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Stacey Sevilleja had no business walking into this bar tonight.
And yet, here she was, heels clacking against the cracked pavement outside, her breath catching for just a second before she pushed open the heavy, sticker-covered door.
Inside, it was already full. Not elbow-to-elbow yet, but close. Dim lights, humid air, bass thudding like a second heartbeat. The kind of Friday night that felt both nostalgic and dangerous. A chorus was just peaking. Katy Perry’s voice was sharp through the speaker: “Baby you’re a firework—”
2011 hadn’t exactly been Stacey’s year. Acne breakouts, that weird fungal infection that lasted a month, a string of terrible dates with women from the internet—one of whom brought her own fork to Army Navy. And most of all, a year without Jhoanna Robles.
She didn't need to check her phone.
Aiah had texted earlier: “We’re here na. Jhoanna too.”
Stacey slipped past a group of college boys in striped polos and Levis, barely flinching when someone spilled a bit of Red Horse near her heels. The floor was sticky. The air smelled like rubbing alcohol and some Bath and Body Works knockoff. She caught a flash of Maloi’s hair near the DJ booth—she was bobbing her head like she owned the place, probably mid-rant about someone’s playlist.
Gwen was by the bar, half-laughing, half-yelling over the music, a San Mig Light in her hand.
But Jhoanna? Not yet in sight.
Still—Stacey felt her.
That weird gravity that existed when someone who used to memorize your every mood was suddenly just a friend again. Or not even. Just someone you used to hold in the dark.
She tugged her cardigan tighter around her body, though it was useless in the heat. And she walked in. Head high. Like this wasn’t the first time she’d be seeing her ex in a year. Like her stomach wasn’t folding in on itself. Like the song playing “We Found Love in a Hopeless Place” wasn’t already making her want to throw her phone into the nearest beer bucket.
—
She saw Aiah leaning against a high table, halfway through a bottle of Tanduay Ice, laughing with some red haired girl Stacey didn’t recognize. Their eyes met. A quick smile. A nod. No wave—just cool, silent acknowledgment.
Stacey walked over.
“Tara,” Aiah mouthed, motioning toward the bar.
Stacey followed, heart still pattering like it didn’t get the memo. She was fine. She was cool. She had moved on. She had kissed other people.
Well. Technically… one person. And it was an accident. After they both leaned in for a cheek kiss and somehow missed, and their lips barely brushed, and it was weird. And wet. And they never spoke again.
Still, she stayed quiet.
She didn’t ask the thing clawing its way up her throat: “Sabi mo andito si Jho? Ba’t wala?”
Because she wasn’t that girl. Not anymore. Not the girl who counted the minutes between texts. Not the girl who wrote letters just in case Jhoanna ever reached out. Not the girl who’d listen to “Someone Like You” on loop like it was the national anthem.
So she bobbed her head to the music. Let the bass shake through her ribcage. Nodded as Aiah said something about the DJ being cute tonight. She smiled. Pretended.
And then she watched Maloi—chaotic, glitter-lidded Maloi—force half the dance floor into an impromptu line dance to LMFAO’s “Party Rock Anthem,” clapping her hands and yelling, “Kaliwa! Kaliwa! Tangina, Gwen, kanan yan!”
Stacey let out a laugh that sounded almost real.
And still, no Jhoanna.
2007. Sophomore year.
Stacey Sevilleja had it all.
She was that girl—the one the professors always remembered, the one other girls admired without even resenting. Intelligent. Poised. Consistently on the Dean’s List. A campus beauty queen who still brought her own lunch to class and thanked the janitors by name. The kind of student who made extra slides just in case, who came early to group work meetings, and who had an organized Google Drive before most people knew what that was.
She was kind to everyone.
Well. Almost everyone.
Because if there was one person who managed to light a fire under Stacey's skin—and not in a good way, at least not at first—it was Jhoanna Robles.
Always missing in action. The kind of girl whose name was on the group list but whose face never showed up until the final presentation. Whose go-to line was “Papunta na ako,” but somehow only ever arrived when everyone else was already packing up.
And yet—somehow—she got it.
She was the kind of nightmare groupmate who never answered emails, never commented on the shared doc, never even asked what font the rest of the group agreed on.
But then, on the day of the actual presentation, she would stand in front of the class—no cue cards, no stutters, no dead air—and speak like she had written every damn slide herself.
