("Some hearts don't shatter. They just harden until they stop feeling.")
The first sign was the delay.
At first, it was just a few minutes — then half an hour — then hours.
Each night, Nox would stare at his phone screen, watching the "last seen" timestamp drift further and further away.
8:02 PM.
8:45 PM.
10:13 PM.
Her messages were still there, but thinner, colder.
"Sorry, love, nakatulog ako."
"Busy sa group project, promise I'll call later."
"Signal's bad again."
He believed her. He had to.
So he'd smile at his sisters, pretend everything was fine, then go back to staring at the screen — thumb hovering over the chat, typing and erasing the same message over and over.
You okay?
Do you still miss me?
Are we still okay?
He never sent them.
One night, Flora caught him by the window, still in his uniform, phone glowing faintly in his hand.
"May problema ka ba?" (You got a problem?) she asked softly.
Nox blinked out of his daze. "Wala, Ate. Okay lang." (Nothing, sister. I'm fine.)
He forced a smile.
Flora frowned, unconvinced, but didn't press. "Matulog ka na. You'll get sick if you keep staying up like that."
When she left, he sighed and turned the screen back on.
No new messages. Just the echo of their last conversation, two days ago.
---
That Friday, after class, Nox sat on a bench outside the University gate.
The sky was dimming, full of heavy gray clouds. The students around him laughed and chatted, their world loud and colorful.
His, quiet and fading.
He opened Messenger and typed:
Nox: Hey. You there?
The dots appeared. Then disappeared.
He waited.
After fifteen minutes:
Shyn: Hey.
Nox: You okay? You've been quiet lately.
Shyn: Yeah. Just… been busy.
Nox: With school?
Shyn: Yeah. And other things.
He stared at that last line for a long time.
Other things.
Nox: You can tell me anything, you know.
Shyn: I know.
Nox: Then what's wrong?
Shyn: Nox, don't make this harder.
Nox: …Harder?
The reply came slower this time.
Shyn: I've been talking to someone here.
Nox:
Shyn: I didn't mean to. It just happened.
Nox: …
Shyn: He's from my class. He helps me with things. He's always around.
Nox: You said you'd wait.
Shyn: I tried.
That last message sat there like a gunshot — quiet, irreversible.
Nox: So that's it?
Shyn: I'm sorry, Nox. You don't deserve this.
Nox: Then why?
Shyn: Because I can't keep pretending I'm okay.
Nox: You could've told me.
Shyn: I didn't want to hurt you.
Nox: You already did.
He waited, staring at the blinking dots as if they might spell out a miracle.
But they stopped.
The chat ended with a single blue tick.
---
Nox sat there for a long time, the phone still warm in his hand. The noise of traffic faded into nothing.
He didn't cry. Didn't even move.
Just stared at the screen until the light dimmed and went black.
Back at the apartment, he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and lay down on the thin mat on the floor like every other night.
Flora was folding clothes. "You okay?" she asked again.
He smiled. "Yeah."
She nodded slowly, eyes narrowing with quiet worry, then turned off the light.
In the dark, Nox's chest felt tight — not from tears, but from something heavier. Like a stone pressing against his ribs. His hands trembled slightly, so he tucked them under the blanket.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
It didn't help.
Every inhale came with memories — her laugh, her warmth, the promise that she'd wait.
He wanted to scream, but even that felt like a luxury.
So he did what he'd always done when life cornered him: he endured.
---
The next morning, he woke before dawn.
He bathed, ironed his uniform, and left for school without a word.
In class, he listened, took notes, even smiled when called. His classmates laughed and joked around him as if nothing had changed.
But the sound of his pen on paper felt distant, detached.
He wasn't writing notes anymore — just motions, empty shapes.
During lunch, he sat under a tree near the campus gate, eating a single piece of pandesal while scrolling through his phone.
He went to her chat, hovered over it — and pressed "Delete Conversation."
No hesitation.
His chest tightened again, but it passed quickly. The pain didn't surge anymore. It just settled — heavy, cold, familiar.
That night, when Flora asked if he wanted dinner, he said, "Busog pa ako." (I'm still full.)
He hadn't eaten properly all day.
---
Nox studied longer that night. Pages blurred, numbers swam, but he forced his mind to stay busy.
Every time his thoughts drifted to Shyn, he drowned them under equations, formulas, and notes.
He wrote until his pen's ink ran dry.
He didn't stop.
Outside, the city lights flickered — reflections of lives still moving, hearts still beating.
He looked out the window and whispered to himself,
"Wala nang babalik. Only forward." (There's no going back. Only forward.)
He erased her name from his contacts. The phone felt lighter in his hand, but his chest — heavier than ever.
Then he lay down, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
The hum of jeepneys outside mixed with the quiet ache inside him.
He didn't cry.
He didn't move.
Because somewhere along the way, pain had stopped being something new.
It was just another part of the day —
like hunger,
like exhaustion,
like breathing.