Archive of Our Own

They pay me to be them—to make it sound like love.

Hindi naman ako nag-iinarte, ang pera ay pera. If it puts food and gives me money, hindi ko na konsensiya kung sino ang lolokohin at sino ang magpapaloko. All I know, I am writing in someone else's voice, pretending they are the ones behind writing, and masking other people's sincerity. I can make me look like you, but I doubt otherwise. 

I'm not even sure anymore if I remember how I sound. My words have been split, copied, and rearranged so many times that I've learned to talk like lovers who never wrote their first poem. I've learned to cry like men who never had the guts to say sorry in person. I've memorized the pacing of hesitation, the cruelty of honest sentences, the echo of "I'll always love you" even when it's a lie.

I even learned to make a promise for politicians who couldn't contain their lies so they paid me to write their speech. They couldn't afford to keep their mouths shut, but everyone knows they never meant a single word they said. Iyan pinakamadaling trabaho, sa totoo lang. Political lies don't try to be beautiful. They don't try to sound like forever. They just need to sound smart enough to be believed, and short enough to be forgotten.

Kasi ang mga tao, madaling mauto—so it's easy for me to craft words. Minsan nakakakonsensiya, pero kung uunahin kong maawa, baka ako ang kaawaan nila sa lamay kapag wala na akong makain. 

The hardest one I did so far was a eulogy for a grandmother who passed away. Hindi lang daw niya kaya dahil baka raw humagulhol siya habang nagbabasa. Baka raw matigil siya sa gitna't matawa, o mas masahol pa—baka walang maramdaman ang mga nakikinig. So I did the honor, on his behalf, I carefully curated words like "Mahal na mahal kita, Lola. Salamat sa lahat" kahit na hindi ko alam kung mahal nga ba niya. Hindi niya rin naman binasa. Isang kamag-anak niya 'yong nagsalita, at ang ginawa lang niya buong misa ay mag-cellphone sa likod.

That night, I stayed up writing letters that didn't have names. I wrote them just to see if I could still tell the truth when no one's asking. Alam mo 'yon, just to check if my own voice still sounded like something I could recognize.

But to be honest, kahit ako hindi ko na alam kung alin sa mga salitang iyon ang akin. Kasi sa sobrang dami ng beses kong nilagyan ng "mahal kita" ang bibig ng ibang tao, hindi ko na alam kung may natira pa sa sarili ko para sabihin 'yon nang totoo.

And maybe I would've lived with that, maybe I would've been fine ghostwriting promises, apologies, and wedding vows for strangers until death. I could've stomached the anonymity, the loneliness, and the fact that every beautiful word I write will never have my name under it.

"Minghao." I looked up and saw Mingyu standing at the edge of my table, smiling like he didn't know if he was allowed to call my name in silence. Wala, e. Nasanay na kaming tahimik. He still looked like the boy who used to pull me away from hallway fights back in college. Advantage na niyang matangkad siya, natatakot agad mga kaaway namin kahit wala pa kaming ginagawa. Ako nasa likod lang niya palagi, naghihintay ng chance kung kailan pwede na sumabat. Alam ni Mingyu na hindi ako confrontational na tao, kaya siya agad ang lumalaban.

"Hao, grabe, hirap kang hanapin. What the fuck." He dropped a paper bag on my desk and sat down, hindi ko alam kung totoong galit na ba 'to o sobrang nag-aalala lang siya "Kumain ka muna. Baka mamatay ka naman? Ulam 'yan, galing kay Wonwoo. Nilutuan ka pa ng asawa ko, kainin mo 'yan o susubo ko sa bibig mo."

Hindi na rin naman ako nakipagtalo. I just nodded and looked at the bag like it wasn't food, ewan, kahit ano yata iharap mo sa akin ay mahihirapan ako tignan sa mata, kung meron man. Itong dala ni Mingyu, ganoon din, it wasn't actually that lonely to look at, more like suspicious, like guilt. I could already imagine Wonwoo standing in his kitchen again, trying and cooking kahit nasugatan siya the last time he cooked a proper meal, probably not saying a word even when Mingyu insisted he bring the food to me.

"You've been ghosting everyone," Mingyu said, and laughed at his own bad joke. "Gets mo? Ghost…writing…ghosting?"

"Ang corny mo pa rin pala," I mumbled.

"Pero totoo, na-miss ka namin, gago." He said it so easily. Mingyu could drop affection into a sentence without choking. I used to envy him for that. One of the reasons why people love Mingyu is because he blends in easily, so people won't be worried about their voice being lost in translation.

"Wala lang akong energy," I said. "Busy ako."

"Sa lies?"

What a jerk. 