Smooth. Sharp. Effortless.
Like the rest of them hadn’t been scrambling the night before at 2 AM fixing the transitions.
Algebraic expressions? She could simplify them in one line, no calculator. Corrected everyone’s grammar mid-sentence with that bored tone of hers: “Whom, hindi who,” even if she hadn’t spoken for the last thirty minutes.
She could catch a basketball without looking, knock a bottle cap off a Coke litro with a single flick, and disappear just as fast.
Infuriating.
Unapologetic.
And the first time Stacey noticed the way Jhoanna's lip curled slightly when she smirked, the way she said “Miss Sevilleja, ikaw na naman?” during recitation like she wasn’t the one always skipping—she hated it.
Truly.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
2011
Jhoanna Robles was in the bathroom.
For the eighth time since she got there.
She leaned close to the mirror, squinting under the flickering fluorescent light, reapplying lipstick she’d already wiped off and redone so many times it was starting to feel like muscle memory. Something light. Something barely there. Something Stacey would wear.
She looked down at the tube.
Maple Rose.
Bought it at some airport Watsons in Taiwan, maybe. Or was it Hong Kong? She’d been to a lot of places lately. Solo travels. Motorbike tours she never finished. Street food she couldn't pronounce. Roller coasters she boarded just to prove a point, even though they made her want to throw up her intestines.
This year had been about saying yes. To everything.
Everything that didn’t involve Stacey Sevilleja.
And still, here she was.
Standing in the way-too-pink ladies’ room of a bar that smelled like a mix of sanitizer and cheap perfume, trying to look like the kind of girl who hadn’t been thinking about this night since Aiah invited her.
Outside, somewhere in the crowd, was Stacey. Breathtaking, superwoman, adorable know-it-all Stacey. The same girl who used to correct her citations and once brought her oatmeal cookies during midterms because she looked like she was about to faint.
She could almost feel her slipping away again.
So she sighed. Quiet, and sharp.
Turned on the faucet. Washed her whole damn face.
And reapplied the lipstick again.
—
The door creaked open.
And Stacey was the first thing she saw.
Why does she have to be so tall?
There she was, standing near the bar like she’d walked straight out of a Bench commercial, all glowing skin and perfectly arched eyebrows, cardigan slipping slightly off one shoulder in that I-don’t-know-I’m-beautiful way that Jhoanna knew—knew—was 100% calculated.
And yet, Jhoanna stared.
She smiled, not even trying to stop herself.
Tang ina. Ang ganda niya pa rin.
And then—Stacey turned.
Right in her direction.
Panic struck like lightning.
Jhoanna dropped.
Full-on crouched down and slipped under the nearest table, where a group of strangers was laughing over a bucket of beer and an untouched plate of fries.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
She wasn’t even sure if Stacey saw her.
Oh god. What if she did?
What if she saw her duck like a complete loser?
What was she supposed to do now—crawl to the fire exit? Pretend she dropped a contact lens she wasn’t even wearing?
She held her breath. Listened to the muffled boom of Rihanna’s “S&M” thumping through the floorboards. Her knees were touching a sticky napkin. Someone’s leg was uncomfortably close.
Okay. Breathe.
Just breathe.
This wasn’t her first stupid decision.
But it was definitely in the top three.
2007
The professor called out names, and Stacey already had a bad feeling bubbling in her chest.
“Sevilleja and… Robles. You’ll be partners for the Estrella Alfon paper. Magnificence. Due next week.”
Stacey groaned. Soft, but not soft enough.
“What’s wrong, Miss Sevilleja?” the professor asked, peering at her over his reading glasses.
And like clockwork, a voice from two rows behind her chimed in, smug and amused:
“Oo nga,” Jhoanna leaned forward just enough for Stacey to feel her breath by her ear, “What’s wrong, Miss Sevilleja?”
Stacey turned just enough to meet her eyes—half-lidded, lazy, amused like she’d already won something.
“Sana nag-absent ka na lang,” Stacey muttered under her breath.
Jhoanna grinned. Not offended. Not even fazed.
“Don’t worry. A-absent ako sa pag gawa. Kaya mo na yan!”
The professor had already moved on to other names, the class buzzing again with complaints and bargaining. But Stacey sat stiff, gripping her highlighter like it might calm the storm rising in her.
