There was no dramatic fight. No betrayal. No text left on "Seen."
Just this quiet hum in my chest. Like a radio station that never quite tunes in.
Liam and I were still together. Still kind. Still... okay.
Which is why the guilt gnawed at me like a slow termite in the bones.
We had dinner every Friday, like clockwork.
Pasta on even weeks. Samgyupsal on odd ones—his idea, because he knew I missed late-night grilling from college.
He'd always offer to wrap the lettuce for me, placing grilled pork, rice, and a bit of kimchi like a ritual of care.
Sometimes he'd even feed me, grinning like a proud tito.
"Uy, wag ka na mahiya," he'd tease, slipping the wrap into my mouth.
And I'd laugh. I always laughed.
But inside, something stayed still.
I started dreading those Fridays. Not because anything was wrong—but because everything was fine.
Too fine. Predictable. Safe.
The same laughter. The same stories.
Even the warmth in his eyes felt… expected.
One night, over a quiet dinner, he said, "You've been quiet lately."
I blinked. "Have I?"
He nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Not in a bad way. Just… different."
I reached for my water. "Just tired, I guess."
He accepted that without pushing. As always.
But the truth? I wasn't tired. I was restless.
And that scared me more than anything.
I had spent so long chasing stability. Praying for someone who wouldn't abandon me at the door.
And now that I had him—this good, reliable, thoughtful man—I found myself… bored.
Ungrateful. Unsettled.
Wicked.
On paper, Liam was everything I should want. Everything I told myself I deserved.
But in real life, I was checking my phone under the table. Not for another man—no.
For noise. For distraction.
For something I couldn't name.
I found myself flirting with strangers on Twitter. Harmless replies. Overly thoughtful likes.
Not because I wanted someone else.
But because I missed feeling something unpredictable.
One Sunday, while folding laundry in his apartment, he asked, "Where do you see yourself five years from now?"
I froze, clutching a pair of his socks.
"I don't know," I said, too fast.
He looked at me with that gentle steadiness I used to adore. "It's okay not to know. I just like picturing it—with you in it."
I smiled. I always smiled.
Even when my chest tightened and my hands trembled slightly.
After that, I started spending more time alone.
I told him it was because of work—which wasn't a lie. I was leading a project so massive my name was being pitched for industry awards.
But the deeper truth was uglier.
I didn't know how to be soft with him anymore.
I didn't know how to be still in a love that wasn't burning me alive.
He brought adobo to my condo one night. Said he cooked it himself.
The rice was perfectly sticky, and he had packed spicy suka with sili on the side, because he knew I liked heat.
We ate on the floor, with a K-drama playing faintly in the background.
I told him it was delicious. And it was.
After dinner, he lay on my couch, head in my lap, scrolling through Facebook marketplace for secondhand bikes.
"We should get one," he said. "We could ride around UP on Sundays."
I ran my fingers through his hair. "Hmm. Maybe."
But I already knew I wouldn't go.
I was craving something I couldn't find in him.
Not danger. Not drama.
Just... depth. Contrast. Chaos. Something that made me feel alive in ways stability couldn't reach.
I started dreaming about my exes again. Even Daniel.
Not because I missed them—but because I missed the feeling of falling.
Of trying. Of hurting.
It was irrational, I knew.
And yet, I couldn't shake it.
One morning, while doing my makeup, my mom called.
"Kamusta ka na?" she asked, voice still half-asleep.
"I'm fine, Ma."
"Si Liam, okay naman?"
I paused, brushing blush onto my cheeks. "Oo naman."
There was a beat of silence. Then, "Parang hindi ka masaya."
I froze.
"Anong ibig mong sabihin?"
"Wala," she said quickly. "Ina ko lang. Kilala kita."
My mother never pried. Never lingered in emotion.
But this time, her silence said more than any advice could.
Was I happy?
I didn't know.
I didn't even know what happiness meant anymore.
Was it peace? Passion? The absence of pain?
Or had I just trained myself to chase discomfort?
The next week, Liam surprised me with a framed photo of us at a friend's birthday party.
I was laughing, leaning into him. He was mid-sentence, looking at me.
We looked... content. Easy.
"I had it printed," he said. "Thought it might be nice for your desk."
I thanked him. Kissed him on the cheek.
But inside, I felt like I was watching a stranger live my life.
That night, I sat in bed with my journal, a blank page staring back at me.
At the top, I wrote:
"Why am I bored?"
I stared at the question for a long time.
And then, slowly, I began to answer:
Because I don't know how to exist without a problem to fix.
Because chaos made me feel wanted.
Because safety feels foreign.
Because love that doesn't require survival feels too quiet to believe in.
Maybe it wasn't boredom.
Maybe it was fear.
Fear of peace.
Fear of being truly seen.
Fear that I'd never learn how to stay—not because the person was wrong, but because I never learned what it meant to feel whole without the thrill of being broken.
And that terrified me more than any heartbreak ever had.