Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1
“I’m breaking down
Slowly
I’m going to lose you
‘Cause I can’t be
A better man
Sweep you off your feet
And I’ll be here waiting.”
- sign crushes motorist
*includes reflections from Richard’s Journal (2016–2019)
January 2016 stands as the last clear memory Alden has of the first time he saw her. Back then, he didn’t think much of it—he hadn’t even made a mental note of her face. It was just… there, tucked away in the back of his mind.
He remembers it was his third major endorsement, and he was accompanied by Mama Ten, his PA. He was buzzing with excitement. Ever since he made acting his full-time job, ad offers had trickled in occasionally, but nothing like the steady stream he’d seen in the past months. The months prior had been a relentless grind—an endless cycle of paperwork and TV guestings. He’d fought hard to get those gigs, clawing his way through the trenches of the industry in his early years. Thankfully, the opportunities hadn’t dried up yet.
He never really expected to become this big, but his mom always believed otherwise. It took him years to realize that this job could be such a lucrative field, and he was determined to work even harder for it.
But he digressed. The endorsement was for a notebook brand. They had him in a white room with a small window in the far-left corner, bright overhead lights, and cameras and stands scattered everywhere. Music played softly in the background while a group of people busied themselves around him. One of them approached and told him to be ready in five minutes. With no lines to memorize, there wasn’t much else for him to do but wait.
And that’s when he saw her. He was unable to recall much of it at all, but he remembers being momentarily starstruck as he caught her face up close for the first time. She was walking toward him, accompanied by an older woman—her mom, probably—and someone holding a stack of folders.
One of the marketing assistants stepped forward, introducing themselves before gesturing to her. “Alden, this is Kathryn. She’ll be doing the photoshoot for the ads with you. I’ll give you both some time to get familiar, and we’ll start in five minutes. Sound good?”
They both nodded. She gave him a shy smile, and before he could greet her, he glanced at the older woman beside her, confirming his guess—it was her mom. She greeted him politely before stepping away to chat with the crew, leaving just the two of them.
“Hello,” he said, extending his hand.
“Hello. Mag-isa ka lang?” she asked, noticing he wasn’t with anyone.
‘My PA’s in the room assigned to me, so half-true,’ he thought, but he just nodded to her.
The shoot passed in a blur—quick and efficient. They wrapped up in no time, exchanged goodbyes, and that was that.
Fast forward three months. It was the 47th Guillermo Box Office Awards night—a chaotic blend of flashing lights, glittering gowns, and the kind of noise that makes him question his own sanity. They’d advised him to be there as early as possible to beat the traffic, but no amount of preparation could truly brace you for the weight of nights like these. The crowd outside was screaming their names like they belonged to someone else. It never quite feels real, and maybe it’s better that way. Tonight, he was receiving the Breakthrough Male Star award. Him—after acting since 2011. Life’s got jokes. But even though it felt a little ridiculous, he couldn’t deny the gratitude buzzing under his skin.
He stood in front of the mirror, giving himself a last look. His tux was sharp enough, his hair decent. It would do. Sam had texted where the car was parked, and soon he was on his way, lost in the hum of the city outside the tinted windows.
Once inside the venue, the hours stretched like days. The noise was overwhelming—fans screaming, the hum of conversations, cameras clicking like they were trying to steal pieces of him. People talked to him, he thinks. He nodded and smiled at the right moments, but their words never quite landed. His hands fidgeted, adjusting the handkerchief in his pocket like it was some kind of anchor.
Then the screaming shifted. It wasn’t just louder—it was sharper, more electric, like the entire room had been jolted awake. He looked up.
There she was.
For a moment, it felt like the lights themselves bent toward her, framing her in that impossible glow people always talk about but never quite believe. He did. He believed it because he remembered her. Not the way everyone else did—her face plastered on billboards and trending online. To him, she was the girl who once asked him if he was alone, her voice soft, unassuming, like she hadn’t already owned the room.
Seeing her now, it felt like no time had passed at all, even though he’d spent years replaying that moment in his head. She was the same, but sharper somehow. Her smile was brighter, her presence more commanding, but she was still her—the girl who slipped into his memory like a lyric he couldn’t shake.
She took the stage with that easy grace only she could pull off, accepted her award, and thanked the crowd with a warmth that felt real, even from a distance. He didn’t hear her speech. He was too busy trying to make sense of the way his chest tightened, like some part of him had been holding its breath since the last time they met.
It was Alden's turn to accept the award and when he came down from the stage, he greeted her and her leading man. His voice was steady, casual.
“Hello. Congratulations,” the words catching in his throat, too practiced to feel real.
