The Lollipop: A Cautionary Tale of Sweet, Misplaced Hope

Back in 2010, when people still tuned in to FM radio and Bluetooth file-sharing was peak technology, I wrote this story. At the time, I thought it was profound—a tale of love, longing, and unspoken confessions wrapped in a metaphor as sweet as a lollipop. Looking back now? It’s a mix of pure cringe and a flood of memories I didn’t ask for. But hey, nostalgia has a funny way of making even our most awkward moments feel worth revisiting. So, here it is—raw, dramatic, and dripping with the emotional intensity of a guy who thought love was best expressed through candy.

Adam was the kind of guy who believed in grand romantic gestures but had the subtlety of a fireworks display in a library. A small-town boy who had watched one too many 90s rom-coms, he believed that consistency was the key to a woman's heart. And what better way to prove his dedication than through a daily offering of a single lollipop?

Alice, his unsuspecting office mate, was the lucky recipient of this sugar-coated affection. At first, she thought it was just a quirky habit, like someone who always wore mismatched socks or insisted on drinking coffee from a chipped mug. She accepted each lollipop with a polite smile, assuming Adam was just being friendly. Meanwhile, Adam saw that smile as a beacon of something deeper—something meant to be.

As the lollipop ritual continued, they grew close in that casual, coworker way—sharing inside jokes about their boss’s weird obsession with paperclips, exchanging stories about childhood, and occasionally teaming up to survive grueling overtime shifts. Adam, however, was operating under a different reality: he saw these moments as proof that Alice was warming up to him, that the lollipops were working their magic.

Valentine’s Day was approaching, and Adam decided it was the perfect time to unveil the truth—his feelings, his unwavering devotion, and the reason behind the lollipops. But he wasn’t an idiot (or so he thought). He wouldn't blurt it out over a casual lunch break. No, he needed the moment. The right ambiance. The perfect confession. So he did what any hopeful romantic would: he asked Alice out on Valentine’s Day. And she said yes.

In Adam’s mind, this was it. The culmination of weeks of effort. The lollipops had done their job. The universe was on his side. He imagined the grand reveal—Alice gasping in shock, overwhelmed by his heartfelt confession, maybe even shedding a single tear as she realized that she had loved him all along.

Reality, however, had other plans.

On the fateful day, Adam was buzzing with excitement. He had everything ready—maybe even rehearsed a speech in the mirror. But just a few hours before their “date,” Alice casually dropped a bomb on him.

“Hey, Adam, I almost forgot to tell you—I’m actually going out with my friends tonight.”

Boom. Silence. Internal devastation.

Adam blinked. Laughed nervously, as if she were joking. But she wasn’t.

“Oh, and also…” she hesitated for a moment, “I won’t be coming back to the office after today.”

Boom again. Double explosion. The lollipops had failed. The universe had betrayed him.

Alice left, completely unaware of the wreckage she left behind. Adam stood there, lollipop in hand, feeling like the human embodiment of a tragic movie ending—but not the cool, cinematic kind. More like the ones where the hero gets hit by a bus right after delivering a heartfelt monologue.

He never told Alice about the tiny love notes hidden inside each lollipop stick. He never told her that, from the very first one to the very last, he had been saying I love you all along. Maybe she never saw the signs. Maybe she did and ignored them. Maybe she was just being kind, accepting his gestures without thinking too much about them.

Adam would eventually move on, but the sting of that day would linger—because nothing wounds deeper than a love story that never even started.

And so, Adam would carry this lesson with him, hoping that, next time, he’d find a love that didn’t require decoding hidden messages inside candy. But for now, he’d sit there, reflecting on the past, wondering if he’d ever meet someone who would love him back before the world ran out of lollipops.

A Love Meant to Leave

The Goodbye That Held On

The park where we always hung out felt different that midday—quieter, heavier, as if the trees and the wind knew what was about to happen. The usual laughter of kids playing, the distant chatter of vendors, the rustling leaves—all seemed muffled, like the world was bracing itself for the inevitable.

We sat on our favorite bench, the one under the old acacia tree, where the shadows stretched long, swaying gently in the breeze. I could hear the faint chirping of birds, but even their songs carried a note of sorrow. She stared ahead, lost in thought, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the wooden bench between us. I studied her profile—the curve of her jaw, the way the afternoon sun painted golden hues on her skin. She was beautiful, painfully so, and I hated how much I loved her in that moment.

She took a deep breath before speaking.

"Tama na siguro to… Let’s end it here."

