi life, and the ridiculous things people do when they're in love.

Sometimes we'd be together without doing anything special.

No fancy dates.

No expensive restaurants.

Just sitting somewhere talking, laughing, looking at each other and enjoying the fact that we were together.

I remember looking at her sometimes and thinking:

"This girl is going to be trouble."

I just didn't know how much.

Peris had a way of getting under my skin.

When she was happy, she could make an ordinary day feel incredible.

When she was angry, she could turn the same day into something I wanted to escape from.

And I wasn't innocent either.

I had my own flaws.

My own stubbornness.

My own insecurities.

My own ways of hurting her without realizing how deeply my actions affected her.

We were two imperfect people who loved each other perfectly in some moments and terribly in others.

At first, the arguments were small.

"Why didn't you call?"

"I was busy."

"You were busy the whole day?"

"Peris, seriously?"

"Forget it."

But nobody ever really forgot it.

That was our problem.

We collected arguments.

Every disagreement became another brick in a wall we were slowly building between ourselves.

Eventually, even simple conversations became dangerous.

One wrong word.

One unanswered message.

One misunderstood WhatsApp status.

One person online without replying.

Suddenly we were fighting again.

I'd see her online and wonder who she was talking to.

She'd notice me liking something and ask who I was trying to impress.

Sometimes jealousy disguised itself as love.

Sometimes control disguised itself as concern.

Sometimes pride disguised itself as strength.

And before we knew it, we weren't just fighting about what had happened.

We were fighting about everything that had ever happened.

There were nights when we'd argue on the phone until one of us finally said:

"Goodnight."

But neither of us actually meant goodnight.

It meant:

"I'm angry."

It meant:

"I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling."

It meant:

"Call me back."

And sometimes neither of us did.

That's how toxic relationships work.

You can love someone deeply and still hurt them deeply.

You can miss someone while they're sitting right beside you.

You can want someone to stay while simultaneously giving them every reason to leave.

And that's exactly where we found ourselves.

We became toxic for each other.

Not because there was no love.

Perhaps because there was too much of it mixed with too much pride, jealousy, fear and emotional baggage.

Eventually, the relationship started feeling like a battlefield.

There were good days, but the bad days became louder.

There were apologies, but eventually even apologies started sounding repetitive.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

But it wasn't okay.

Not anymore.

Something inside both of us had started getting tired.

Then came the breakup.

I don't remember the exact moment when everything died.

Maybe that's because it didn't die in one...