Work Text:
Angel lay still on her bed, the glow of the ceiling light above her blending with the city’s noise outside her apartment window. Her socks were still on, the award medal still hanging loosely around her neck, but none of that mattered now.
All she could think about was Niña.
She reached for her phone, almost by instinct, opening Spotify without a second thought. A routine. A ritual. She tapped the playlist she made back then—four letters, a name—and hit play.
It had always been hers and Niña’s thing. Music. When words failed, they handed each other songs like confessions they were too afraid to say out loud.
The opening chords of a song started to play, and Angel swallowed thickly. It still hurt. Every single time.
She exited the app and opened Twitter, as if distraction would somehow do the trick. It didn’t.
She didn’t have to scroll far before seeing their names again—trending, even. “YTANGEL NATION WE WON!!!,” one tweet said, complete with a video clip of them during the awarding, when their eyes accidentally met. The quote retweets made her chuckle bitterly.
“random but nakakakilig???”
“sa any any ship talaga ang kilig HAHAHAHA”
“PANALO TALAGA SI NINS”
“IT'S GIVING EVERYONE KNOWS BUT YOU TROPE???”
If only they knew.
If only they knew what happened two years ago. If only they knew that “YtanGel” was not some cute little ship but something that almost ruined her. Something that still had her wrapped around a silence she couldn’t break.
A part of her wanted to reply. To type out: “We don’t talk anymore,” or “She’s not mine,” or worse: “She never was.”
But she didn’t.
Instead, she opened her gallery and swiped through old photos.
Training camp.
Her smile in most of them felt faker now that she was older—now that she could see what she had been trying so hard to convince herself of.
Lyann.
The photos with her were plentiful. Sun-soaked and golden, all perfectly timed.
But even then, behind every picture with Lyann, she had been thinking of someone else. A different laugh. A different touch.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Lyann.
It was just that… she didn’t love her enough.
Not the way she loved Niña.
She told herself she wasn’t stupid for choosing Lyann. She told herself she was just tired of uncertainty, and Lyann was familiar. Safe. Warm in a predictable way.
But comfort isn’t the same as connection.
So she ended it. And then she was alone.
And then—Niña.
Angel blinked as a tweet from a troll account popped up on her timeline. She almost scrolled past it, but the username caught her eye.
@heavensentniytang
Stupid. Definitely rage bait.
Except… it wasn’t hating.
It was defending them. The ship. Niña. Angel. As if the owner knew too much. Angel laughed under her breath, already preparing to block it.
But before she could, she saw it:
“HAHAHAHA Di na bago yang ytangel niyo, go check her Spotify acc. LOOK AT THE PUBLIC PLAYLIST. Di ata natago ni mowm."
Then, a link followed.
Her heart dropped.
“No way,” Angel whispered to herself. But her fingers moved anyway.
The link worked.
Niña’s public account had only one playlist.
“heaven sent.”
The cover photo—
Angel sat up straight. Her breath caught.
It was her. Her jersey. 12.
And when she hit play, she couldn’t breathe.
Every song… was a letter. Every lyric, a confession Niña could never say.
Soft longing, guilt, hurt. One was by Shirebound. Another by The Ridleys. And then—Moonstar88.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Angel whispered to no one, tears finally slipping down her cheeks. “Why didn’t I tell you?”
The songs bled into each other, soft and heartbreaking. Her chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, and she couldn’t tell if it was guilt or grief or the ache of almosts.
She should’ve messaged.
She should’ve said something.
Anything.
Her fingers trembled as she wiped her face, exhaling shakily.
Maybe it was too late.
But maybe… maybe not.
She opened her Instagram, directing to Nina's profile.
Two years of silence stared back at her.
And then, slowly, she typed:
hi, nins.
i don’t know if it’s the right time to text you,
but i listened to it. the song
i actually listened to it the moment i got back in our shared room when you left camp
i have answers to your questions, if you still want it
She hovered over the send button, her thumb shaking.
Then she pressed it.
And for the first time in a long time, Angel felt like she had taken a step forward. Even if she didn’t know where it would lead.
Niña was curled up on the couch of her dorm, an old hoodie drowning her figure and her thesis notes abandoned on the coffee table. The glow of her laptop screen was still on, playing some mindless YouTube video she wasn’t even watching. She had paused it twenty minutes ago and just… never pressed play again.