"Hi, congratulations din,” she replied, while her eyes flickering between them and his then leading lady like they were just two more people in a sea of familiar faces. She smiled, quick and fleeting, and he told himself it was meant for him, even if it wasn’t.
He moved on, weaving through the maze of chairs and cameras, Kath's attention pulled in a dozen directions at once. He watched her still in her chair, while him with his hand still in his pocket, clutching that useless handkerchief like it might hold him together.
Journal entry #52 - Sunday, April 17, 2016
My nerves were driving me mad, a storm of unease that seemed to intensify with every passing second. It wasn’t just the deafening crowd, their shrieks of adoration ricocheting off the walls, nor the constant gaze of eyes upon us as we ascended the stage to collect our awards. No, it was the speeches—those suffocating speeches—that threatened to unravel what little composure I had left. But above all, my thoughts circled back to her, relentless, suffocating, and cruel.
She probably didn’t remember me—not really. Not the way I remembered her. I wondered if she even thought about those few moments four months ago. Did they stick to her the way they stuck to me? Or was I just another shadow in a career full of brighter lights?
It didn’t matter. She was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, and I was left there, rooted to the spot, torn between the desperate hope that she might look back and the quiet, aching certainty that she wouldn’t.
His phone rang around 7 PM. He was in his car, heading home after a shoot—though forgive him if the details are hazy now. He does remember it was February 16th, 2019. Two days before had been Mama Ten’s birthday. They’d celebrated properly—dinner out with the whole family, laughter that felt rare and precious. That evening, though, his thoughts were scattered, his body running on autopilot as the city lights smeared across the rain-damp windshield.
Then came the call. Sam, his handler for the past five years, was on the other end.
“Chard! May meeting ka daw with the GMA execs bukas.”
The words floated in the air, failing to immediately register. His attention was distracted by something so mundane it bordered on absurd—a stray biscuit crumb wedged stubbornly in the seams of his car’s headrest. It wasn’t until Sam repeated himself, with slightly more urgency, that the weight of the message began to sink in.
The next day, he arrived at the studio, prepared for the usual routine. But what awaited him was anything but ordinary. Familiar faces—faces he never thought he’d encounter in this setting—were present. Inang Olivia Lamasan and Carlo Katigbak, titans of ABS-CBN, greeted him warmly. And then there she was—Direk Cathy Garcia-Molina.
She was a legend to him, the architect of the films that had shaped his childhood and inspired his dreams. He had admired her from afar, always hoping, silently, that one day he might have the privilege of working under her guidance.
The meeting room buzzed with conversation, fragments of sentences weaving in and out of his focus. Yet two lines stood out, resonating like the chime of a cathedral bell:
“Are you ready for this role, Alden?”
“There were no other choices but you.”
The words hit him with the force of a sudden drop in altitude, leaving him momentarily breathless. The rain outside seemed louder, its rhythm chaotic against the glass. His heart pounded, and he imagined Leysam, his ever-reliable but often overly excitable handler, somewhere nearby, blissfully unaware of the storm that had erupted inside him.
Shit. Could he curse?
Ecstatic? Yes. Nervous? Undeniably.
A flicker of pride danced within him—a recognition of the years of grinding, the sacrifices made, the nights spent wondering if this moment would ever come. Yet the ever-present voice of doubt whispered louder, casting shadows over his triumph. Could he do this? It had been ages since he’d headlined a film, and even then, the experience had left him feeling hollow, as though the magic he once felt for acting had dulled to a mere routine.
And then came the bombshell.
“You’ll also be working alongside Kathryn Bernardo.”
Her name landed with the weight of a slap, though not in the way one might expect. It wasn’t just the magnitude of her stardom—her status as the industry’s darling, the face of every blockbuster. No, it was something deeper, something more personal. To the world, she was Kathryn Bernardo. To him, she was someone he could never quite forget. Even if she had.
The room continued to hum with plans—story conferences, schedules, tentative timelines—but it was all a blur. Direk Cathy’s voice became a muffled murmur until it sliced through his haze.
“Alden? Did you hear everything? Has it sunk in? What do you have to say?”
“Yes, yes,” he stammered, the words tumbling out like the release of a held breath. “Umm, wow. First of all, to Direk Cathy, Inang, and Ms. Carms, thank you for considering me for this film. To my family in the GMA Artist Center, thank you for trusting me to represent us here at Star Cinema. I promise not to let you down. I’ll give this my all.”
His voice was steady, but his hands trembled. The room erupted in a chorus of congratulations, yet he could barely process them.
The drive home that night was quieter than usual. His hands gripped the wheel as though it might anchor him to the moment. His chest felt tight, his thoughts a maelstrom of exhilaration and dread. This was the opportunity he had dreamed of for so long, but now that it was here, a question lingered, sharp and unrelenting:
Was he ready to rise to the challenge—or would the weight of it all crush him before he began?