Because she knew what this meant. Jhoanna would disappear for six out of seven days, then show up on the last one with ideas so sharp they cut, quoting the story’s themes like she had them tattooed under her skin.
And somehow—somehow—they would get a 1.0.
Infuriating.
Unfair.
And something in Stacey's chest stirred anyway.
—
Later that afternoon, Jhoanna was in the library.
Stiff. In the corner. Looking like she was trying not to be seen, even though she was wearing a red hoodie and tapping her foot against the leg of the table like a nervous tell.
She looked like she was waiting for something.
Maybe a sign. Maybe a person.
Maybe a girl who hated her.
And then Stacey walked in—shoulder bag slung over one arm, a laptop hugged to her chest, and, bafflingly, a small, personal printer under the other.
Because apparently the printers in the library didn’t have the same “texture.” Whatever that meant.
Jhoanna saw her from the corner of her eye. She was pretending to be interested in the guy across the aisle who was highlighting an entire page of his Life and Works of Rizal reviewer. Yellow ink. Tip to edge.
“Nawawala ka ba?”
Jhoanna flinched. Looked up.
“Huh?”
Stacey stopped by her table, one eyebrow raised, lips tilted in a smirk.
“Ang tawag sa room na ’to… library,” she said sweetly. “Just in case di mo alam.”
Jhoanna blinked. “Ha-ha. Funny ka.”
Then they got to work. Or, well—Stacey did.
She laid out her things like she was conducting surgery.
Laptop—center. Notebook—left. Pen case—unzipped exactly halfway. Her personal printer was placed beside her seat, its cord already looped and ready.
Nothing more, nothing less. Everything lined up with the edge of the table. Like chaos couldn’t reach her if her margins were straight.
Then she sighed.
Rubbed her hands together once, twice, three times.
“Three times talaga, no?” Jhoanna said without looking up.
Stacey paused mid-rub. “Anong three times?”
“Ganyan ka kasi.” Jhoanna leaned back, now lazily rolling her highlighter under her palm. “You rub your hands together three times bago ka mag-focus. Tapos may pa buntong-hininga pa. Parang ritual.”
Stacey blinked at her.
That little twitch of surprise again. Like a crack through her usually perfect composure.
She didn’t respond.
Instead, she clicked her pen. Highlighted a phrase she’d already typed. Repositioned her laptop by exactly half an inch.
Jhoanna grinned.
And then she started making plane crash noises again, highlighter crashing into her ballpen in a dramatic reenactment of turbulence.
Still, Stacey said nothing.
Didn’t nag. Didn’t sigh dramatically. Didn’t even look her way when Jhoanna said things like:
“Sarap kumain ng hotcake sa labas.”
“Kumakain ka ba ng tokneneng?”
“Watermelon yang cologne mo, no?”
No response.
Stacey just kept typing.
Focused. Quiet. Annoyingly graceful even in frustration.
Jhoanna eventually stopped fidgeting and glanced at the screen. The title: Magnificence by Estrella Alfon – A Critical Analysis of Power, Gender, and Space.
She scanned the intro, some of Stacey’s body paragraphs. Clean prose, clear structure, almost clinical in its precision. Like she was building an argument with scalpels and measuring tape.
And then, so casually, Jhoanna said:
“‘And she moved with the quiet of a cat.’”
Stacey didn’t look up. Not at first.
“’Yung line na ’yon, akala ko kanina, ang tahimik lang talaga ng nanay. But it’s not just about being quiet. It’s control. Cats move when they want to. Hindi siya panic. Hindi siya fear. It's poise. Power.”
Stacey's fingers hovered mid-type.
Jhoanna went on, fingers lazily rolling the highlighter between her palms. “Tapos ’yung ilaw, ’the light thrown out of the living room’, di ba sabi mo metaphor siya for exposure? Pwede rin siyang armor. Parang, nung binuksan ng nanay ’yung ilaw, she wasn’t just exposing the guy. She was shielding her kids. She made sure everyone saw what she was capable of. That’s what magnificence is. Hindi siya loud. Pero solid.”
Slowly, Stacey looked up. Eyes narrowed. Studying.
“…You read it?” she asked.
Jhoanna yawned. “Kanina lang. Habang nag-aantay sa’yo.”
Another yawn. She went back to tapping the highlighter and ballpen together—quiet this time.