Mingyu leaned back on the chair and watched me like he wanted to figure something out, or maybe I don't know, really, maybe he already figured something. He had that face—sanay na sanay na ako sa mukha niyang iyan. Too intuitive for someone who pretended he wasn't smart.

"You're still doing that thing?" he asked. "Ghostwriting stuff for people who don't know how to say shit?"

"Pays better than honesty." He laughed, sarcastically."Alam mo, Hao, minsan iniisip ko, hindi ka ba napapagod?"

"Sa alin?"

"Sa 'yo." That one hit differently. Siguro dahil he didn't mean it to hurt—nag-aalala lang talaga siya. Hindi ko na lang siya sinagot. Instead, I just opened the paper bag: Tuyo at Sinangag. It smelled like someone still remembered I existed. If today's not like this, I would go to their condo and hug Wonwoo for cooking this for me.

"You know," he said, standing up, "you can write for everyone else all you want, Minghao. Pero at some point, you're gonna have to write for yourself."

"Baka 'di ko na nga kilala sarili ko."

He smiled, sad and resigned. "Baka nga."

"May balita kay Jun?" Mingyu asked as if he couldn't find a more casual way to talk about that man, but words are removing themselves out of my system. 

Before I can even speak, my phone buzzed and cut the conversation. Tangina, salamat. Sa totoo lang, hindi ko agad pinansin, akala ko isa lang sa regular spam o delivery confirmation, but the second buzz had that kind of urgency that makes your skin itch. So I flipped the phone over: Unknown Number.

I let it ring. Wala rin namang pakialam si Mingyu from whatever video he was watching.

"New client?" he asked, casual.

"Probably a scam."

"Sana hindi. Mukha ka na kayang scam victim." I gave him a dry look, picked up the phone, and walked to the window. Curious—hoping it was just someone trying to sell a condo again. Ayoko muna magsulat.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this... Mr. Minghao?" The voice was soft—young woman, formal tone. Kung ide-describe ko, para lang siyang taong lumaki sa bahay na hindi pwedeng magtaas ng boses.

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"I—uh. I got your number from a friend. He said you helped him write... a breakup letter?" Ah. Of course. The infamous referrals. People too chicken to break a heart themselves, but with just enough money to hire someone else to do the bleeding for them.

"Okay," I said. "What do you need?" I could hear her breath catch a little.

"I need to propose."

I blinked. "As in... marriage?"

"No. Business."

I turned slightly. Mingyu looked at me, eyebrows raised. He probably got hooked when I said the word marriage, I mouthed, proposal, weird.

She continued, more calm this time, as if she practiced this part in front of the mirror. "It's for a startup. A pitch siguro? But I want it to sound like... like a love letter. I need investors to fall in love with the idea. I heard you're good at that."

A pitch that sounds like a love letter. That's new.

"I charge extra for metaphors," I said, dry as hell. She gave a small, nervous laugh. "I can afford it."

"Okay. Send me the details through email," I said.

"Okay. Thank you. I'm sorry if I disturbed—" I ended the call before she could finish the sentence. Hindi naman siguro kabastusan 'yon? I already heard what I needed.

When I turned around, Mingyu was grinning. "Let me guess. May nagpapasulat ulit sa 'yo ng wedding vow na hindi niya kayang basahin?"

"Business proposal," I muttered, sinking back into my seat. "Gusto niya parang love letter daw."

He blinked at me, then broke into that short, disbelieving laugh of his."Teka, what the fuck does that even mean? As in like… 'Dear Investors, I love you?'"

"Parang gano'n na rin siguro," I said, rubbing my temples. "She said she wants people to fall in love with the idea."

"Ang sakit sa ulo no'n," he said, stretching his arms. Hindi ko rin maintindihan kung bakit sarili nilang business, hindi nila alam paano ipaglaban."Kaya mo 'yon?"

"Wala namang hindi ko nagawa," I said. It came out more bitter than braggy. "I even made a twenty-year marriage sound like a fairytale when the husband cheated four times. I made a son sound devastated when he didn't even attend his dad's funeral. Compared to those, this is easy."

This time, Mingyu actually didn't laugh. Tumulala na lang siya ulit, with that look I know since we were a child. Palagi niya 'yang ginagawa when he was worried but didn't want to make it obvious.

"Hindi ka ba napapagod, Hao?"

I looked at him. Laughed a little, patawa, e."Pagod saan?"

"Sa lahat. Sa pagsisinungaling. Sa pagtanggap ng trabaho na walang connect sa puso mo. Sa pag-aakalang hindi halata." I turned my face away, because it was obvious. Even now. Even with the jokes. Even with the sarcasm. Mingyu always knew. Alam ni Mingyu.

"Hindi mo gets, Gyu," I said quietly. "This is the only thing I know how to do na may bayad. I write things people can't say. Minsan kasi wala silang vocabulary. Minsan wala silang balls for that. Either way, ako ang nagbabayad ng presyo ng totoo."