Her voice was calm, measured—but I caught the hesitation, the slight tremor she tried to hide.

I clenched my jaw, forcing a steady breath. I knew this was coming, but hearing it still felt like a blade slicing through my chest. “Why now?” My voice barely came out.

She exhaled, like she had been holding in something too heavy for too long.

"Kasi kung hindi natin tatapusin ngayon, lalo lang tayong masasaktan." She looked down at her hands. "Alam mong aalis ako. Alam mong mahirap ang long-distance. Ayokong dumating sa puntong mapagod tayo, masaktan tayo, mawala tayo nang hindi natin namamalayan."

I stared at her, searching for something—doubt, regret, anything that would tell me she wasn’t as sure as she sounded. But her eyes were steady, unwavering, even as they glistened with unshed tears.

"Ganun na lang?" I whispered.

She turned to me then, offering the softest, saddest smile. She reached for my hand, gripping it just tight enough for me to feel how hard this was for her, too.

Her words felt like an anchor pulling me down, but they also carried a strange weight of truth. She was always the more rational one between us. Still, reason didn’t make it hurt any less.

For a moment, we just sat there, staring at the cracked pavement beneath our feet, as if looking for answers that weren’t there. Then, impulsively, I reached for her other hand, lacing my fingers through hers. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she squeezed back—a silent acknowledgment of everything we had been, everything we still were, even in this moment of breaking apart.

"Can we fight please? Kahit para sa mga natitirang months na lang…Please." I admitted, my voice raw.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she just stared at me—deep, unwavering, as if searching my soul for something unspoken. Her eyes softened, not with pity, but with something else. Understanding. Maybe even approval.

I took it as a yes. As confirmation that she felt the same way.

A slow smile crept onto my lips, relief washing over me like a tide. If she wasn’t saying goodbye yet, then maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to hold onto.

The wind stirred around us, rustling the leaves above, carrying whispers of something unseen, something just beyond reach. The world continued, indifferent to the weight of this moment, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that fate was pausing—watching, waiting. As if this wasn’t the end. As if something greater was set in motion.

We sat there, hand in hand, letting the silence stretch between us, no longer heavy but charged with unspoken possibilities. My heart ached, but not in the way that signals loss—it was the kind that precedes something profound, something yet to unfold.

Because love, even when tested, has a way of rewriting its own fate.

Borrowed Time

With just five months left, I resolved to make every moment count.

"On one condition," she had said, her eyes locked onto mine, her voice steady yet gentle. "This time, I take charge."

A protest stirred inside me, but I swallowed it down. I had lost her once before because of my need to control everything. This time, I would not make the same mistake. "Alright," I said, voice firm. "You call the shots. I’ll follow. No more second-guessing you. No more trying to mold things into what I want them to be."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Then let’s do this."

And just like that, we found ourselves in a new chapter—one where I let her lead, and I followed willingly.

We went on memorable motorcycle road trips, chasing the sun, pretending that time wasn’t slipping away. She defied the conservative expectations of her family, sneaking out just to be with me. And I loved her for it.

We were reckless, madly in love, running against time. I rode for hours after my night shifts just to see her, despite my exhaustion. The risk never mattered; the only thing that did was reaching her. I would speed through the highways, dodging the early morning traffic, my hands gripping the throttle like my life depended on it. And in a way, it did. Every ride to see her felt like chasing a dream that was slipping through my fingers.

She, my angel, had once been the one manipulated, restrained by my selfish love. Now, she was teaching me what it meant to be free—to love without domination, to surrender without losing myself. And it was liberating.

We found joy in the simplest of moments—late-night drives, getting drenched in the rain, stealing hours in places where no one knew us. The thrill of sneaking her past curfews, of knowing we were defying the rules just to be together, made every second electric. She was willing to break the rules for me, to bend time itself so that we could stretch the days we had left.

I should have felt victorious, knowing she was breaking away from everything she had always obeyed just to be with me. But instead, I felt humbled. I saw what love truly was—not possession, not control, but a force that made someone want to choose you, again and again, despite everything.

For the first time, I despised the man I had been—the one who once sought to control her, who feared losing grip of what he thought was his. And for the first time, I truly admired the woman she had always been.

She was my light. And I? I was finally learning how to let her shine.

It was a honeymoon phase (again) with an expiration date. I cursed fate for being so cruel—why let me love her this deeply, only to take her away?

A Moment Suspended in Time

One particular memory remains etched in my mind.

