Returning to my condo felt… hollow.
The elevator doors closed behind me with a mechanical sigh, and for the first time in months, I had the building entirely to myself.
The silence was comforting, yet heavy, pressing against my chest like a physical weight.
I walked into my apartment, dropping my bag by the door, and let myself sink onto the couch.
The sunlight streamed weakly through the half-closed blinds, dust motes dancing lazily in the air.
I stared at the walls, at the familiar furniture, but it all felt… unreal. Hollow.
The memory of Ken tugged at my chest, so vivid, so tangible and yet, I had to accept that maybe he wasn't real.
It was painful.
Every fiber of my being insisted that he existed, that our time together had been real.
But reality had other plans.
No one knew him.
Not my parents.
Not my manager.
Not even my closest friends.
I closed my eyes, pressing my hands against my temples.
Maybe he was a parallel universe version of someone I loved. Maybe he was a dream, a memory, a possibility I could never truly hold.
And yet… I didn't want to forget him.
If this was a dream, a world I could never live in, let me live in it anyway, even if it's just in my heart, in my mind, in fleeting moments when the night is quiet and I'm alone.
I exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch.
I didn't plan on returning to acting anytime soon.
I wanted to focus on myself, to find grounding again.
My parents and manager respected that decision, leaving me the space I needed.
The afternoon passed quietly, unremarkable, as I moved from room to room, unpacking the fragments of a life that now seemed more surreal than real.
—
By evening, I decided to step outside, craving fresh air, needing to remind myself that the world beyond my apartment still existed.
The city lights flickered on one by one as I descended the steps of my building.
And that's when I saw it.
A small, frail kitten huddled near the garbage bins.
Its fur was matted, its eyes dull, and it coughed weakly with each breath.
My chest clenched at the sight.
I crouched slowly, speaking softly, "Hey… it's okay… I'm not going to hurt you."
The kitten looked at me with pleading, tired eyes.
I reached out and scooped it up carefully, cradling it in my arms.
Its small body trembled.
I whispered to it, soothing, "You're going to be okay. Don't worry…"
Then I heard a voice behind me, familiar, impossible:
"Is the kitten okay?"
My heart stopped.
Every nerve in my body screamed recognition.
That voice, impossible, unmistakable.
I turned sharply.
And there he was.
Ken. Or… someone who looked exactly like him.
The same eyes, the same posture, the same warm presence that had haunted my memory for months.
I froze.
The kitten wriggled slightly in my arms, but I didn't notice.
My mind was blank.
My body was frozen.
He walked closer, eyes gentle, calm, watching me. "It's okay," he said, voice soft, reassuring. "Let me take a look."
Before I could respond, he took the kitten from my arms with careful hands.
My chest felt hollow, my pulse racing, my thoughts a whirlwind.
"We should take it to a clinic nearby," he said, glancing back at me briefly. "There's one just down the street from your building. Don't worry, I know what to do."
I didn't move.
I just stood there, rooted to the spot, watching.
Watching every gesture, every movement, every small detail.
The way he carried the kitten gently.
The way he spoke to it, cooing softly.
The way his eyes softened, as if the world had narrowed down to only this fragile creature.
And then, he looked at me.
For a moment, a pause, like he had been expecting me to say something.
I couldn't.
We walked together to the clinic.
I trailed behind him, barely speaking, barely breathing.
Inside, the scent of antiseptic hit me, but I barely noticed.
I watched him work.
Every motion, precise and careful.
Every touch, deliberate.
Every glance at the tiny patient, tender, professional, real.
And then, he spoke.
"I'm Ken… Kenjie Villafuerte," he said, voice steady, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.
I froze.
Villafuerte.
The name hit me like a punch to the chest.
Ken. Ken… Ken.
The sound of it, the reality of it, the impossibility of it.
I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, scream, or run.
All I could do was stand there, breathing shallowly, trying to ground myself in the world that somehow contained him, my impossible, undeniable Ken.
—
The kitten purred softly in my hands as I carried it up the small steps to my condo.
Its tiny body felt warm against my chest, fragile and fragile enough to make me nervous, yet comforting in a way I hadn't realized I needed.
I settled it in a little basket I had dusted off from the closet, adding a soft blanket.
It looked up at me with watery eyes, as if it already knew I would protect it.
For the first time in months, I smiled, faintly, guardedly.
My fingers stroked its fur gently.
Maybe I can do this.
Maybe I can care for something, even if everything else feels impossible.
Then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, my thoughts drifted to Ken.
The way he had held the kitten, his soft voice, the precision and gentleness with which he moved.
It had startled me at first, seeing him, or someone who was him, standing in the real world, yet somehow, it had sparked a flicker of hope inside me.
A hope that maybe… maybe this was a version of him I could touch, a version that existed here, in my world.
I shook my head, trying to quiet the chaotic swirl of emotions.
It doesn't make sense.
None of this makes sense.
But… I can't deny what I feel.
I put the kitten down safely and whispered, "Rest for now. I'll take care of you."
The next morning, curiosity and concern pushed me to walk toward the clinic where Ken had said he would treat the kitten.
My feet moved almost on autopilot, heart thudding in my chest.
As I approached, I saw him through the window, kneeling on the floor, examining the kitten. The tiny animal had stopped trembling, and Ken's presence seemed to calm it further.
Seeing him like that focused, gentle, alive, brought a warmth to my chest I couldn't explain.
A pang of something deep and fierce surged inside me.
Maybe… maybe this was my Ken.
A version of him, here in my reality, a version I could know and understand.
I stood by the door, watching.
Every movement, every tilt of his head, every subtle gesture made my heart beat faster.
For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to believe that this was real.
That Ken, in some form, existed for me here.
I stepped inside quietly, careful not to startle him.
He looked up and smiled briefly, not at me, not acknowledging my presence yet, but it was enough to make my chest tighten.
He gently patted the kitten, murmuring softly:
"Almost done. You're going to be fine, little one."
I approached cautiously, kneeling beside the counter to observe, heart trembling.
I didn't speak.
I didn't move.
I just let myself watch him work.
The thought came to me, unbidden: Maybe… maybe in his world, there's a Ysabelle too.
And maybe this version of him is real here because some part of him belongs to me.
I caught myself smiling faintly at the thought.
A fragile, tentative hope that perhaps, in some twist of fate, in some layer of the universe, we could exist together.
After the kitten was bandaged and purring softly in a tiny carrier, Ken looked up and finally met my eyes. "Looks like she's going to be okay," he said. "Thanks for bringing her."
"I… I just…" I faltered, words stuck in my throat. I just wanted to make sure she was safe. And… maybe… I wanted to see you.
He raised an eyebrow, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. "And now you did."
I nodded, heart hammering.
This is him.
This is Ken, in my world.
Maybe it's not the same as the one I remember, but it's enough.
It's real enough.
For the first time since waking from the coma, I allowed myself to breathe, to feel, to hope.
Because maybe, just maybe… this was a version of my love story, one I could still live, one I could still cherish, one I could still hold in my heart.
Even if it was different.
Even if it was fragile.
Even if it was… fleeting.
And as I watched him tuck the kitten into a soft blanket and stroke its fur, I whispered to myself:
Maybe this is the version of him I was meant to know. And maybe… it's enough.