The award ceremony is quiet, elegant—velvet lights and stiff-backed judges in suits that smell like old expectations.
I sit in the second row, heart beating louder than the mic on stage.
Five finalists.
One winner.
The host reads the names.
Then pauses. Smiles.
*"And the 2025 Young Voices Winner is… Ayanna Eze."*
---
Everything slows.
I don't move at first. Don't breathe.
Until Nene's voice explodes in my head, even though she's miles away:
*"Girl, get up!"*
And I do.
Walk to the stage.
Accept the plaque.
Say thank you with trembling lips.
But deep inside, I whisper something else:
*"You're allowed to be seen now."*
---
Back at campus two days later, Tari is waiting outside my hostel.
He doesn't say anything.
Just pulls me into the kind of hug that says,
**I knew.
I always knew.**
---
We sit under the jacaranda tree—the same place he first held my hand.
He's quiet. Fidgeting.
Then: "I wrote something. For you."
He pulls out a folded note. His handwriting, messy and honest.
**"I don't love you because you're strong.
I love you because you let me see where it hurts.
I love you because your voice changed mine."**
I look up, blinking fast.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not rushed. Not forced.
Just real.
Soft.
Earned.
---
That night, in my journal, I write:
**"Some wounds don't heal.
They transform.
Into poetry.
Into people.
Into kisses under moonlight."**
---