It was October. She was processing her papers in Pampanga, and I had taken her there on my motorcycle. The moment I took off her helmet, something in her stopped me in my tracks. She glowed—an aura so powerful it knocked the wind out of me. A cruel reminder of what I was about to lose.

As she walked away, time seemed to slow, like one of those dramatic shampoo commercials where every movement is exaggerated. She turned her head and smiled, the kind of smile that haunts a man forever. It was beautiful, magical even—just like the first time we met. But this time, the magic was laced with sorrow.

The moment she disappeared into the building, my tears fell. Silent, heavy. I clenched my jaw, trying to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to consume me, but it was no use. My hands instinctively reached for a cigarette, lighting it with the urgency of a man who needed something to hold on to. The smoke curled around my fingers, masking the scent of impending loss.

A nearby vendor, an old woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that had witnessed too many sad faces, observed me. She sat behind a wooden cart, peeling boiled eggs with methodical precision. Her wrinkled hands barely trembled, as if she had long accepted the stories of heartbreak that will follow next on these emotional scenes. Her gaze lingered on me—not with pity, but with knowing.

I exhaled smoke and let my head drop slightly. This place wasn’t just a government office; it was a threshold to uncertainty. Every person who walked through those glass doors carried a silent question—would they return to the ones they loved, or would distance turn them into a memory?

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and straightened my posture, nodding at the old lady in quiet acknowledgment. She had probably seen hundreds like me—men and women left standing outside, watching their futures slip away through an automatic door.

I threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath my shoes. If she was going to leave, if fate had set this course for us, then I would stand here and take it like a man. No begging. No breaking down. Just this—one last, silent moment suspended in time.

The Fear of Letting Go

I loved her with every tick of the clock. But one day, as we sat eating street food at the park, she voiced her doubts again.

She wasn’t sure if we could survive the distance. She suggested we end things on our own terms before she left—as if preparing for fate’s cruel design. Her words shattered me. For months, I had been collecting all the positive energy in the universe, like Goku gathering a Spirit Bomb, believing we could overcome anything.

I tried to hide my disappointment, but something in me cracked. I used every ounce of persuasion I had, begging her to at least try. She looked me in the eyes, then simply said, "Sure." A single word, a single syllable. No reassurance. No promises. Just an uncertain agreement.

I should have seen it—the way she hesitated before taking another bite, how she wiped her fingers more times than necessary, her gaze dropping to the ground too often. She was fighting her own battle, but I was too consumed by my own fears to notice.

That night, I rode home lost in thought—so much so that I nearly got hit by a speeding car. The driver screeched to a halt inches from my motorcycle, his furious curses slicing through the air. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, you idiot?!"

Maybe I was. Maybe I was an idiot. An idiot for clinging to something that was destined to end. An idiot for letting anxiety cloud my judgment. An idiot for not realizing that I wasn’t the only one afraid.

My fingers tightened around the handlebars, my knuckles white with tension. I revved the engine, hard, as if the force of acceleration could drown out my thoughts. The city lights blurred as I sped away, my pulse roaring in my ears.

By the time I reached my apartment, my hands were trembling. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor, my helmet still clutched between my fingers. I had spent the entire ride cursing fate, cursing distance, cursing the cruel joke of falling in love with someone only to have them ripped away.

But in the quiet of my room, reality settled like dust in an abandoned house. This was happening. And all I could do was brace myself.

I exhaled shakily.

If I was going to lose her, I would do it standing tall. No more begging. No more desperate attempts to force destiny’s hand.

Just me, facing what was coming—whether I was ready or not.

Gifts of Time and Memory

December arrived, and my apartment, for the last time, became a haven filled with her laughter, her scent, her presence. It was where we had built memories, where she danced barefoot in my oversized shirts, where we had spent lazy mornings wrapped up in each other.

That morning, the scent of delivered Korean food filled the air—warm bowls of ramyeon, crispy kimbap rolls, and tteokbokki swimming in spicy sauce. She sat cross-legged on the floor, taking tiny bites, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

I handed her a small box. "Open it."

She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, pulling out an analog wristwatch. She blinked, tilting her head like a confused puppy. "You know I can barely read these things, right? What is this, Titanic? Are you about to tell me time is endless?"

I chuckled, shaking my head. "More like Interstellar—time is relative, especially when you’re far away. But this," I pointed to the ticking hands, "this keeps moving, no matter where we are. Just like us. The watch will keep ticking until the battery dies—unless we choose to stop it."

She frowned, clearly making an effort to decipher the watch face. "I swear, this is like trying to read ancient text. I’m a Gen Z, okay? I need numbers."

