April swept in, carrying the familiar scent of sun-dried laundry, the sound of graduation songs echoing across the school grounds, and the flurry of frantic packing as lives were folded into cardboard boxes.
Cean stood in her dorm room at USM, the weight of the moment settling on her. Books, old exam papers, coffee-stained mugs, and tiny mementos from people she once called home littered the room. She still had two more years until graduation, but her lease was ending, and she was transferring to a nearby apartment, closer to the public library, her new favorite place.
Mia was busy helping her pack, lifting books and neatly folding clothes, while Yesha sat nearby, her eyes glued to Cean's phone as she scrolled through old photos, giggling.
"Why do you still have this?" Yesha asked, holding up a blurry photo of Yuan from their immersion—a messy-haired, half-asleep version of him in a red hoodie, slouched in a plastic chair.
Cean's lips curved into a soft smile, a wistful look in her eyes. "Because that version of him reminds me of how it all started," she replied quietly.
"You're not deleting it?" Yesha raised an eyebrow, almost teasing, but there was a softness in her voice.
"No," Cean said, shaking her head. "Not everything that ends has to be erased."
Yesha didn't push her further, just gave a nod, and continued flipping through the phone.
Meanwhile, in Davao, Yuan was going through his own version of change—not moving houses, but moving roles. He had recently been elected as a new officer in his engineering organization, and the weight of meetings, proposals, and back-to-back academic reviews had him feeling both overwhelmed and alive.
He didn't check his messages for her anymore.
He didn't write poems in the middle of class.
But when Neo casually mentioned that they'd be attending a conference in Kabacan later that month, Yuan paused for a moment.
Kabacan.
The name lingered in his mind, and he felt something stir within him—not with hope, but with memory.
It wasn't the question of "Will I see her?" that flashed through his mind.
It was simply: "She's there."
-
Cean's new apartment was small but cozy. A studio with peeling paint on the walls and a stubborn doorknob that refused to turn easily. But the place had something that made it hers—an incredible view of the mountains and the kind of golden light that poured in through the windows every afternoon.
She set up a little corner by the window for writing. The blue notebook, her secret place of thoughts and words, always sat nearby. It was a quiet space where she could lose herself in reflections.
That weekend, she wrote in it:
"We do not lose people.
Sometimes, we place them gently on a shelf,
dust them off in quiet seasons,
and thank them for passing through."
-
A few weeks later, Cean and Yuan crossed paths again—not by accident, nor by fate, but because they were both scheduled to attend a roundtable discussion on youth-led innovation. Their names were even listed together on the same speaker list.
This time, when they saw each other, it wasn't the awkward silence of their previous meetings. It was different. It was… easy. They shared updates about their lives, laughed at how strange it felt to be in the same room after everything that had passed between them. There was no weight, no tension, just two people having a conversation.
They even took a casual photo together—a simple, no-pressure moment.
Sky, of course, was the first to comment on the post:
"The plot twist no one expected… but maybe needed."
That night, Cean lay in bed, her thoughts a little more settled than they had been in the past. She stared at the ceiling, the silence of her room soothing rather than lonely.
She didn't feel confused anymore. She didn't feel the aching desire for what had been.
She felt peace.
And in his own quiet room, Yuan felt it too. He wasn't thinking of the past. He wasn't wishing for something more. He simply… felt at peace.
They hadn't gone back. They hadn't rekindled what was lost.
But they were no longer stuck in the past either.
They were growing. Quietly, steadily, each on their own path. Paths that once crossed so brightly, but now—separate, yet in parallel motion.
'_'