"Hindi mo kailangang magsinungaling para mabuhay."

"Sino may sabi?" I looked at him again, eyes stinging a little. "Kasi kung kaya ko maging totoo, matagal ko na ginawa. Pero hindi lahat ng tao may luxury na 'yon. Some of us don't get to have a voice and keep it. I sold mine. That's how I eat."

He just nodded quietly. Hindi niya alam paano babaliin ang matagal ko nang nilibing. 

"Anong pitch ng girl?" he asked eventually.

"I don't know, mag-e-email pa lang siya."

"Cute ba boses niya?"

I rolled my eyes. "You're still a jerk," he just laughed and breathe heavily before saying a word. "Eh baka naman siya na 'yon."

"Siya ang?"

"Someone who will make you realize you're still capable of love." I gave a short laugh. "I don't even remember how to write love unless someone's paying me to do it. Alam mo ba, minsan, kahit sa journal ko, sinusulat ko na parang client ako? Like I'm trying to convince myself I'm alive or I still have a voice."

He stared at me long enough that I had to look away first. Then he walked to my desk and tapped the paper bag he brought earlier.

"That's why we keep showing up, kahit ghost mode ka," he said. "Not because we're waiting for you to write back, pero kasi we're scared you'll forget na may mga tao pa ring nagsusulat pabalik kahit hindi bayad."

What do you even say to that?

He picked up his keys. "Kainin mo 'yan. Pinagluto ka ni Wonwoo. Susupalpalin talaga kita kapag hindi mo kinain."

"Sabihin mo salamat."

"Hindi mo kaya i-text?"

"Wala akong words."

"Bullshit. Meron ka. Ayaw mo lang gamitin pag sarili mo na ang kausap."

He left before I could reply. The door clicked shut.

And just like that, I was alone again—surrounded by the smell of cold garlic rice and the heavy silence of a blinking inbox. Somewhere out there, a stranger wanted to turn capitalism into poetry. And I, once again, would be the ghost who made it sound like love.

Hindi ko kinain agad ang dala ni Gyu na niluto raw ni Wonwoo. I just sat there, staring at the tuyo like it owed me something—an apology, maybe, or a a prayer. I didn't know anymore what things were supposed to mean. Maybe nothing meant anything now unless I was paid to explain it.

The inbox pinged.

Subject: Pitch Letter

I opened it half-heartedly, expecting vague bullet points and Pinterest-style business dreams, but what stared back at me was a PDF file with the name "RE: To the One Who Might Believe."

It wasn't a proposal. It was a goddamn essay.

I want to start something that people can feel. Something stupid, probably. I don't know the right words, alam ko lang ano dapat nila ma-feel while reading my message. 

I just need help saying it the right way kasi hindi ako magaling sa salita. Also, I heard you were good at making strangers sound like they know what they're doing.

I reread it three times, it was honest—and that made it harder on my part. 

Because now I couldn't lie.

I stared at the ceiling, and I don't know what came over me, but I started talking out loud like maybe hearing myself speak would help me remember what I used to sound like before I started mimicking heartbreaks for hire.

"I think," I said softly, to no one, "I've spent too long decorating pain that I forgot how to let it just exist."

It felt pathetic, hearing my own voice try to sound poetic. Parang ako na lang ang 'di naniniwala sa sarili ko. Ako na lang 'yong hindi convinced. Ang ironic, 'no? I could make grief sound sacred. I could make betrayal sound like destiny. I could make apologies sound like art.

But I couldn't tell my own friends I missed them.

I should've smiled. I should've felt lucky, but instead, I felt like choking because the guilt of being remembered is heavier than the pain of being forgotten.

I whispered, "Dear investors," then backspaced it.

No.

No more letters that aren't mine.

A new email came three hours later, but I didn't open it right away. I stared at the subject line:

Subject: [Proposal Draft Request - A. Lee]

I stared at it for twenty minutes before closing the tab. I had my fingers hovering above the keyboard for most of it, pretending I was about to start meant I still had control over when I'd lose myself again.

Ayoko munang magsulat ngayon, especially not tonight. Not while Mingyu's words were still stuck in my head, not when Wonwoo's food was still unfinished beside a blinking cursor, and definitely not when I was already too tired to separate my voice from someone else's.

I stood up. Moved around the room like I was looking for something—purpose, maybe.

And then the door buzzed.

I thought maybe it was Mingyu again. He's done that before—magkukunwaring may nakalimutan like he forgot his charger or wallet or something stupid just so he could check if I really ate. I dragged my feet to the intercom without thinking.

"Who is it?"

"...It's Jun."

Jun. 

Fucking hell.