Her phone was face-down beside her. She hadn’t touched it since the awarding.
Since that moment.
Since Angel looked at her like that again.
She wasn’t ready to unpack it. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.
She thought she had been doing fine. She muted Angel’s name, didn’t search her tweets anymore, deleted her drafts. She stopped checking if she watched her Instagram stories. She buried everything—deep, where no one could touch it.
But Angel Canino didn’t need to try hard to find her way back in.
She always found the cracks.
The silence was shattered by a buzz.
Niña glanced at her phone. Notifications. Twitter. Nothing urgent. Just chaos. People shipping her with someone who wasn’t hers.
She ignored it.
But then—another buzz.
This one from Messages.
Her breath hitched.
She stared at the name.
Angel Canino.
She hesitated.
Her fingers curled against her palm, heart beginning to race as if it knew.
Finally, she opened it.
hi, nins.
i don’t know if it’s the right time to text you,
but i listened to it. the song.
i actually listened to it the moment i got back in our shared room when you left camp.
i have answers to your questions.
Niña read it once.
Twice.
Three times.
Her chest tightened. She sat up straight, hoodie sleeves dragging across her lap as she reached for her phone with shaking hands.
The song.
Migraine.
The last thing she ever said to Angel. The last song she told Angel to listen without expecting anything back. The one she regretted the most—because it felt like a goodbye she was too scared to say out loud.
And now, Angel had heard it.
Not just heard. Listened.
Niña pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to stop the tears before they came, but they did anyway. Quietly. Stupidly.
Why now?
Why tonight?
Why did her heart still stutter like this?
She wanted to reply. She wanted to say I’m sorry.
Or I missed you.
Or I never stopped waiting.
But all that came out, at first, was:
sapat na yung dalawang taon, gel.
She hit send. Then stared at the bubble. Watched it disappear.
She paused. Blinked away another tear. Then finished with:
but i’m glad you listened.
Her thumb hovered.
Then she sent it.
Then she turned off her phone.
Because no matter what came next—she knew.
The silence had been broken.
And some stories didn’t stay buried forever.
The light filtered through the curtains, soft and slow. Angel stared at her phone screen, Niña’s last message still glowing:
sapat na yung dalawang taon, gel.
but i’m glad you listened.
She hadn't replied yet.
She didn’t want to wait another two years.
So she called.
One ring.
Two.
Three—
“Hello?”
Niña’s voice was cautious. Like she already knew this wouldn’t be just a casual call.
Angel’s breath caught. “Hey… it’s me.”
A pause. “I know.”
Angel sat up straighter. “I hope it’s okay I called. I just... needed to say something. Not in a message.”
She could hear Niña’s breath on the line, steady but guarded.
Angel exhaled shakily. “Last night, someone posted a link on Twitter. A troll account. I thought it was just noise but... it led me to your Spotify.”
Silence.
“It was your public profile. There was only one playlist there,” Angel continued gently. “Heaven sent.”
She waited.
Niña didn’t speak, but Angel could imagine her face: still, unreadable, lips slightly parted in surprise.
Angel’s voice dropped lower. “It had my jersey as the cover.”
The silence on the other end deepened.
“I’m sorry,” Angel said. “I didn’t mean to stumble into it. I know you didn’t mean for anyone to see it.”
“…I didn’t know it was still public,” Niña finally whispered.
“I figured.” Angel gave a faint, sad laugh. “But I listened. And I’m glad I did. I think I needed to.”
Niña didn’t respond, but Angel could feel the emotion thickening between them. All the years they’d spent pretending the past never happened crashing into the present, quietly.
“I miss you,” Angel said, without thinking.
She held her breath.
Niña didn’t say it back.
Not at first.
“…I think,” she said, slowly, “a part of me always knew this conversation would happen eventually.”
Angel’s heart twisted. “Me too.”
She let the silence breathe for a few seconds, then spoke again.
“Would you want to meet up? Just for coffee or something,” she said, gently. “Not to talk about the past if you don’t want. We can just sit. Catch up. No pressure.”
Niña hesitated.
“…I’ll think about it.”
“That’s enough for me,” Angel replied. And she meant it.