I laughed, leaning in to adjust the hands for her. "Consider it my final lesson in patience before you leave."

She grinned, slipping it onto her wrist. "So basically, every time I struggle to read this thing, I’ll think of you?"

"Exactly."

Then, she pulled out a bag and handed me something in return. Shirts—plain, different colors. No fancy logos, no cryptic messages. Just her way. Simple, yet thoughtful.

"Color-coded memories?" I mused, running my fingers over the fabric.

She shrugged. "Something like that. Each color is a phase of us. The bright ones for the crazy, stupid times. The dark ones for the tough days. And the in-between ones… well, that’s for whatever comes next."

I swallowed hard. It was more than just fabric—it was a timeline, a reminder of everything we had been, and everything we were about to be.

I pulled her into my arms, inhaling the familiarity of her hair, of this moment that was slipping away too fast. "I’ll wear these until they wear out."

She didn’t say anything. She just hugged me tighter.

That morning, we didn’t talk about the goodbyes waiting for us. Instead, we just existed, two souls wrapped in time, trying to hold onto something that was already fading into the horizon.

A Love That Could Have Been

I barely remembered how we got here—how I grabbed her wrist, pulled her onto my motorcycle, how she fought at first, then clung to me as I sped off into the night. I ignored her protests, ignored the roaring in my head, ignored everything except the desperate need to stop time, to stop her from leaving.

The city blurred behind us, neon lights shrinking into nothingness, swallowed by the storm rolling in from the horizon. My hands trembled against the handlebars. My heart slammed against my ribs, adrenaline and terror twisting inside me like a fever I couldn’t shake.

I wasn’t letting her go.

Not like this.

"Bumalik na tayo!" she shouted over the deafening roar of the wind and rain. "Ano bang ginagawa natin?!"

I gritted my teeth, pushing the throttle harder, faster—like outrunning reality was even an option.

Lightning split the sky above us, illuminating the empty road ahead. The first drops of rain kissed my skin, gentle, fleeting—before the heavens cracked open and drowned the world.

Her grip around my waist tightened, fingers digging into me—not out of fear, but out of surrender.

I swerved off the highway, pulling into a waiting shed by the roadside. The motorcycle skidded to a stop, tires slicing through the rain-soaked pavement. I killed the engine, chest heaving, pulse erratic.

The tin roof above us rattled violently under the downpour, each drop hammering down like the ticking of a clock I wanted to silence. Beside us, a lone streetlight flickered, casting a dim, uneven glow on her soaked figure.

She stood there, drenched and breathless, her wet hair clinging to her skin, her lips slightly parted—as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Thunder growled in the distance. My breathing was ragged.

Her eyes locked onto mine, dark pools of emotion I couldn’t quite read. Anger? Fear? Love?

"Sabihin mong mahal mo talaga ako!" I demanded, stepping closer. "Sabihin mong hindi mo ko iiwan…"

Her lower lip trembled. She whispered my name.

I grabbed her hands, pressing them against my chest, forcing her to feel the chaos beneath my skin.

"Tang i**..." My voice broke. "We can run. We can leave everything behind. Just say yes!"

She swallowed hard, her breath coming in short, shaky gasps. I saw it—the war inside her. Duty or love. The life she had built or the life I was offering her.

Her hands, still trapped in mine, trembled.

Then, she shook her head.

"Mahal kita, pero…"

No.

I gripped her tighter. "Walang pero. Just you and me. We can make this work. We can—"

And then—

She kissed me.

Hard.

The kind of kiss that steals the air from your lungs, that makes the world tilt, that says everything words never could.

The storm howled around us, rain soaking through every layer of clothing, but she was warm against me—so warm that I almost believed this could be real. That love alone could rewrite fate.

Her hands slid up to my face, her touch feverish, desperate, clinging—like she wanted to believe it too.

For a second, I thought I won.

For a second, I thought love was enough.

The rain pounded around us, lightning flashing across the night sky, illuminating the way she looked at me—like I was her entire world.

And then—

Darkness.

I gasped awake, my chest heaving, my fingers clutching at the sheets like I had just lost my grip on everything.

The room was silent. Empty.

No rain. No motorcycle. No her.

Just the slow, suffocating realization that it was never real.

I let out a shaky exhale, dragging a hand down my damp face.

It was just a dream.

But the desire to stop her? That part was real.

For one reckless, selfish moment, I had really considered it.

I had really thought about ruining her future—about taking away everything she had worked for—just so I wouldn’t have to lose her.

