It started with a typo.
One of those slip-ups you could ignore if you weren't already paying attention.
His message said:
"Goodnight, babe. Talk tomorrow."
But the name on the preview said "Emily ❤️."
I stared at it too long. My heart didn't sink—it jolted, like it hit a wall and bounced back in denial.
I told myself it was a mistake.
A cousin.
An old friend.
Someone with a saved contact from way back when.
You know how Filipinos are—we call everyone "cousin," even if they're not really blood. That's what I told myself.
But still, I couldn't sleep.
My room felt too quiet. The walls too thin. I could hear the couple next door laughing, dishes clinking. Someone was playing "Pusong Ligaw" on a Bluetooth speaker, and I hated how the lyrics suddenly felt like a dare.
I tried to drown it all out with the sound of my own voice whispering,
Don't overthink. Don't ruin it. He chose you.
But that night, for the first time in weeks, I turned off my phone before bed.
I watched the screen go black, and for a moment, it felt like I had pulled the plug on something bigger than just a device.
The next morning, he texted like nothing happened:
Good morning, trouble. Dream of me?
I didn't answer right away.
That's when he started to notice.
I wasn't as fast. As flirty. I wasn't feeding the fire anymore.
And Daniel… Daniel was used to being adored.
The charm didn't fade—it morphed. Got sharper.
We were having coffee one afternoon at a café near Salcedo Park, the kind with industrial lights and table numbers written on old corkboard.
I stirred my latte a little too long and said casually,
"Hey… who's Emily?"
He blinked, caught off guard for just a second, then laughed too quickly.
"Oh, her? Just someone I used to talk to. Chill, babe. Don't go full detective."
Then he reached across the table and tapped the tip of my nose with his finger.
"You're too pretty to worry like that."
I smiled, but my stomach twisted.
Later, when we got back to my condo, he kissed my forehead and called me paranoid.
Said I had trust issues.
Said he understood—it must be "so hard being a strong woman who's been hurt before."
It sounded kind. Empathetic, even.
But underneath it was something slippery. Something that made me feel like I was the problem for asking.
Like I had broken a rule I didn't know existed.
That's when I googled "gaslighting."
At my desk.
Between back-to-back meetings.
In a tab hidden behind a quarterly report.
Right beside a spreadsheet that projected next year's marketing goals.
And suddenly things made sense in a way I didn't want them to.
The hot-and-cold.
The delayed replies followed by floods of affection.
The way he twisted questions into insecurities, and insecurities into jokes.
The way he'd say, "Relax, mahal. You're overthinking again," like my intuition was just a bad habit.
Still, I didn't leave.
Instead, I told myself I was being dramatic.
That everyone has history.
That dating in this era meant complicated.
That love in 2020-whatever was just a minefield of miscommunications and emoji-fueled misunderstandings.
That maybe being suspicious meant I hadn't healed enough. That I was projecting. That I should pray more, journal more, forgive faster.
But my body knew.
It flinched when he went silent too long.
Tensed when I heard a notification that wasn't for me.
Froze when his phone lit up face-down on my nightstand, the screen flashing briefly in the dark like a warning light.
I started checking his social media more than I checked my own.
Scrolled through his comments, looked for hearts, compared timelines.
I hated how small I felt—but I couldn't stop.
My thumbs knew the motions even when I told them not to.
Meanwhile, life kept moving.
Work was relentless.
The promotion I'd earned came with praise and pressure and a new office view that made me feel like a fraud.
From the 22nd floor of the Makati high-rise, I watched the street vendors below selling taho, barbecue, secondhand books, and cheap sunglasses.
Lives happening. Real, imperfect lives.
And here I was—perfect only in print.
I spent my days being competent.
And my nights trying not to spiral.
Sometimes I'd cry in the office bathroom.
Not loudly. Just enough for the tears to hit the collar of my blouse and disappear like they were never there.
I'd press cold water under my eyes, pat gently, whisper ayos lang 'to, and then check if my mascara had betrayed me.
Then I'd walk out, reapply lipstick, and post a photo with a caption like:
Unbothered.
But I wasn't.
Even my dreams were tired.
One night, I dreamed I was on a boat—small, wooden, the kind you'd take on a trip to the provinces. I was alone, rowing through fog, calling someone's name but hearing no answer. I woke up with a sore jaw from clenching it in my sleep.
Another time, I dreamed I was back in high school, waiting for my dad to show up at the gate. But instead of him, Daniel arrived, smirking, holding a red rose and a phone buzzing with messages I wasn't allowed to read.
Something was off.
And I was pretending not to see it—because if I looked too closely, I knew I'd have to do something about it.
And I wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
Because sometimes, what you fear isn't the lie itself.
It's the moment you realize you believed it.