I Miss Yous That Never Get Heard I still don’t know how to respond to “I miss you.” When I came back, a lot of people said it to me— I miss you, I missed you, where have you been? And every time, I either left it hanging or replied with a hug emoji, a crying emoji, or a simple “me too.” None of those ever feel right. I’ve only ever said “I miss you” back to one person. I don’t think I actually process my feelings—I just skip them, like songs I’m not ready to hear. The first time I can actively recall someone saying “I miss you” to me was in secondary school. My friend, Ogechi—I still remember how I reacted. I said thank you. I was awkward then. I didn’t know how to say I miss you back. Later, I started replying “aww” whenever she said it. I had never actively missed someone. It was a weird concept—maybe just foreign. Then life got noisy, and my phone stopped working during exams. Suddenly, the silence brought a new kind of loneliness. I had support systems—friends who kept me going whenever I was down, friends to talk to whenever I was struggling—but suddenly, I didn’t have anybody. Just myself to cope with. A girl in my age grade died. She wasn’t my friend, just a friend of a friend, but her death struck me. It made me realize that the way I missed my friends was nothing compared to how she missed hers. When I miss my friends, I know I’ll still see them. I’ll still hear from them. There’s certainty in my missing. But for her—she would never see her best friend again. Sometimes, I go over old conversations with friends in my head, replaying them in different versions. And I think of her—doing the same thing—but hers will never end. Until her memory fades. I miss my friends with so much ferocity. It’s not the same way Ogechi missed me. Mine is probably stronger. But then again, my friend will say a thousand “I miss yous”—hers will echo forever, unanswered. I miss my friends. But I’ll still see them. They can still hear my “I miss you.” I’m still bad at saying it. If you ever say it to me, I’ll probably reply with “aww” and change the topic. But know that I mean it too—in my own awkward, roundabout way. All Men Do Is Take and Take All men do is take and take. They take until there’s nothing left to give. You might think this is just another “woe is me” story, but listen—this is my truth. It started with Ola back in secondary school. He asked me for help with biology, but what began as studying soon became him trying to test boundaries. I let him push, unsure of how to react. But it didn’t stop there. Over time, I learned that some people assume they can take what isn’t theirs, that boundaries are optional when they want something. I promised myself that I wouldn’t stay silent, that I would reclaim my power, my voice, my space. Every encounter taught me something about strength. I realized that taking back—setting limits, saying no, standing tall—is not just self-defense; it’s survival. I would not let anyone define me, break me, or diminish my worth. All men do is take and take. And I ? I am learning to give myself back.