And that was the worst part of all.

Because even though I would never do it…

A part of me still wanted to.

A Christmas Apart

A week before Christmas, something inside me began to crack. Doubt seeped in like poison. She hadn’t given me the level of reassurance I craved—not in words, not in touch, not in the way I needed. She wasn’t distant, not exactly, but something about her felt quieter, lighter—like she was already learning to exist without me.

The way she checked her phone less. The way she no longer asked where I was or what I was doing. She was preparing. Softly. Silently. She was detaching.

And if she could, then so could I.

I convinced myself that I had to beat her to it, that I had to build my own walls before hers were fully in place.

So I made a decision.

I chose to spend Christmas with my mother. It was the logical choice, wasn’t it? The woman who had always been there for me. The one who might not have many Christmases left. The only woman who would never leave me.

She didn’t protest, as expected. She didn’t question it. Maybe she understood. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she thought I was simply being a good son. Maybe she saw what I was trying to do—the way I was silently rebelling against my own promises, breaking under the weight of losing control.

I didn’t know. I didn’t ask.

I just got on my motorcycle and rode to our province, a few hundred kilometers away, trying to outrun the feeling that I was making a mistake.

And while I drowned in my own self-inflicted torment, she sat alone on their porch, staring at the watch I had given her.

Checking the time.

Waiting.

Wondering if I’d at least send a message.

But she wasn’t the type to cause trouble. She wouldn’t demand answers. She wouldn’t lash out.

Instead, she endured the silence.

She endured me.

The ache of waiting for something that never came.

Then, at 11:27 PM, just before Christmas Eve, she sent me a message:

“What happened to you?”

I saw it. I read it. And then—I seen-zoned it.

I could’ve typed a reply.

I could’ve said, "I miss you."
I could’ve said, "I love you."
I could’ve said, "I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know how to let you go."

But I didn’t.

I just stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking my phone and setting it down beside the half-empty bottle of redhorse.

The coming days were filled with half-hearted conversations, forced exchanges that barely felt like us. My replies were short, empty—just enough to acknowledge her messages, but never enough to make her stay.

"Kumain ka na?" she’d ask.
"Oo."

"Anong ginagawa mo?"
"Wala."

I wasn’t ignoring her. Not completely. But I wasn’t holding on, either.

I was answering, but I wasn’t talking.

I was present, but I wasn’t there.

By New Year’s Eve, I was fully drowning.

Alcohol numbed the sharp edges of my thoughts, but nothing could erase the truth.

I had done this to myself.

I told myself I was doing the right thing—detaching before she could detach from me.

I told myself this was better. Safer.

But as the countdown to midnight echoed through the house, as the fireworks exploded in the sky, as laughter and celebration filled the air, I felt nothing.

Nothing but the crushing weight of absence.

Nothing but the deafening silence where her voice should have been.

I made it through the night in a haze, stumbling between consciousness and regret, until finally, the first morning of the new year crept in.

I woke up to the stench of alcohol, the dull throbbing in my skull, the heavy ache in my bones.

And before I could stop myself, before I could even think—

I whispered her name.

Not my mother’s.

Not a prayer.

Hers.

And just like that, regret hit me like a truck.

I had wasted precious time. Time I would never get back. Time that was slipping away faster than I wanted to admit.

I could see it now—how I had clung so tightly to my pride, pretending to be indifferent when I was anything but. How I had let my need to prove a point overshadow the truth.

I had spent holidays trying to unlove her.

And just like in the movies, where the protagonist realizes his mistake at the last minute—

I grabbed my keys, threw on a jacket, and ran.

There were still days left before she would leave.

But time was still of the essence.

And I wasn’t going to waste another second.

A Love That Refused to Fade

I packed my bags and rode back to the city. Exhausting travel but I was really eager to make up with her. When I finally saw her, I half-expected her to be distant, to continue preparing for detachment. Instead, she stood before me, looking like she had already made up her mind.

And then, before I could say a word, she spoke:

“Let’s survive this my love. Let’s hold on.”

For a second, I thought I was still dreaming.

She wasn’t asking. She wasn’t uncertain. She was sure.

I stared at her, trying to process what she had just said. Just days ago, I was convincing myself that I had already lost. That she had already started to let go. That I had no choice but to accept it.

But now… this?

I wanted to ask her why. What changed? Had my absence over the holidays shaken her? Had she realized something in the silence? Or was this something she had known all along, something she just needed to say out loud?

None of that mattered now.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Okay,” I said. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across my lips.

