This is how a love story began—not with grand gestures or loud declarations, but with a quiet heart full of dreams and a soul that believed in something real.
His name was Favour. An artist. The kind whose work spoke in colors and strokes what he couldn’t always say with words. To the world, he looked like the typical ladies’ man—smooth, stylish, with the kind of charm that turned heads in every room. People whispered, assumed, and labeled him a playboy. But they were wrong. Deeply wrong. Because beneath the rumors and the surface was a heart that beat only for one thing: true love.
His friends called him Certified Lover Boy—not because he played hearts, but because he poured his into everything he did. Into his music, into his art, into people. He wasn’t interested in flings or shallow attention. He wanted the kind of love that held you together when life tried to break you apart. The kind that made sense of the chaos.
For the longest time, Favour wondered if that love even existed for someone like him. He watched people fall in love, fall apart, and fall again. He wrote songs about a love he hadn’t found yet, painted dreams he hadn’t lived. Until one day, on a cloudy Thursday afternoon, she walked into his world.
Her name was Ayomide. A chef at a cozy little restaurant tucked in the city’s heartbeat. She had a smile that could melt the coldest day, and eyes that looked like they had read every chapter of pain and still chose kindness. She wasn’t like the others. There was no performance in her presence—only peace, curiosity, and a warmth that made even Favour’s silence feel like poetry.
They met at a local bookstore—both reaching for the same copy of a poetry collection by Lang Leav. Their hands touched, just briefly, but it was enough for something invisible to shift. She looked up and said, “Looks like you’ve got good taste.” He smiled, a little nervous, a little intrigued, and replied, “I could say the same.”
That single moment unfolded into something bigger. They started meeting every weekend—coffee, playlists, conversations about art and recipes, dreams and fears. Ayomide made food the way Favour made music—passionately, honestly, with her whole heart. And slowly, without even realizing it, they became each other’s favorite part of life.
Ayomide brought balance to Favour’s world. She saw past the assumptions, past the artist image, straight into the real him—the man who stayed up late perfecting chords, the man who doubted his worth, the man who didn’t want attention, just affection. She listened when he had no words. She reminded him, daily, that he was more than enough.
But love, even the purest kind, isn’t without its storms.
Ayomide had scars—old ones, from people who left when things got tough. She had learned to be strong on her own, and sometimes that strength made it hard for her to lean on anyone. Favour, too, had his shadows—days when the weight of being misunderstood felt like too much. Days when he questioned if he could truly be loved for who he was.
They fought. They had silence between them that felt heavier than words. There were nights when turning away seemed easier than staying. But despite the noise, the doubts, and the past… they stayed. Because they both knew—this wasn’t ordinary. This was worth every single fight.
One rainy night, after one of their hardest arguments, Favour sat alone in his apartment, staring at the blurred city lights through the rain. He picked up his phone—not to scroll, not to distract—but to write. Not to her, but for himself. A message he never intended to send:
“I love her. Even when I don’t understand her. Even when she shuts me out. I love her because she’s real. Because she fights, she stays, she tries. I see the way her hands shake when she’s scared, but she still holds mine. She’s my peace. She’s my fire. And I’m not giving up—not now, not ever.”
That night, he didn’t send the message. He showed up. In the rain. At her doorstep.
When she opened the door, surprise in her eyes and tears still on her face, he didn’t say a word. He just held her. And in that silent embrace, everything made sense again. This wasn’t storybook love. This was real love—the kind that shows up, especially when it’s hard.
Time passed. They grew—individually and together. Through college. Through jobs. Through losses that weren’t their own but still hit home. She still made him breakfast even on her busiest mornings. He still wrote songs inspired by her. Every year, on the day they met, they’d return to that same bookstore, pick a new book, and sit by the window where it all began.
And one day, as the sun dipped over the city skyline, Favour stood in that bookstore again—this time with a small, weathered box in his pocket.
He knelt down before her, surrounded by books and memories, and said:
“From the moment we met, I knew. Not because you were perfect, but because you were real. And loving you has been the most honest part of my life. Will you be mine, forever?”
Ayomide, with joyful tears in her eyes, said yes.
And so, the Certified Lover Boy found his ending. Not the fairytale kind. But the kind that stays. The kind that fights. The kind that grows. The kind that chooses love—every single day.