Less like a plane crash. More like a heartbeat.
2011
The bar was louder now. More crowded. The lights pulsed a little faster, synced with the bass of another club remix, “Till the World Ends” mashed with “Give Me Everything.”
Stacey reached for her drink, which was mostly ice now, and glanced toward the hallway that led to the ladies’ room.
And there she was.
Jhoanna Robles.
For a split second—just long enough to catch the red hoodie, the shape of her shoulders, that familiar way she stood like she was pretending not to wait for anyone.
Stacey’s heart did something ridiculous. Stopped, then lurched, then got confused halfway through the process.
She straightened.
But before she could move—before she could even decide to move—Jhoanna was gone.
Vanished.
Like a blink. Like a glitch.
Stacey kept her eyes on the door.
Waiting.
Watching.
But nothing.
Okay.
Maybe it wasn’t her.
Maybe it just looked like her.
Maybe her brain was playing tricks. Filling in the blanks with the one person she had rehearsed seeing a thousand times.
Because she wanted to get this over with.
She wanted to say hi. Cool, distant, not even a little invested.
She wanted to act composed, like her life was so full now, so mature, so healthy. Like she didn’t secretly burn a CD called “Robles Damage Control (Private).”
She wanted to win the breakup.
Whatever that meant.
Stacey sipped her watered-down drink and nodded along to something Gwen said. But her eyes stayed fixed on the hallway. Just in case it had been her. Just in case Jhoanna came back.
Just in case the moment wasn’t finished yet.
—
Jhoanna was crawling now.
Elbows grazing God-knows-what under this stranger's table, hands sticky from dried beer or soda or both. She was sweating through her red hoodie.
Which—now that she was stuck under furniture—she realized was a terrible choice.
But she didn’t wear it for comfort.
She wore it for her.
This was the hoodie Stacey kept trying to steal. The one she'd pull off Jhoanna’s back with that fake-innocent voice, "Akin na 'to ha, hindi mo naman ginagamit."
The same hoodie Stacey used to sleep in when Jhoanna wasn’t around. The one that still smelled like that watermelon cologne Stacey always over-sprayed, the one that stained the sleeves a little. The one that caught the scent of aloe-vera shampoo every time Stacey rested her head on her shoulder, post-shower, pretending not to be tired.
And now it just smelled like fear.
She crouched behind a chair. Someone bumped her by accident, “Ay sorry!” but didn’t notice her.
She had to do this.
She couldn’t just not see her.
She couldn’t not say something.
She rubbed her palms on her jeans. Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure the DJ could remix it. She shut her eyes and breathed deep.
Then she whispered to herself, fierce and trembling:
"Robles ka. Matapang ka. Tayo na."
And she stood.
Fast. Like ripping off a band-aid. Or a confession.
And when she did—
She saw Stacey looking.
Right at her.
No turning back now.
2007
Literature 2. The classroom was now a theatre.
Cartolina papers plastered on the walls to look like stone. Fake vines made of green crepe paper taped around windows. The stage was just the cleared front of the classroom, and the "spotlight" was a classmate with shaky hands and a flashlight the size of a rice cooker. The background music was always two seconds too late. “Bagal ng Winamp,” one classmate mouthed.
And there was Jhoanna. In a drawn-on mustache and a badly sewn 1500s costume that kept slipping off her shoulder. One sock higher than the other.
She stepped forward, the flashlight wobbling with her.
“To be or not to be… that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer—”
Backstage—literally just behind a curtain too short to hide anyone over 5'2"—Stacey was peeking. Arms crossed. Ready to make fun of her. She’d already opened her mouth for a snide comment.
But then she paused.
Jhoanna’s voice was lower now.
Serious.
Focused.
It should’ve made her laugh. That mustache alone should’ve done it. But something in Jhoanna’s eyes—steady, determined, a little scared but refusing to show it—made Stacey’s chest tighten in a way she didn’t have the vocabulary for yet.
She had never seen Jhoanna like this.
Not cracking a joke. Not teasing someone. Not fiddling with her shoelaces or skipping class or making fart sounds with her armpit.
She was acting. Not well. But with everything she had.
And it made Stacey feel things.
Not the usual irritation. Not that overwhelming urge to roll her eyes.
Just this quiet, almost stupid stillness in her chest. Like she could sit there, behind that too-short curtain, and listen to Jhoanna speak for the rest of her life.
