Liam made loving me look easy.
He didn't chase. He stayed.
Stayed when I was irritable from deadlines.
Stayed when I was quiet for days, buried in reports and worry and self-doubt.
Stayed when I said things like, "I don't know if I believe in forever," and "I'm just really busy right now."
He never flinched.
He brought coffee to my office on late nights. Tucked Post-it notes into my planner:
"You're doing better than you think."
"I'm proud of you."
"Don't forget to breathe."
He'd text when I hadn't eaten:
"Lunch on me today—anything but stress."
Sometimes it was sinigang from the carinderia across his building. Sometimes he'd make adobo and portion it in neat Tupperware like he had memorized the schedule of my exhaustion.
And for a while, I let myself exhale.
Let myself believe I could build a life with someone who didn't make me question if I was too much.
He made space for me. He never filled it with noise.
He wasn't just kind—he was good.
The kind of good you write poems about and then feel guilty for not reading again.
But somewhere between the tenderness and the routine, a quiet discomfort started growing inside me.
Not because he did anything wrong—he didn't.
He showed up. Every day. Every hour. In every way Daniel never did.
But when he kissed me, I didn't feel dizzy.
When he held me, I didn't feel like I'd fall apart.
I felt… fine.
Safe.
Still.
And I started wondering if something was wrong with me.
Here was a man who showed up with clean hands and a full heart.
Who talked about moving in, getting a dog, saving for trips.
Who saw me not as a project, or a puzzle, but as a person.
And yet—there were moments I looked at him and felt like I was watching a life I should want, but didn't belong in.
I'd scroll past #softboy memes on Instagram—men in hoodies holding coffee and crying at concerts—and wonder, Why doesn't this thrill me?
I read tweets about healthy relationships and felt like a fraud.
This was supposed to be it.
I was supposed to feel lucky.
And maybe I did. But also—suffocated.
Not by Liam.
By the version of myself I had to be to stay in this kind of love.
The calm one. The grateful one. The settled one.
I could see the approval in my mother's face the day she met him. She served us sopas in ceramic bowls we only used for guests.
"He's decent," she had said. Which in her language meant, Keep this one. He's stable.
She didn't smile often, but that day, her mouth twitched as Liam complimented her cooking and washed his own plate.
And yet, I felt like I was lying.
Like I was betraying something inside me that still wanted to run.
At work, I had just been promoted again—now leading a team of fifteen.
People called me "balanced."
Told me they admired how I "had it all together."
And I smiled, like I always do.
Even when I cried alone on vacation.
Yes—vacation.
A trip Liam planned for me to "unwind."
We stayed in a cabin. Cozy, perfect, picturesque. The kind of quiet that was supposed to be soothing.
He cooked breakfast every morning—scrambled eggs, garlic fried rice, longganisa that reminded me of childhood Sundays.
We'd sit on the porch with mugs of barako coffee, birds chirping like they were doing their own slow concert.
He'd talk about maybe relocating, buying property one day, building a garden.
And I'd nod, smile, bite into toasted pan de sal—pretending my stomach wasn't curling into knots.
Because while the world outside was calm, inside, I was unraveling.
I found myself crying in the shower with the water turned up to drown out the sound.
I didn't even know why.
Except maybe I did.
Maybe love wasn't supposed to feel like a to-do list I didn't ask for.
Maybe I wanted something I couldn't name.
Or maybe… I was just broken.
Because Liam was the safest place I'd ever known—
And somehow, I still wanted to run.
Some nights, I'd lie beside him and feel guilty for how empty I felt.
He'd rest his hand on my back, the weight of it both comfort and responsibility.
And in the dark, I'd whisper, "Are you happy?" hoping he'd say no.
Hoping he'd feel what I couldn't say.
But he'd always answer the same:
"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
I didn't know how to explain it—the ache of being seen and still feeling unseen.
The way I missed chaos like an old friend.
The way I longed for something deeper, messier, even if it broke me.
I wanted to want him the way he deserved.
But every time I tried, I felt like I was acting.
Not lying, exactly. But performing.
Performing stability.
Performing love.
And I didn't know how long I could keep up the act.
So I clung to the routine.
To his kindness.
To our soft Sunday mornings and his silly playlists and the way he kissed my forehead before leaving.
But deep down, I was already pulling away.
Softly.
Slowly.
Without a single door slammed.
Because the truth I couldn't admit yet was this:
Liam deserved someone who wanted to stay.
And I…
I was still trying to figure out what home even felt like.