I wish I could tell you there was a clean break.
That I slammed the door, blocked his number, and walked out with my chin high and dignity intact.
But that's not how it happened.
Instead, it ended like most almost-things do—quietly, in the space between one reply and the next.
One day, he just… didn't answer.
No fight. No final straw. Just a blue bubble left hanging.
A joke I sent.
He saw it.
He laughed in my head.
But not on my screen.
The silence stayed.
I waited three hours. Then eight. Then twenty-four.
I refreshed the chat. I stared at the "Seen 10:46 PM" like it was a slap. I even checked Messenger, Instagram, Viber, thinking maybe he switched apps. He hadn't. He just... stopped.
"Maybe he's just busy," I whispered, lying on my bed, phone clutched to my chest like a rosary. "Baka pagod lang. Maybe he's just taking space."
But deep down, I knew: this was the last silence.
And the worst part?
I didn't even cry this time.
I just sat on the edge of my bed, my fan whirring above me, throwing soft shadows across my room. The scent of my mother's adobo drifted faintly from the kitchen, but even that couldn't comfort me. I scrolled through old messages, rereading his words like they were holy scripture. Like maybe—just maybe—the right sentence would prove this wasn't all in my head.
"You're different."
"I've never wanted anyone like this."
"You're dangerous in all the right ways."
Lies with sugar coating.
I opened my gallery. Looked at the photos of us—always taken by me. His arms draped casually around my waist. My face angled toward him. My smile, full. His eyes, somewhere else.
I started to see the relationship differently. Not as something that failed, but as something that never really began.
A loop, not a line.
He hadn't broken me.
He'd never fully held me.
Daniel never chose me.
Not really.
He chose the way I made him feel: wanted, admired, chased.
He liked the idea of me—the woman who ordered whiskey neat and laughed at her own jokes. The woman who didn't text too much, didn't ask too soon, didn't make demands.
But the moment I needed more—clarity, consistency, care—he flinched. Pulled away like love was a trap and I was the bait.
And I stayed.
Longer than I should've.
Not because I didn't know better.
But because I hoped, maybe this time, someone would stay.
That hope cost me pieces of myself.
I stopped trusting my instincts.
Stopped believing in my worth.
I wore "unbothered" like a costume—perfect makeup, sharp heels, red nails—while crying in Uber rides through EDSA traffic, answering emails with a hollow smile, pretending my career made me full while love made me feel... less.
I'd sit in cafés in Makati, sipping overpriced cappuccinos, watching couples laugh over shared ensaymada and wondering if I'd ever feel that safe with someone. If I'd ever let anyone close enough to see me without armor.
Because the worst part of modern dating isn't the ghosting. It's how easy it is to disappear while still being visible. How someone can like your story, scroll through your life, and still choose never to be in it.
He was still watching. Still viewing. Still reacting.
He just wasn't choosing me.
After him, I stopped posting selfies for a while.
Stopped wearing the red lipstick he liked.
Muted his account.
Then checked it anyway.
Like scratching at a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
My best friend, Sam, finally said, "Ate, you're stalking a ghost. Let the dead rest."
I wanted to laugh. But I couldn't.
Because it was true.
Still, eventually, the ache dulled.
Eventually, I stopped checking.
Eventually, I stopped hoping for an explanation.
There was no apology coming.
No closure.
Just me—still standing. Still rising.
But this time, a little less wide-eyed. A little more aware.
Daniel wasn't my great heartbreak.
He was just the first man who taught me:
You can give your heart to someone who isn't holding anything at all.
And even though I walked away, I carried the shame with me for weeks.
Because the truth I didn't want to admit was this:
I knew from the beginning.
I just stayed anyway.
There's a kind of mourning that doesn't come with funerals. Just long days. Quiet commutes. Lunch breaks where you stir your sinigang and realize it doesn't taste like anything.
And still, I showed up.
To meetings. To birthdays. To dinners with titas who asked, "Wala ka pa ring boyfriend?" while loading my plate with rice.
I smiled. Said, "Busy po sa work."
And they nodded, like ambition was enough to fill the absence.
But when the nights grew long, when the city lights cast shadows in my bedroom, when my hand reached across the bed out of habit—only to find it cold—I'd whisper one question into the dark.
Why wasn't I enough to stay for?
And then, slowly, another voice would answer.
Because he wasn't meant to stay.
Because your worth is not measured by the absence of a man.
Because you deserve a love that doesn't flinch.
And maybe, someday, I'll believe it.
But that night, I just lay still.
Listening to my own breathing.
Holding the silence he left behind.
And learning, inch by inch, how to fill it with something that finally felt like peace