—
The curtain flapped as Stacey stepped out. Her white dress was made from a cut-up old bedsheet, cinched at the waist with a ribbon stolen from a gift basket. Baby’s breath flowers—plastic, probably from a funeral arrangement—were pinned into her hair. She walked barefoot, slow, deliberate, stepping into her role as Ophelia like she was made for it.
And Jhoanna?
Forgot everything.
Her brain emptied in an instant.
The words she had been repeating for days.
The lines that came to her in tricycle rides, while brushing her teeth, even while eating champorado. Gone.
Gone.
She just stood there. Wooden sword in hand. Mouth half-open.
Stacey looked at her, unsure, but still very much in character. Her hands were clasped. Her expression was Ophelia—sad, dreamy, almost amused.
The spotlight hovered uneasily between them. Then stilled on Jhoanna.
But Jhoanna couldn’t speak.
Because Stacey—Stacey with her too-bright eyes, her lips painted a soft pink—was brighter than the goddamn flashlight.
"Jho?" a classmate whispered from behind the curtain.
But Jhoanna didn’t hear. Not really.
She blinked.
Stacey tilted her head slightly, like Ophelia waiting for Hamlet to respond.
And Jhoanna said the most embarrassing thing she could possibly say at that moment.
"...Hi."
2011
“Hi,” Jhoanna said.
Just like that.
One word.
Same smile.
Same brow movements.
Before Stacey could even open her mouth to respond, Aiah’ss voice cut through the air.
“Hubarin mo nga yang jacket mo, Jho! Ako naiinitan sa’yo, eh!”
Jhoanna groaned, rolled her eyes, and mumbled, “OA.”
But she grabbed the hem of her hoodie anyway, tugging it up over her head with that familiar slow laziness of hers.
And Stacey
God, she didn’t mean to stare.
She didn’t. It just happened.
Because as the hoodie lifted, so did Jhoanna’s undershirt.
Just a bit. A sliver.
But enough.
Enough for her stomach to show. Then her belly button.
Pierced.
What the hell?
Stacey blinked.
Looked away.
Then looked back.
Like the second glance would make it disappear. Like she’d imagined it.
She wasn't even into piercings. They always seemed like unnecessary maintenance. For what? Infection? Metal through skin? No, thank you. She’d even made fun of Maloi once for getting a second ear piercing—said it looked like her ear was sprouting antennae.
But now?
Here?
Jhoanna's belly button caught the light. A tiny glint of silver. Sharp, ridiculous, uncalled for.
And Stacey’s brain just—
shut down.
No, she thought. Absolutely not. This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t short-circuiting over a stupid piercing.
She wasn’t.
“Okay lang ako,” Jhoanna said, casually, to Aiah. “Sanayan lang 'yan.”
Then she turned to Stacey, lips twitching into a smirk. “Ano?”
Stacey looked up so fast her neck popped. “Wala!”
Too loud.
Too fast.
Jhoanna raised an eyebrow.
Stacey shook her head, blinked long and slow like she was restarting herself. “Nothing. I just—didn’t know you had… piercings now.”
“Just one,” Jhoanna said, clearly amused.
Stacey scoffed. “Cute,” she said, like it was an insult. Like she wasn’t seconds away from full meltdown.
This was fine. She was fine. This wasn’t anything.
It was just a belly button.
Just Jhoanna.
Just a hi that felt like being eighteen again and forgetting all your lines.
—
Aiah’s voice cut through the music. “Tangina, Stacey, kung tititigan mo pa 'yan ng mas matagal, baka mabuntis mo na si Jho.”
Stacey rolled her eyes, but she could feel her face heat up. She forced herself to look away—at the lights, at the crowd, at her drink. Anything but Jhoanna’s stomach.
But it was too late. Her brain had already gone down that spiral.
Back to the days when she tried to put limits on the chaos. The petty rules she made to feel in control of something as ridiculous as loving Jhoanna Robles.
Like that one time—when she refused to kiss her unless Jhoanna showed up in school for fifty consecutive weekdays. She kept count, even made a calendar. Colored it with highlighters. Drew stars. And when Jhoanna finally hit Day 36, groggy from a fever and barely awake in the back of the room, Stacey kissed her anyway.
Just once.
Quick.
Warm.