There was no goodbye. Just a soft, mutual pause before the call ended.
Angel placed the phone down beside her and stared at the ceiling, her chest tight with something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time.
Hope—wounded, but alive.
The hum of the city was dulled by the cafe’s glass walls. Angel sat by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cold Americano she hadn’t touched in the last ten minutes. Outside, the late afternoon light filtered through soft clouds, casting shadows across the wooden table.
She’d been here for twenty minutes.
But really, she’d been waiting for two years.
After their call ended with a long silence, Angel almost gave up. She started counting tiles on the floor, pretending it didn’t matter. But two hours later, her phone buzzed.
okay. see you in ten. i'll send you the location in a bit.
No emoji. No punctuation. But it was enough to send her pulse racing the way it used to when Niña was still just a mystery across the net.
Now, as the door chimed and Niña stepped inside, the past folded into the present like it never left.
She looked different—older, steadier. Her hair was tied loosely back, strands framing her face. She wore a gray hoodie Angel remembered from camp. But it felt like it belonged to someone else now. A Niña that had been rebuilt.
“Angel Anne Canino,” Niña said softly, with a smile that trembled at the corners.
Angel blinked. And laughed. “Niña Ytang.”
They both chuckled—because that was how their last real conversation started too.
It broke the ice, just a little. They sat down. Two coffees were ordered.
For a moment, they said nothing. Just the quiet buzz of strangers around them, the clink of mugs, the scent of something warm and bittersweet in the air.
Angel eventually looked up. “Thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure if you would.”
Niña traced the rim of her cup with her finger. “I wasn’t sure either.”
Angel nodded. There were too many things to unpack. So she started with something familiar.
“So, the playlist...”
Niña froze. Her hand stopped moving.
“That account,” Angel added gently. “The anonymous one. I found it before I found the playlist.”
Niña blinked, slowly. “How were you so sure it was me?”
Angel nodded. “It wasn’t that hard to tell. Your song choices… they were ours. They were moments.”
Niña looked away, her eyes shining. “It wasn’t meant to be found. I made it for myself. For everything I never got to say.”
“I listened,” Angel said. “Every song felt like a memory I didn’t imagine. And for the first time in two years, I didn’t feel insane for holding onto you.”
Niña looked down. “You weren’t.”
There was a lump in Angel’s throat she couldn’t swallow. “Why didn’t you tell me back then? About how you felt? About… us?”
Niña inhaled shakily. “Because I was terrified. Of what it meant. Of what it could become. Of how I could lose it before I even held it.”
Angel leaned back, trying to blink away the sting. “I thought I did something wrong. I thought it was just me.”
“It wasn’t,” Niña whispered. “I just didn’t know how to stay.”
Angel looked down. “You knew how to leave, though.”
Niña nodded slowly, wiping at her cheek. “It was easier. Less painful than staying and wanting something I wasn’t sure I could have.”
A heavy silence. Then Niña smiled softly, like trying to catch her breath.
“Do you remember in camp? When you offered to watch a movie with me?”
Angel laughed under her breath. “Of course.”
Niña tilted her head. “You hate watching movies.”
Angel raised a brow. “Says who?”
Niña smirked. “An interview. You said you get restless sitting through them.”
Angel opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it. “Touché.”
“So why’d you offer?” Niña asked, her voice low, almost fragile.
Angel looked at her. “I just wanted to get close to you.”
Niña smiled. Soft, knowing, sad. “You know that’s not the real reason.”
“I know,” Angel whispered.
They shared a look. The kind that said we know, we’ve always known.
Then Angel spoke again, softer this time. “I knew about the ship, by the way.”
Niña blinked. “You did?”
Angel nodded. “Yeah. It wasn’t huge, but it was there.”
“But it was never obvious.”
“Amie sent me videos,” Angel lied, the words tasting bitter. She couldn’t say the truth—that it was her, searching late at night, wanting to see how the world saw them.
Niña nodded slowly. “Right. Sounds like something Amie would do.”
Another silence. Comfortable this time.
But then Angel leaned forward, her heart thudding again like a drumbeat that knew its own ending. “So... about the playlist,” she asked, voice low. “Was it really about me?”
Niña didn’t answer right away. She looked out the window — at the sky, the street, the people who didn’t know what it was like to carry an unfinished song inside their chest. Then, finally, she nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I did… like you. Or maybe I loved you. For a long time. Even after camp.”