Journal entry #13 - Saturday, February 16, 2019
THANK YOU, LORD! How I’ve prayed for times like this!
And nope. Totally not considering every possible scenario where I could potentially embarrass myself in front of my future leading lady and somehow ruin this entire glorious moment.
It was the 5th of March, 2019, when Alden saw her again. She was wearing white, just as she had at every other event where fate had carelessly thrown them together. It was almost as if the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had chosen the same color for every fleeting encounter. She had this uncanny ability to stand out without trying, a subtle brilliance that seemed to belong to her alone. Alden had not, and would not, forget that. And now, here she was, smiling at him, casually offering the simplest of greetings: “Hello, kumusta?”
The ‘Hello’, so light, so effortlessly spoken, lodged itself in his mind like a song you can’t help but hum long after it has ended. There they swirled, incessantly, as if mocking the fleeting nature of the moment. He blamed it on nerves—or perhaps, on something deeper that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.
He couldn’t help but smile in return. It felt unreal, this sudden reappearance, as though time itself had paused, giving him one more chance to grasp at something that had always been just out of reach.
“Hi, nice to meet you again,” he said, perhaps too eagerly. She smiled, that enigmatic smile that left everything unsaid, and they both turned toward the interview.
The interviewer wasted no time, asking the obvious question about their first time working together.
“Well, syempre, first time kong makakatrabaho si Kath in a project, in an acting project kasi we’ve been seeing each other na rin quite a couple of times already, kasi one time we shared a common endorsement.”
“Yeah,” she said, the word almost a whisper, her eyes flickering toward him for just a second. He caught it, a fleeting look, but one that lingered in his thoughts long after.
Did she remember?
Did she remember him?
He glanced at her, his mind racing, then answered, “So nagkita na kami, then nagkikita kami with the past events. So this is the first time I’ll be working with her and also with Star Cinema. It’s a great honor and experience kasi I’m really on the stage of exploring my craft and my capability as an actor.”
There was a small part of him that reveled in the words, in the carefully measured composure he’d maintained. After all, there was nothing like a crowd to make one appreciate the art of control. But beneath it, something tugged at him, something he couldn’t quite name.
Then, the interviewer turned to her, and Alden caught his breath as she looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in what felt like ages. It was the same deliberate, slow turn of her head that always left him breathless, as if she were weighing something in him, something he couldn’t see. He waited for her to speak, unsure of how to prepare for whatever words might slip from her lips.
She spoke simply, her tone devoid of anything extraordinary, but it pierced through him all the same: “Nung kanina pumasok sya, mukha syang…umm.. mature??”
He didn’t know why, but the word stuck to him like a heavy weight. He had worn this shirt—a white polo, mind you, decorated with the most trivial pattern of leaves. It had been an absurd choice, and in that moment, he regretted it more than anything he could have said. Mature—was that how she saw him? Was it a compliment? A judgment? Did it even matter?
A lot had been handed to Alden after the event, the first of which was a series of look tests with Direk Cathy. It was a busy night ahead, and there would be plenty more on his plate once this wrapped up.
‘Well, at least no more white Hawaiian shirts for you,’ he muttered to himself, his eyes lingering on the absurdity of his choice. That shirt—ridiculous and out of place—had made him look more like a politician than an actor, and somehow, mature in the way only a bad decision could.
Journal entry #28 (new year, new journal) - Tuesday, March 12, 2019
This night has been full of funny feelings.
It was strange, being called mature, especially in a room full of people who didn’t know the first thing about me—about what I’ve been through, what I’ve hidden. The weight of it settled on my shoulders like a coat that didn’t quite fit, like a label I hadn’t earned and wasn’t sure I ever would. But there it was—her opinion of me, so casual, so effortless, as if it were nothing more than a passing thought, dismissed before it even had a chance to matter.
She had said it was the first time she’d seen me up close, and that much was true. Our previous exchanges had been little more than blips—quick hellos, quick goodbyes, moments that never lasted long enough to mean anything. I had noticed her, of course. How could I not? But I never let myself think she could notice me—not in the way I wanted her to, anyway.
How ridiculous it was, really, to entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, she might see me differently, even if only for a moment. But no, that would be too much, wouldn’t it? Too much to hope for, too much to want. I didn’t even understand why I felt this way—after a single day, no, just an hour, of meeting her again. After five long years.
It was pathetic, wasn’t it? To feel this way, when I knew—knew—it was pointless. And yet, there I was, still holding on to that feeling, like a fool. The absurdity of it all was maddening—that I could be so close, yet so far, and still, somehow, wish for more, when I knew deep down that I’d never get it.