On the cheek.
Now, here they were. Years later. No more rules. No more highlighters. And yet—same problem.
Stacey was still trying not to kiss Jhoanna.
She was still trying not to fall harder.
Gwen’s voice cut through the moment. She stumbled into their circle with Maloi behind her, hair wild from the dance floor, eyeliner smudged.
“Na a-awkward ba kayo?” Gwen slurred dramatically.
Stacey snapped out of it.
—
Aiah, Gwen, and Stacey were laughing at something Maloi said. Jhoanna laughed too, though she didn’t really hear the joke.
And then, slowly, Stacey's cardigan started slipping. Inch by inch. Like it knew exactly what it was doing. Revealing her shoulders. Then her collarbones. She didn’t look at Jhoanna. Just kept laughing. Just kept repeating Maloi’s joke.
And Jhoanna was dying inside.
Those shoulders. Those collarbones. The birthmark behind her right clavicle that Jhoanna used to trace with her lips. The scent of that cardigan, a mix of laundry soap and Stacey's watermelon perfume. Kissing every inch of Stacey’s back in the morning. It all came flooding back to her in high definition.
Even now, one year after the breakup, she still had Stacey written all over her.
In the way she now organized her paper bills by color.
In the way she rubbed her hands thrice when she was nervous.
In the little traces of pink in every shirt she owned, even the ones she swore were black. Subtle enough to deny, obvious enough to feel stupid about.
There was a time Jhoanna thought she was the one with the upper hand. That she was the storm, and Stacey was just the one foolish enough to dance in the rain. But here she was, months later, swallowing laughter she didn’t feel, saying yes to party invites she would’ve declined, just for the chance to be close enough to hear Stacey laugh again.
She tried to sip her drink, but her hand was shaking. She told herself it was just the cold.
It wasn't.
It was Stacey. Stacey, with her back arched like that. Stacey, with that loud, open-mouthed laugh that always cracked halfway through. Stacey, glowing under the yellow lights like she had no idea someone in the room was quietly coming undone over her.
Jhoanna hated how easily Stacey could still make her feel like this.
Like she was eighteen again, like she didn’t know what to do with her hands, like she was two seconds away from saying something embarrassing just to get Stacey to look at her.
And she knew—she knew—that if Stacey turned her head right now, even just a little, even just enough to make eye contact, Jhoanna would melt into her seat and maybe never recover.
But Stacey didn’t turn.
She just laughed again.
And Jhoanna fell all over again, stupid and invisible.
-
Stacey didn’t look at Jhoanna.
She couldn’t.
She just laughed too loud at Maloi’s joke about a DJ and a priest stuck in a karaoke bar during a storm. Something about singing “Let’s Get It On” while waiting for the flood to go down. Classic Maloi nonsense.
Everyone cracked up. Even Aiah nearly spit out her drink.
Stacey clutched her beer like a lifeline. Pretended not to notice her cardigan slipping off one shoulder. Pretended not to feel the way Jhoanna’s gaze moved like slow water down her collarbone.
She reached to fix it—too late.
The damage was done.
Across the table, Gwen smirked. “Init ba, Stace? Baka gusto mo pa aircon?”
Stacey looked up, cheeks warm. “Tangina mo.”
“Oooh,” Maloi added, grinning. “Mainit ba yung bar, o yung titig ni Jho?”
Aiah elbowed her. “Behave ka.”
But even she was watching.
And still—Jhoanna hadn’t said a word.
She just sat there. Quiet.
Looking at Stacey like she was remembering her.
Stacey tried to laugh it off again, but her voice caught in her throat.
Because the truth was—
Jhoanna used to look at her like that all the time.
Like she was breakable. Holy. Some kind of miracle.
And Stacey, for a long time, believed it.
Until she didn’t.
She reached for her drink again. Her fingers missed. The glass tipped slightly before she caught it.
Jhoanna blinked—but didn’t move. Didn’t help.
Just watched. Just… stayed there.
Still. Like someone drowning quietly.
And Stacey hated that she noticed.
Hated even more that she wanted to.
2010
It was maybe their fifth or tenth fight of the day.
About the same thing. Always about the same thing.
The room was a mess. Half-packed luggage on the floor. Unread books. Cold takeout. A pair of earrings Stacey had been looking for since Monday.
A plane ticket was on the nightstand, printed and ready.