Angel’s breath hitched.
But she heard it.
The past tense. Did. Loved.
Like the last note of a song held too long — trembling, fading, already gone.
“I still do,” Angel wanted to say.
But she didn’t. Because it was Niña’s turn.
“I tried to let go,” Niña said, her voice cracking. “But you kept coming back. In dreams. In songs. In the little things.”
Angel blinked, swallowed down the lump in her throat. “You know, that karinderya dinner? That was the best date of my life.”
Niña looked up at her, startled. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
Angel gave a weak laugh. “I didn’t even realize it was one until weeks later. But it was. And the songs in your playlist? They were like a genre I couldn’t find anywhere else.”
Niña stared at her, eyes glassy. She bit her lip.
“Angel…”
And there it was. That shift in the air before the last chord. That quiet between the lines.
“I have someone else.”
Angel closed her eyes for a second. As if bracing for impact. As if the silence after would echo louder than anything else.
“Nica?”
Niña hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
Angel looked down at her coffee, watching the ripples like they could steady her.
“She’s a good one. You look… better with her.”
“I am,” Niña said, but it was the kind of steadiness that sounded rehearsed.
A beat.
Then Angel, unable to help herself, asked, “And us? What were we?”
Niña met her eyes. And for the first time since she walked in, she looked like she was about to fall apart.
“Real,” she said. “But temporary. Because we were scared. And we were young.”
Angel swallowed that like it was medicine she didn’t want but needed.
She nodded. Slowly. “I missed you.”
Niña looked away. Her hands trembled slightly as they clutched her cup. “I…”
She took a breath. Looked at the ceiling. Then the floor. Then Angel.
“I did too.”
It came out like something sacred. Like a lyric she'd been rewriting for two years.
“But I don’t think I can again.”
Angel felt that one like a bridge collapsing.
She nodded. “I know.”
And then it was quiet again. But not the good kind. It was the kind of quiet that comes after your favorite song ends and you don’t press replay — not because you don’t want to, but because you know it won’t feel the same way again.
They sat in that silence. In the ache. In the haunting echo of what they almost were.
And in that stillness, both of them remembered the rooftop.
The wind that night.
The silence before Niña reached for Angel’s hand and then pulled away.
The vulnerability that died between two heartbeats.
That night, too, had ended like a song with no chorus — only verses that looped and looped in their memories.
They didn’t say goodbye.
Not really.
And then they stood.
Niña reached for her bag. Angel did too.
At the door, Niña turned slightly, as if wanting to say something more.
Angel beat her to it.
“Thank you,” Angel said. “For loving me, even if it was quietly.”
Niña swallowed, her voice trembling as she met Angel’s eyes one last time.
“It was never quiet,” she whispered. “You kept listening… but you never heard what I was really trying to say.”
She paused, as if searching for the right note to end on.
“My silence was always a song. You just didn’t know the words.”
Angel looked at her, wanting to ask what she meant—but Niña was already turning away.
She didn’t look back.
Angel sat back down.
Alone.
But somehow, lighter.
It still hurt.
It was like a song that never made it to the chorus — all buildup, all promise, fading out before the melody could find its home. And now, as the silence settled, Angel realized: not all songs need a grand finale. Some are meant to end mid-verse — quietly, achingly — and still be beautiful.
Angel stayed seated long after Niña left.
The chair across from her was empty now, but the echo of Niña’s voice still lingered, like the final note of a song hanging in the air, refusing to fade completely.
Outside the café, the sun was dipping into the skyline, casting the street in shades of gold and honey. Warm light spilled in through the glass, but Angel still felt cold.
She stared down at her coffee. It had gone lukewarm. She lifted it, took a sip, and winced at the bitterness.
Then, slowly, she stood.
Her legs felt a little unsteady, like she’d just played five sets back-to-back. But it wasn’t her body that was tired. It was the kind of exhaustion that came from holding too much in your chest for too long.
She stepped outside. The air was softer than she expected. A little humid, but not heavy. The kind that sticks to your skin but doesn’t weigh you down.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out — half-hoping, half-dreading.
But it wasn’t Niña.
It was just the weather app.
