There are some names that never fully leave the heart — no matter how many birthdays pass, how many new loves arrive, or how many goodbyes we whisper to ourselves. They stay tucked somewhere deep, showing up in quiet moments when a song plays, when an old road appears, or when a message flashes on the screen that reads:
“Hope you’re okay.”
That one simple line, just four words, can awaken a thousand buried memories, both tender and painful. Because sometimes, love doesn’t end with goodbye. It lingers like perfume in an empty room, like a chapter you never fully closed.
The Story of Ntami — My First Love
My story with Ntami began during my final year in secondary school. I was young, innocent, and deeply in love for the very first time. Ours wasn’t a reckless teenage fling, it was pure, respectful, and guided by a promise:
we would not have sex until marriage.
He agreed wholeheartedly, which made me trust him even more. For about six months, we built something beautiful — late-night talks, shared dreams, the gentle thrill of holding hands, and the belief that we were each other’s forever. After our exams, life carried us in different directions. Distance stretched between us, but we still tried to keep in touch.
Until one Christmas.
I went home to our village for the holidays, full of excitement to see everyone again. What I didn’t know was that while I was away chasing my dreams, Ntami had quietly started something new with my cousin Glory. Glory wasn’t just family; she was my close friend, my sister in everything but name.
When I found out, it shattered something inside me. The betrayal cut deep, not just because I lost the man I loved, but because I lost two people who meant the world to me. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to fight or hold grudges. I stepped aside for her.
It was painful, but I chose peace over competition. I told myself, “If he loves her now, then so be it.”
Life Goes On — But the Heart Remembers
Years passed. Glory and Ntami built their life together. They stayed in touch with me occasionally, especially Ntami. Even after I got married, he would still call once in a while, asking,
“Joy, how are you doing? Are you okay?”
I used to laugh it off, thinking it was harmless curiosity. But deep down, I knew what it was. It was unfinished emotion — his way of checking if the part of him that once belonged to me was still alive somewhere.
And I won’t lie: every time I heard his voice, my heart would skip a beat. Not because I wanted him back, but because love like ours never truly vanishes, it simply changes form.
I didn’t feed the connection. Out of respect for my husband and my life, I kept the line between us clear. Yet, I couldn’t deny that Ntami still occupied a small, quiet space in my memories.
Then came November 2024.
The Call That Froze Time
It was a Sunday. I had just returned from church when my phone rang. It was my brother’s voice on the other end, trembling:
“Joy… Glory’s husband slumped and died.”
My heart stopped. “Which Glory?” I asked, though deep down, I already knew.
He confirmed it — Ntami was gone.
I dropped the phone. My knees gave way. I refused to believe it. I called Glory, hoping it was all a cruel mistake. But it wasn’t. She was crying uncontrollably.
He had woken up that morning with a mild headache. Nothing serious, she said. But within hours, he collapsed at a construction site where he was supervising a project. He never woke up again.
Just like that, the boy who once promised me forever… was gone.
When the Past Comes Rushing Back
Grief has a strange way of reopening closed doors. The moment I heard the news, every memory of Ntami came flooding back — the first time we met, our shared laughter, our last goodbye. I cried, not just for his death, but for everything we never got to say.
I thought I had healed, but his death reminded me that some chapters don’t end with closure, they end with silence.
That night, I sat alone, scrolling through my old messages. There it was his last text:
“Hope you’re okay.”
Those four words suddenly felt like a final goodbye.
Why We Never Truly Move On
So many people have a “Ntami” in their story, the one who left, yet never fully left. The one who still texts every few months, asking about your wellbeing. It might seem innocent, but that line often carries unfinished emotion — regret, curiosity, or a quiet longing for connection.
Psychologists say this happens because emotional attachments don’t follow the same timeline as physical ones. Even when two people part ways, the brain still remembers how it felt to be loved, understood, or seen by that person. It stores that connection like an unfinished song that keeps replaying its chorus.
For some, that lingering emotion turns into friendship. For others, it becomes a hidden ache, one they hide from their current partners.
The Hidden Dangers in “Hope You’re Okay”
Let’s be honest sometimes, that message from an ex feels comforting. It reminds you that someone still thinks of you. But if not handled with care, it can create emotional confusion, especially if you’re already in a relationship.
When your partner notices that you still respond to your ex’s messages, it might spark insecurity. They might not say it, but they’ll start to wonder:
“Does this person still have a hold on them?”
And sometimes, they’re right.
You might not be in love anymore but love once lived there, and love always leaves traces.
That’s why it’s so important to draw emotional boundaries. Not because the past is dangerous, but because it’s powerful. It can sneak into your present life, reshaping your feelings and decisions without you realizing it.
Real-Life Stories of Unfinished Emotion
Ada’s Story:
Ada had been married for three years when her ex reached out to say he was sorry for how things ended. They started chatting occasionally. Her husband noticed the change — her late-night smiles, her sudden need for privacy. Nothing physical happened, but her attention shifted. Eventually, the emotional distance between her and her husband grew too wide to ignore. She realized too late that she had been feeding an old flame instead of tending to her marriage.
Tunde’s Story:
Tunde, a banker in Lagos, still checks up on his university ex every few months. He insists it’s harmless. But when his wife found out, she was devastated. She asked, “Why do you still care?” He couldn’t answer. The truth was, he didn’t even know himself. Some habits are just emotional echoes of the past.
The Lesson in Letting Go
Losing Ntami taught me something profound:
Some people are not meant to stay forever. They come to teach us love, trust, and even heartbreak. And when their time is over, we must learn to let their memories rest — without guilt, without longing, and without the need to revisit what could have been.
If your ex still texts “Hope you’re okay,” it’s okay to appreciate the thought. But remember, closure isn’t found in their message. It’s found in your response.
You don’t owe anyone your emotional energy, especially when that energy belongs to your present and your future.
The Heart’s Quiet Truth
Sometimes, I still think of Ntami. Not with pain, but with gratitude, for the love we once shared, for the innocence of our youth, and for the lessons his story left behind. I think of Glory, too, and how fragile life can be.
If I could send Ntami a message today, I’d simply say:
“Thank you for loving me when I was learning what love means. I hope you’re okay, wherever you are.”
Final Thoughts: Healing from Unfinished Love
Unfinished emotions don’t have to control us. They can remind us that we are capable of deep feeling, that we once cared enough to be hurt, and we grew stronger because of it.
So, if you’ve ever received that message from your ex — “Hope you’re okay”, pause before you reply. Ask yourself:
- Why does this still stir something in me?
- What part of me is still seeking closure?
- Am I holding on, or am I finally ready to let go?
Because healing doesn’t mean forgetting, it means remembering without pain.
Call to Action:
If you’ve ever struggled to move on from an unfinished story, take a moment today to write a letter — not to send, but to release. Write to your Ntami, your Glory, your “what could have been.” Then close it, breathe deeply, and let it go.
Because sometimes, the best reply to “Hope you’re okay” is silence and the peace that comes with knowing that, yes, you finally are.