She smiled back, and just like that, the weight on my chest lifted.

The war wasn’t over.

And this time, I wasn’t fighting alone.

I pulled her into my arms, feeling the warmth of her body against mine, her heartbeat steady beneath my fingertips. She smelled like home, like every moment we had ever shared.

"You know this isn’t just my dream, right?" she whispered against my chest, her voice trembling. "It’s theirs too. I worked so hard for this—not just for myself, but for them." She pulled back slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet. "But that doesn’t mean you’re not part of them… because you are. You’re my strength. You’re the reason I know I can do this."

I nodded, even as my mind betrayed me with images of pulling her away, of taking her hand and never looking back, of running to a place where time couldn’t touch us, where no one could ever take her from me.

But that wasn’t love—that was fear.

And I loved her too much to chain her to me when she was meant to fly.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to steady. "I know," I said, though my heart was crumbling with every word. "And I’m so damn proud of you."

She searched my face, as if memorizing me, as if she knew this moment would replay in our minds long after she was gone. Then, she whispered, "Then stay with me. Until I have to go."

I exhaled, grounding myself in the weight of her words, in the fleeting time we had left. “I will.”

I reached for her hand, tightening my grip—not to hold her back, but to hold on.

"We will survive this. We’ll hold on."

I brushed a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering at her jaw. "I love you."

That night, we laughed, we talked, we existed in a bubble where nothing else mattered. And in those fleeting moments, I allowed myself to pretend. To imagine a world where she didn’t have to leave, where we weren’t bound by flights and time zones. Where I could hold her forever.

But love, real love, wasn’t about possession. It was about letting someone soar, even if it meant watching them fly away. And as much as it hurt, I knew one thing for certain—whatever happened next, she would always be mine in the moments that mattered most

The Last Goodbye

On our final night, we sat at our favorite pares stall, a place that had unknowingly become a witness to our love story—where we shared memorable meals, traded laughter, and found solace in steaming bowls of broth. The scent of garlic and beef filled the air, the clinking of utensils blending with the murmurs of other late-night diners. It was just another night for them. But for us, it was the...last.

She was radiant, glowing in a way I hadn’t seen before. Her braces were gone. The moment I noticed, I let out an exasperated chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Wheww… bakit ngayon mo lang yan pinatanggal?" I groaned, half-laughing, half-devastated. "Ang unfair."

"Why?"

"You look so much better without those braces. Why just now?"

She grinned, flashing that perfect, newly freed smile. "Para may dahilan kang hintayin akong bumalik," she teased, sipping her mami noodles playfully.

But the joke stung. Because there were no guarantees. No promises of return. Only the silence between us and the ticking of time slipping away too fast.

I took countless pictures of her, capturing every angle, every expression. As if freezing these moments in my phone would somehow keep her with me longer. Every giggle, every flick of her hair, every glance—it was all too much and yet, not enough.

Then, as if sensing the storm within me, she leaned forward slightly, her lips forming the words “I love you.”

No sound. Just the delicate motion, a secret between us, something meant only for me.

My breath hitched. She had no idea what she had just done.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she knew exactly what effect it would have on me—that it would be the last thing etched in my mind before everything changed.

I wanted to stop time. To hold her in that moment forever. But I couldn’t.

I clenched my jaw, swallowing hard as I fought against the tears welling in my eyes. But it was useless. She saw right through me.

My vision blurred, the weight of everything crashing down at once. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold it all in, but my chest tightened, my throat burned. I was losing her, and there was nothing I could do.

She didn’t speak. She just stared at me—her eyes deep, unreadable, yet knowing. As if memorizing me, just as I was memorizing her.

My breath hitched, and I let out a weak, trembling chuckle. “Shet… napadami yung chili oil ko, my love.”

And then, just like that—the dam broke. My tears finally fell. Heavy, unstoppable.

She exhaled shakily before reaching out, taking my hands into hers, gripping them tightly.

“I’ll be back in three years, my love. You wait for me.”

Her voice was soft, but resolute. A promise. A plea. A prayer.

I nodded, quickly grabbing a tissue before my emotions spilled out in ways I wasn’t prepared for. I nodded again, forcing a small, fragile smile as if that could stop the ache in my chest from spreading.

My fingers trembled as they reached for her wrist, encircling the glass of the watch I had given her. A reminder. A tether. A piece of me she would carry across the world.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

But she knew.

She had to know.

The nods. The way I looked into her eyes. The silent promise lingering between us.

I will wait for her.
I will wait for her.
I will wait for her.