I waited until after we had slept together. I thought that would make it easier—maybe even make it obvious. We were a thing now, right? We had crossed that invisible line.
His body curved into mine like he'd always belonged there. He whispered into my hair, "This feels cosmic." And I had let myself believe we were finally orbiting the same moon.
The next morning, I made coffee. Two mugs. No sugar, because he said sweetness should be earned.
He padded into the kitchen barefoot, kissed the top of my head, and hummed some jazz song I didn't recognize. It all felt so… real.
So I asked, gently: "Julian… what are we?"
He didn't flinch. He didn't even look surprised. He just took a sip, stared out the window, and said, "I thought we agreed not to label this."
I laughed. Nervous. "We didn't agree. You suggested it."
He finally met my eyes. "Because naming it puts it in a box. And once it's in a box, we start managing it instead of feeling it."
There it was again—the poetry-as-shield. The philosophy-as-escape.
"Julian," I said, more firmly, "I like you. I care about you. I want to know if I matter to you in the same way."
He smiled. Kind, devastating. "You do matter. Just not like… that."
The words landed with a thud. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat. Like a door quietly shutting behind you.
He reached for my hand. "Please don't make this a goodbye. You mean so much to me."
I pulled away.
Because I'd been here before. With Daniel, it was lies. With Liam, it was softness I couldn't hold. But with Julian, it was honesty used like velvet rope—meant to make me feel special even as it kept me outside.
"Connection doesn't need structure." "This is real to me." "You're unlike anyone I've ever met."
And yet—he would not choose me. Not fully. Not clearly. Not in the daylight.
I spent the rest of the day in a fog. Went to work. Led my team. Gave notes on presentations. Smiled when people called me "a force."
But I canceled drinks with a friend. Went home early. Sat in the dark and whispered into my coffee mug: "I thought we had something."
Then I checked my phone. No message. Not even a ghost.
I finally realized: we did have something. But not enough.
The next morning, I opened my window and let the humid Manila air in. It was the kind that stuck to your skin and clung to your thoughts. I made coffee, just one mug this time, and sat on the fire escape, watching the city come alive. Jeepneys honking, taho vendors calling out, a stray cat meowing like it had something urgent to say.
I thought about how many women had probably sat like this—quiet, aching, pretending not to wait.
Later, I went to the bookstore where we first bumped into each other. I didn't expect him to be there, but part of me needed to see that the world still moved without him in it. I picked up a worn copy of Neruda and smiled at the irony. Love poems that once sounded like truth now read like warnings.
Back at home, I pulled out my old journals. Pages of scribbles, unfinished poems, letters I never sent. I found one entry from the early days:
"He feels like a secret I get to keep. But what if he's a secret because he's never really mine?"
I closed the journal. I didn't need to keep his memory like a flame. I was done burning for someone who never tried to warm me.
That weekend, I met my friends for brunch at a small garden café in Makati. There were string lights and waffles and too many plants for the tiny patio. We talked about travel plans, joked about exes, and for the first time, I didn't bring up Julian. I didn't check my phone once.
After brunch, I walked alone along Ayala Triangle, past people taking selfies and lovers holding hands. I didn't feel bitter. Just… clean. Like something had finally left my system.
I sat on a bench, looked up at the open sky above the city skyline, and whispered—not a question, but a promise:
"I'm done waiting."
Because love, I was learning, should feel like presence. Not poetry. Not orbit. But presence.
And if that made me too grounded for someone like Julian… Then maybe it was time I learned to fly solo, not because I had to—but because I finally could.
That night, I cooked dinner for myself. Nothing fancy—just garlic fried rice, scrambled eggs, and some leftover bangus. I lit a candle anyway. Played old OPM songs. Sat at the table and ate slowly, like I deserved to be cherished even in solitude.
I watched the wax melt and thought about all the times I had set myself on fire to keep someone else warm. All the times I had translated mixed signals into poetry. All the nights I had mistaken silence for depth.
I didn't cry.
Instead, I wrote a new poem. Not for him. For me.
It didn't rhyme. It didn't beg. It simply said:
I am not your pause. Not your maybe. I am the page you don't get to write on anymore.
Then I turned off my phone and slept with the windows open.
And for the first time in a long time, I dreamt of no one but myself.