I woke up inside a stranger’s unit like i belonged.
Which was funny, considering i never belonged anywhere.
Not in homes, not in rooms, not in moments like this—soft mornings, borrowed silence, sunlight slipping past half-open blinds.
His sheets smelled like cedarwood and quiet.
Like a boy who didn’t ask, but stayed.
I didn’t move for a few seconds.
Just stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the aircon and the city beyond the glass.
No sign of last night.
No trace of what shattered inside me at 2:43 a.m. when i stood in that hallway and didn’t know where to go.
I blinked.
Reset.
Aurora, on again.
Fierce. Cold. Unreachable.
I sat up, adjusted the oversized black hoodie that clearly wasn’t mine, Calix’s, probably—and got out of bed like i wasn’t wearing someone else’s name on my back.
The hallway was quiet.
I passed the living room.
He wasn’t there.
His keys were gone, shoes missing from the rack.
The place looked untouched again, like the person who lived here never really lived.
Figures.
I took a shower.
Wore some clothes—yes, wrinkled, whatever—and sat by the window with a cold glass of water and zero appetite.
Then, a message buzzed in.
Calix: Lunch at your parents’ today. 12 noon.
Calix: I’ll pick you up.
Tch.
Of course.
Right.
I forgot what day it was.
Family lunch.
The one where i sit at a ten-foot table across from two people who think I’m a poorly designed AI program they regret installing.
Version 2.0: Now with more emotional flaws.
I didn’t reply.
Just stared at the glass in my hand like it might morph into wine.
He came back around 11:30.
No knock.
Just a beep and the sound of the lock turning because he had the code and i was still here.
Calix walked in with a paper bag, two cold brews, and a box of croissants.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said, not asking.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ll faint if you don’t eat.”
“Maybe i want to faint.”
He didn’t laugh.
He just set the bag down, pulled out a croissant, tore it in half, and placed one piece in front of me. “Eat this. Just this.”
I rolled my eyes but took a bite.
It tasted like almond and pity.
“You didn’t sleep well,” he said after a moment.
I stared at him. “Are you checking on me now?”
“I’m just saying you look…” He paused. “Tired.”
“I’m always tired, Calix. That’s the baseline. Everything else is just extra.”
He nodded.
Didn’t argue.
I appreciated that.
By 11:50, I had fixed my hair into a bun, reapplied my lipstick, and wore the only thing in my emergency stash that looked semi-respectable, a black square-neck top, high-waist trousers, and my usual sharpness.
Calix changed into a button-down and dark slacks.
He looked good.
Effortless.
Like he wasn’t going to war.
I, on the other hand, looked like i was.
He didn’t comment when i stayed quiet in the elevator. Or in the car. Or when i stared out the window the whole ride to my parents’ house, expression unreadable.
He just drove.
One hand on the wheel, the other occasionally drumming the console like he wanted to fill the silence, but didn’t dare.
We didn’t need music.
The tension was loud enough.
My parents’ house was white-walled, overgrown, and eerily symmetrical.
The kind of place that screamed generational wealth and intergenerational trauma.
A maid opened the gate.
We didn’t smile.
Inside, the air smelled like lemons and expensive paint.
My mother greeted Calix with a tight hug and an even tighter smile. “Calix, it’s so good to see you again.”
Then she turned to me like I was part of the wallpaper. “Aurora.”
“Mother.” I nodded.
My father appeared from his office wearing the same gray slacks he’s worn since 2003. “Ah, Calix.”
Handshake.
Nod.
Bro talk.
Business talk.
Then finally—
“Aurora.”
He didn’t say anything else.
Just that. My name. As if that was a full conversation.
As if saying it with enough disappointment counted as parenting.
We were ushered into the dining room.
Long table.
Silver cutlery.
The food was laid out already, like we were guests, not family.
And i was not hungry anymore.
Lunch went like this:
Calix being praised for his clean image, his family background, his new business expansion in Cebu.
My mother complimenting his “discipline” and “maturity.”
My father asking if he’d consider joining one of their philanthropic ventures.
And me?
“Oh, Aurora, your lipstick is dark again,” my mother noted, like it was a disease.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin slowly. “It’s Dior. Limited edition. But thank you for your concern.”
Calix reached for my hand under the table.
I didn’t look at him, but i let him.
Because if i didn’t, I might start screaming.
Later, while the maid cleared the plates, my father asked the question he always asked.
“So what are you doing with your time now?”
I blinked. “Existing.”
He didn’t laugh.
“You know what i mean.”
“I’m not in rehab, if that’s what you’re implying,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach anything.
My mother sighed. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“Sorry, it runs in the family.”
Calix let out a quiet breath beside me.
Then he spoke.
“She’s been doing better,” he said. “She’s resting, taking her time. And honestly? That’s something more people should be allowed to do.”
I froze.
My eyes flicked to him.
My parents looked mildly impressed.
I wanted to throw my wine glass across the room.
After lunch, my mother offered us tea.
We declined.
I stood, mechanical, and walked to the hallway lined with portraits.
Photos of them at charity galas.
Baby pictures of me looking blank-faced even then.
Wedding pictures.
Politician handshakes.
Award nights.
A legacy i never signed up for.
Calix stood beside me, quiet.
“Don’t you have a picture in this hallway?” he asked.
“No,” I said, eyes sharp. “I was never part of the aesthetic.”
He looked at me.
And i saw it in his face.
That something in him shifted.
That he was starting to see it.
The rot beneath the gold.
The way i didn’t walk through this house—I endured it.
He didn’t say anything.
But when we left, he opened the car door for me, let me sit in silence, and didn’t fill the space with fake comfort.
He just existed beside me.
-
Back at the condo, I didn’t go straight to my unit.
I followed him back to his.
I didn’t ask why.
He poured water into two glasses and handed me one.
“You’re not okay,” he said finally, after I took a sip.
“I never said i was.”
He leaned against the counter. “You don’t have to keep acting like nothing touches you.”
“But it does,” I said. “And i hate that it does.”
Then, very quietly, “Why are you being so… gentle?”
He tilted his head. “Because someone should be.”
I looked away.
I didn’t cry.
But i sat on his couch, pulled my knees up, and for the first time in forever, didn’t feel like a malfunctioning machine.
I felt like a girl.
Tired.
Unloved.
But seen.
And that… that was terrifying.