Jhoanna was leaving for Thailand. A nonprofit. A long-term assignment. A chance to start something real, she said.
“Ilang beses ko na bang sinabi,” Stacey said, arms crossed, voice already tired. “I’m not uprooting my life just for you, Jho.”
“Just for me?” Jhoanna shot back. “May offer naman din for you dun eh. Ready na lahat. Kailangan mo lang mag yes!”
“This is not about the offer! This is about what I want.” Stacey’s voice cracked slightly. “Ayokong iwan ‘yung lahat dito. May buhay ako dito, Jho.”
“Eh ako?” Jhoanna stepped forward. “Anong tingin mo sa’kin? Hindi ba ako part ng buhay mo?”
Stacey went silent.
And that was enough of an answer.
“Alam mo, kahit minsan lang,” Jhoanna continued, her voice lower now, trembling, “sana maramdaman ko rin na worth it ako para sa’yo. Sumugal ka naman.”
Stacey laughed bitterly, “Sugal? Tangina naman, Jho. Hindi mo alam lahat ng sinugal ko para sa’tin.”
“Edi sabihin mo. Sabihin mo ngayon!”
Stacey looked her straight in the eye.
“Just go.”
Jhoanna blinked. “Ano?”
“Pumunta ka sa Thailand. Magpakalayo-layo ka. Kung 'yun talaga ang gusto mo.” Her arms were still crossed, but her voice shook now. “Pero di ako sasama. Hindi mo ako pag-aari.”
Jhoanna stood there, frozen. Her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Stacey turned away first, walked to the window. “Ayoko nang pag-usapan ‘to. Pagod na ako, Jho.”
That was the night they broke up. No dramatic goodbye, no hug, no kiss.
Just Stacey saying, “Go.”
And Jhoanna doing exactly that.
2011
Stacey was driving them home.
In the backseat, Aiah, Gwen, and Maloi were slumped over each other, half-asleep and mumbling things that stopped making sense hours ago. One of them snored. Another one laughed in her sleep.
The radio was low. Stacey’s window was slightly open. A breeze drifted through the car, warm and soft, like it didn’t want to leave either.
Jhoanna sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, head leaning back, watching streetlights flicker past the windshield.
“So,” Stacey said, trying so hard to fill the silence. “Balik ka na ba dito for good?”
Jhoanna smiled.
Don’t ask me that.
But she answered anyway. “Hindi. Vacation lang ’to.”
Stacey nodded. Eyes on the road. Hands tightened on the steering wheel, just a little.
“Matagal ka na bang nandito?”
“Mga… two weeks na,” Jhoanna said, not looking at her. Just the window. Just the lights.
Silence.
The city blurred past them—convenience stores, sleeping dogs, a group of teenagers laughing too loudly on a corner.
Then Jhoanna asked, softly, almost like she didn’t mean to, “Masaya ka ba dito?”
Stacey breathed out through her nose.
“Oo,” she said. “Ikaw? Masaya ka ba sa Thailand?”
Jhoanna didn’t answer right away. Just pressed her lips together. Took a long breath.
“Very.”
And that was that.
They didn't speak again after that.
No dramatic fallouts. No ‘take care’ speeches. Just silence—final and mutual, like they both agreed not to say the things that would make it harder.
But even now, Stacey still folded her socks the way Jhoanna taught her—rolled tight, toes tucked in like a secret. She still kept a bottle of the watermelon cologne Jhoanna loved so much. She still peeled her apples in one long curl, the way Jhoanna used to do on slow mornings, cross-legged on the kitchen floor, back when they thought routine meant forever.
And Jhoanna still rinsed her mouth with that green, minty brand Stacey liked, even though she always found it too strong. Still remembered not to run in pedestrian lanes, because Stacey mentioned it once. Still slept on the left side of the bed, even in hotel rooms. Still reached for Stacey’s laugh in crowded rooms whenever someone told a stupid joke.
They moved on.
Of course they did.
New lives. New lovers. New countries. But in quiet, invisible ways, they never unlearned each other.
Maybe some people just stay in your posture. In how you argue. In how you make eggs. In how you look at someone else and think—no, not like that.
And it’s not tragic. Not really.
It’s just what happens when someone becomes your standard without even trying.
When you’re okay.
You’re good.
You’re better, maybe.
But never quite that good again.