The breeze in Kabacan had softened, cooler than usual—like the world itself was exhaling after a long, burning breath. It was the kind of afternoon that stayed, the sky muted in shades of pearl and smoke, as if the sun itself was caught between memories and dreams.
Cean sat at her usual coffee spot near the university, tucked in the corner where the wooden chair always creaked and the barista didn't need to ask her name. Her lukewarm iced americano sat beside her like a patient friend. The blue notebook lay open in front of her, its pages fluttering in the wind like they were eager to be filled again.
She was writing.
Not about heartbreak. Not about the ache that once lived under her ribs, or about Yuan's eyes, or how silence could sound like goodbye. She wasn't writing to remember this time.
She was writing to resist.
About power. About student voices silenced by bureaucracy. About how systems crumble and rebuild, but always forget the quiet ones—the tender-hearted who fall between the cracks. She wrote about movements, about courage, about how even pain could be political. And maybe, in a roundabout way, she was still writing about herself.
Her pen moved with newfound steadiness. No more shaking. No more hesitation. Just ink that flowed like it had been waiting for this moment. For her to come back.
Mia plopped into the seat across from her, her iced matcha sloshing over the rim. "You're glowing," she said with a teasing grin, chin propped on her hand as she watched Cean with narrowed eyes.
Cean rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched. "It's just highlighter and two hours of sleep."
"No," Mia said, more seriously now, voice softening. "It's different. You're... lighter."
Cean paused. Her fingers stilled over the page, hovering like she was afraid of the answer they might write next. She glanced up, thoughtful.
"Maybe I am," she whispered, not quite surprised, but quietly grateful.
-
Over in Davao, the air smelled faintly of chalk and engine grease. The walls of the classroom were smudged with old equations and worn-out reminders from professors who believed in tough love and tighter deadlines.
Yuan sat at the back, his pen idle between his fingers. The lecture flowed around him like static, formulas and diagrams skimming past his ears. His gaze drifted to the window, where the sky was beginning to blush into a soft evening.
Raphael leaned over, nudging him gently with an elbow. "You okay?"
Yuan blinked, pulled from whatever place his thoughts had taken him. "Yeah. Just tired."
But it wasn't just that. It hadn't been just that in a while.
February had always been heavy—not because of Diane, not anymore. That wound had scarred over, faded into a dull ache he didn't trace anymore. No, February was heavy because it was full of ghosts. The kind that didn't haunt but lingered. Almosts. What-ifs. Red rings and blue glances. 2 a.m. confessions whispered across two cities.
He walked alone that evening, hands in his pockets, the world dipped in twilight. The path to the campus chapel was quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and the distant hum of motorbikes. He wasn't even sure why he ended up there. Habit, maybe. Or memory.
He sat at the back pew, not bothering to kneel, eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight at the altar. The silence wasn't empty—it was full of things he hadn't said, and didn't need to.
He didn't pray for love. He didn't ask for closure. He didn't beg for fate to be kinder.
He just said, softly, "Thank You… for letting me love her."
It echoed somewhere deeper than his chest.
And somehow, that was enough.
-
They didn't talk.
Not directly. Not anymore.
But social media had its own language. Cean, taking a quick study break and half-scrolling through Facebook stories, stumbled on a reposted photo from Sky. It was Yuan, surrounded by his project team, holding what looked like a model bridge made of scrap wood and stubborn ambition.
He looked tired. A little unshaven. But peaceful. And older—like someone who had stopped asking for answers and started building them instead.
Cean stared longer than she meant to. Not out of longing. Not with regret.
Just recognition.
That's the boy I once knew, she thought. That's the man he's becoming.
And somewhere deep in her chest, something uncurled—not sadness, but something quieter. Something close to peace.
-
On Valentine's Day, Cean received no flowers. No chocolates. No secret admirer notes hidden in her locker like those old high school days. And that was okay.
What she got was a message from Liam.
"Sky says you look genuinely happy now. I'm proud of you."
She smiled at her phone, warmth blooming in her chest. Her fingers danced over the keyboard.
"Tell her thanks."
At the exact same time, halfway across the region, Yuan passed a street vendor selling roses. Red, white, pink, all tied with glimmering ribbons and hope. He didn't stop. Didn't buy.
But something caught his eye—a single blue ribbon tied loosely around one of the stems. It fluttered in the wind, playful and defiant.
Yuan smiled.
Blue and red.
Still showing up.
Still meaning something.
Even when they didn't say a word.
'_'