It was a Thursday.
I hadn't heard from Julian in two weeks—not since the conversation, not since the almost-breakup that ended with me standing alone in my kitchen with two mugs of coffee and a mouth full of nothing.
Then suddenly—there he was.
"Thinking of you," his message said. "Are you around tonight?"
And just like that, I cracked.
Not because I believed it meant anything had changed. But because I wanted one more night of pretending it had.
When I opened the door, he looked exactly the same. Same loose shirt, same tired eyes, same smell of bergamot and a little bit of smoke. Same way of being everywhere and nowhere at once.
But something was different in me.
He hugged me tightly, like no time had passed. Like absence wasn't a choice he kept making.
"I missed this," he whispered. Not you, just this. And I let that be enough.
We didn't talk about what we were. We didn't talk about the silence. We just picked up like we were pressing play on a paused song. Like heartbreak could be postponed by dim lights and soft skin.
He read me a poem he "wasn't sure he should share," kissed the inside of my wrist, and said, "You feel like home without furniture."
I should've asked what that meant. I should've said, "I need walls, Julian. I need a roof, not poetry."
But I didn't.
I let him stay.
We made love like we were building something. But we weren't.
We were dancing in the ruins. Holding each other in the middle of a house already half-burned down.
And when I woke up in the morning, the bed was cold beside me.
He was gone.
No note. No text. No apology. Just silence.
Again.
I lay there in the mess of sheets and metaphors, trying to remember what it felt like to believe he meant it. Wondering if I had imagined the warmth, the sweetness, the almost of it all.
My phone blinked. Not him. Just an email reminder for the keynote address I was scheduled to give the next day. I was being called "one of the most influential young women in tech."
And yet—there I was. In a bed too big for one. Surrounded by everything… and completely empty.
He gave me one last night. Not as a promise. As a parting gift.
I stared at the ceiling and whispered, "Maybe he came back to remind me why I need to stop waiting for people who don't know how to stay."
But I still checked my phone. Still hoped. Still stared at the doorway like it owed me a miracle.
And then—nothing.
Nothing again. Nothing still.
That afternoon, I showered slowly. The kind of shower where you sit on the tiled floor and let the water hit your back until you forget what time it is. I wrapped myself in a towel that smelled like lavender fabric softener and sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling aimlessly. Every app felt heavy.
I deleted our thread.
And then I deleted the playlist he made me. The one with the Bon Iver song I used to put on repeat when I missed him. The one titled "For When the Moon Feels Close."
I stood up, pulled on a fresh shirt, and decided to go outside. The streets of Manila were sticky with heat, but at least they were real. I walked past vendors selling fishballs, past couples leaning into each other on motorbikes, past students in uniforms laughing loudly, unapologetically alive.
At a quiet corner café in Poblacion, I ordered an iced matcha and pulled out a book I hadn't touched in months. I forced myself to read. To underline. To participate in my own life again.
Across from me, two girls were whispering about their crushes. One of them said, "If he wanted to, he would."
And I almost laughed.
Because yes.
That was it.
If he wanted to, he would.
Later that evening, I passed by a secondhand store and bought a pair of earrings—small gold hoops, nothing dramatic. I wore them to dinner with my coworkers, where I laughed louder than I had in weeks.
Someone asked if I was seeing anyone.
I paused. Then smiled.
"I'm seeing myself clearly now."
And I meant it.
That night, I journaled under the glow of my desk lamp. I didn't write about Julian. I wrote about me. How I was learning that presence isn't measured by poetic words or midnight texts—but by who shows up when it matters. Who stays. Who chooses you without hesitation.
I wrote:
I am not the echo of someone else's indecision.
I am the answer I've been waiting for.
And when I turned off the light and climbed into bed alone, it didn't feel empty.
It felt earned.
The next morning, I went for a walk before sunrise. The streets were still quiet, the sky just beginning to blush. I passed by a pan de sal vendor and bought two—one for me, and one I gave to a sleeping street dog curled under a bench.
I sat by the Baywalk, watching the sun rise over Manila Bay. The water shimmered, pink and gold, as if the city itself was healing.
A jogger smiled at me. A child ran past chasing bubbles. The world, still spinning.
And for once, I wasn't searching for signs.
I didn't need the universe to send me proof I'd done the right thing.
Because I felt it—in my chest, in my breath, in the stillness that no longer ached.
Julian may have written poetry, but I was learning to live mine.
No stanzas. No riddles. Just truth.
And finally, finally… peace.