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Chapter 8 - Chapter Seven

The thing about Daniel was—he knew how to make you feel chosen.

Not just liked. Not just wanted. Chosen.

He sent flowers to my office "just because." Not roses—no, Daniel was more thoughtful than that. Wildflowers. The kind that looked like they'd been plucked from the side of the road on some spontaneous road trip I hadn't been invited to yet. A little messy. A little loud. A little like me, maybe.

He didn't include a card. Just a voice note sent minutes after the delivery, his tone lazy, amused, low:

"You strike me as someone who doesn't need a reason to be admired."

I blushed. Not in that cliché teenage-girl way, but the quiet kind. The kind you hide behind lipstick and a tight schedule. The kind that makes your pulse skip while pretending you're totally unbothered.

He'd text me in the middle of my meetings:

Thinking about you in that blazer. Bet you're making people nervous.

I was.

I had just been promoted. A new title, a new team, more responsibilities stacked neatly onto the to-do list of a life that looked good from the outside.

My name was printed on new business cards, the kind with embossed letters that made you feel like a grown-up.

The office staff gave me nervous "Ma'am"s. The interns complimented my shoes.

And every time I updated LinkedIn, the likes flooded in like validation confetti.

"Big things coming." "She's on fire!" "Proud of you, boss lady."

Every time Daniel messaged, my stomach flipped like a coin.

We were a highlight reel.

Witty banter. Drunk kisses in taxi cabs. Sunday brunches where he licked syrup off my fingers and told the waiter we were "madly in something."

He didn't say love.

But neither did I.

Instead, I said things like,

"You're bad for me."

And he'd smile and say,

"But you like bad things, don't you?"

It felt sexy. Dangerous. Electric.

And it also felt like… maybe this time was different.

He met my friends.

Charmed them, of course. Showed up to dinner in a linen shirt and those bracelets guys like him always wear—leather, string, maybe a prayer bead or two.

He brought wine I pretended not to Google the price of afterward.

He asked my best friend about her new job, offered to help my roommate fix her broken faucet, even laughed at my tita'scorny jokes when we ran into her at a mall in Makati.

"Gwapo 'yan ah," she said after he left, elbowing me.

I just smiled.

I didn't tell her he hadn't held my hand the entire time.

He complimented my ambition. Told me I was unlike anyone he'd ever dated.

"You're the type of girl I'd settle down for," he said one night, curled beside me in bed, tracing circles on my hip like he was writing a contract with his fingertips.

I should've asked what "settle down" meant to a man like him.

But I didn't want to ruin it.

So I let myself believe.

Believed it when he said he loved how independent I was.

Believed it when he said I made him "want to be better."

Believed it when he didn't text for twelve hours because he was "just overwhelmed with work."

I knew that story too well.

I told it myself every day.

So I gave him grace.

I ignored the growing ache in my chest when he avoided planning things too far ahead.

I silenced the voice in my head that whispered, You've seen this before.

Instead, I focused on what was working.

He listened to my rants about office politics.

He played with my hair while I studied for certification exams.

He made playlists with titles like For When You Miss Me But Won't Admit It.

He'd show up with my favorite kakanin on random evenings, as if puto could compensate for presence. And somehow, it did—just enough.

My friends said, "He's a good one."

My heart said, "Hold on tighter."

And for a while, I convinced myself this wasn't just working—it was thriving.

But there was something underneath it all.

A low, constant hum.

Like a song you can't name but can't stop hearing.

It was in the way he'd always be fifteen minutes late.

In the way he looked at his phone when I spoke about something that mattered.

In the way he laughed a little too hard when I joked about wanting something serious—as if seriousness were a flaw.

There was a night we had dinner at a rooftop bar in BGC, the kind with fairy lights and overpriced pasta.

He reached across the table, brushed something from my cheek—probably nothing—and said,

"Sometimes I forget how lucky I am that you're still here."

I smiled.

But a part of me thought,

Still? Am I supposed to be gone by now?

Another night, after sex, when the world was quiet and the fan buzzed low above us, I asked,

"Do you think people really change?"

He didn't answer right away. Just pulled me closer.

His silence was a sentence I couldn't finish.

I laughed louder.

Replied slower.

Played it cool. Played it smart.

Played along.

Because he was perfect on paper.

And I was tired of rewriting the story just when the pages started to turn in my favor.

Because if I left too soon, maybe it was me giving up.

And if I stayed too long, maybe I was just proving that I could survive anything—even softness dressed in uncertainty.

Because I'd spent my whole life being the one who got it right.

And this time, I didn't want to be right.

I wanted to be loved.

But love was slippery.

Love didn't always show up in wildflowers and late-night playlists.

Love didn't always linger after the moment faded.

And sometimes, I wondered…

What if perfect on paper wasn't enough for the girl who had learned to read between the lines?

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