She unlocked the screen anyway and tapped on Spotify, scrolling down to the playlist.
"nins"
It was still there. Still public.
She tapped it. Let the first notes play in her earphones.
Then stopped.
She paused the song, stared at the screen… and hit “Delete playlist.”
Her chest tightened, but she didn’t let herself cry. Not again. Not now.
She tapped New Playlist.
She didn’t know what she’d put in it yet. What genre. What tempo.
She didn’t even have a title.
How do you name something that hasn't begun?
How do you find rhythm when the only beat you knew belonged to someone else?
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Hesitant. Shaking.
“for whatever comes next” She typed.
It felt hollow. But it was something.
She hit save. Closed the app. Slipped the phone back into her pocket like she was burying something — soft, unfinished, still bleeding.
Outside, the world moved on without her.
Strangers laughed. Cars passed. A dog barked as if it had never lost anything in its life.
Angel just stood there.
Still.
Holding the ghost of a song that had already ended.
The kind that doesn’t stop abruptly — just fades slowly into silence, like the rooftop that night, where they sat close but said too little.
Where wind carried everything unsaid into the dark.
Where she should’ve known Niña was already slipping away.
And now, she had.
Angel didn’t cry.
She couldn’t.
Not here. Not now.
Not when she was pretending to be okay.
So she did the only thing left to do.
She turned.
Didn’t look back at the café.
Didn’t check her phone again.
She walked.
Each step forward felt like a betrayal. Like tearing pages out of a story she still wanted to finish.
She didn’t know where she was going.
But she told herself — she wasn’t lost.
She whispered it like a lie.
Like a prayer.
Because even though the song between them had ended,
It still echoed in her chest.
And maybe one day, she’d write another.
But not today.
Not yet.
Because some songs don’t end.
They just stop playing.
And leave you standing in the quiet, pretending you’re whole.
The apartment was dim when Niña stepped inside.
Golden hour had faded into evening. The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead as she slipped off her shoes, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed louder than it should have.
She stood there for a moment, keys still in her hand. Still not moving. Still not breathing right.
The scent of warm food lingered faintly in the air — garlic, soy, something comforting — and from the living room came the soft sound of a TV show she’d half-watched a dozen times before. She followed the sound without thinking.
Nica was there. Curled up on the couch, legs folded beneath her, a blanket tugged around her lap.
She turned, and when she saw Niña, her eyes widened — not in relief.
But in disbelief.
“You… came back.”
It was barely a whisper. A confession dressed up as a greeting.
Niña froze. Because that was the thing — she could have stayed. She had the choice. Even now, she could’ve walked somewhere else, into another life, chased a song she’d spent years writing in silence.
But she was here.
She crossed the room slowly. Dropped her bag at the foot of the couch like it weighed more than it should have.
“I said I would,” Niña murmured.
“But you didn’t have to,” Nica said. Her voice didn’t accuse. It just trembled. “You met with her. And after that, I thought…”
She trailed off. Swallowed.
Niña looked at her — this girl who had waited, quietly, without asking for anything. Who had been steady when Niña was all uneven edges and old ghosts.
Nica stood.
They were face to face now, inches apart. And still, Nica didn’t reach for her.
Because she knew.
Niña had not returned because she was chosen.
She had returned despite what she could’ve chosen.
And Nica? She had no illusions. She knew who Angel Canino was. Knew what they had — what they could have had. No one could compete with a memory that bright. Not really.
So when Nica finally lifted her arms, it wasn’t with certainty. It wasn’t with pride.
It was with care.
Gentle. Careful. Like Niña was made of glass and grief and things that hadn’t fully left her yet.
She pulled Niña into her chest. Held her there like someone holding the rain back.
And Niña—
Niña sank into her. Not like someone choosing a forever. But like someone trying to remember how to stay.
“I’m here,” Niña whispered, though it sounded more like a question than an answer.
Nica didn’t reply. She just held her tighter.
Because for tonight, that was enough.
Even if tomorrow, the song returned.
Even if it never stopped playing.
Niña wasn’t stupid for choosing what felt familiar —
what steadied her hands when the past trembled through them.
She chose the warmth she could return to.
The quiet that didn’t ask her to bleed for it.
She chose something real.
Not the fire that once burned,
but the hearth that stayed lit.