"Can I come up?"

I should've said no. I should've pretended I wasn't home, but my hand moved before my brain did. The door unlocked with a tired buzz, and by the time I stepped back, the door had already begun humming.

Jun.

What do you do when someone you've erased still knows how to find you?

He looked the same when the door slid open—same loose shoulders, same clean haircut, same eyes that always looked like they already knew what you were about to say, but he wasn't smiling. Now, pakiramdam ko hindi ko na siya mabasa.

And I hated that. I hated that I used to know every version of his face, and now, I had to guess.

"Hey," he said. His voice still made something inside me go still.

"Hey," I replied, trying not to let it show.

He stepped inside. I didn't offer him a seat because he already knew where everything was. He stood by the kitchen counter and didn't touch anything like he was afraid the past would spill.

"Long time," he said.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"How have you been?"

The question felt stupid. Empty. A formality. Kaya hindi ako sumagot, I just looked at him with the kind of silence that asked, "Why are you really here?"

He got the message.

"I heard you've been writing proposals now," he said softly.

"Word gets around?"

“Mingyu talks a lot.”

"Figured." I sat back down in my chair, pretending to work, but all the blood in my fingers had gone cold. "So what do you want, Jun?"

He flinched a little.

"I didn't come here to fight."

"Good because I'm tired."

Paulit-ulit na katahimikan. I didn't even have the eyes to look at him. That's why I cannot describe how he looks right now. 

"I can see that." He looked at me, and for a second, I remembered what it felt like to be seen without performance. "You look like shit."

Jun walked over to the table, and sat across from me. No permission asked. "I came here because I read something," he said. Hindi ko na tinanong kung ano. He pulled out a piece of folded paper from his pocket.  

"You wrote this for someone else, I know. A breakup letter, but I read it, and I thought fuck, this sounds like you."

"It's not."

"I know. That's what scared me."

I closed my eyes. Just for a second. "You sound more like other people than yourself now," he said.

"I get paid to."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what do you mean, Jun?" I snapped. "What? That I'm some kind of fraud now? That I sold out?"

"No," he said, gentler than I wanted him to be. "I think you're been gone a while, Hao, and no one noticed because you kept talking."

I looked at him. Hard. "Why are you really here?"

"Hindi ko alam," he said finally. "Maybe I was stupid enough to think you'd still be you."

"Well," I said, "surprise."

Tumawa lang si Jun. Wala naman siyang magagawa. "You're not angry anymore. That's new."

"I'm too tired to be angry," I said. "Congratulations, Jun. You came back to a ghost."

He blinked. "That's the thing. You're not a ghost. Nandito ka pa naman, but you've wrapped yourself in so many versions of other people, hindi ko na nga alam kung kilala mo pa sarili mo."

That hit something. A nerve I thought I'd buried.

"Do you still write for yourself, Hao?"

I hesitated. Then shook my head. "No."

"Do you want to?"

Jun watched me for a second, like he wanted to reach for me but didn't know where to start. "You used to write with so much clarity," he said. "Like every sentence came from a place you couldn't fake. You made me feel like truth had a voice, na hindi man maganda, palagi namang totoo."

"Well, now I make things pretty. I give people closure they don't deserve and stories they didn't live. I speak in voices I've never met, and I do it better than anyone else."

"That's what worries me," Jun said. "That you're too good at it." He stood up slowly, like he was testing whether I'd stop him. At the door, he paused. 

"If you ever remember how to write without hiding inside someone else's name…"

He met my eyes.

"...let me be the first one you write to."

And then he left.

Again but this time, I couldn't even be angry because the worst part was he still sounded like someone who used to know me before I was paid to be other people.

And I didn't know if I was more scared of the fact that he could still see me or the fact that I couldn't see myself anymore.

Minsan iniisip ko, kung hindi ako nagsusulat ng para sa iba, may matitira pa kaya para sa sarili ko?

I once wrote a wedding vow for a woman who was three months away from calling her fiancé a stranger. She gave me their love story like it was a recipe—complete with measurements and flavor notes: First met sa coffee shop, nag-crush agad, three years in love, no major fights, same Spotify playlists. She said, "Make it sound forever."

So I did. I made her sound devoted. Made her words curl at the ends like she was speaking in poems even when she never liked poetry. She said "thank you" after—cried a little while reading it sa ceremony. Everyone said it was beautiful.

Two months later, she emailed me again. Same name. Different request.

"Can you write me a goodbye that sounds like peace?"

Peace.

You'd be surprised how many people pay for peace, like it's something you can buy per paragraph. Like it comes with formatting and bullet points. I wrote that too. Made her sound calm, collected, like the heartbreak was mature, mutual, and even necessary. I cleaned up her mess in metaphors. She ghosted him, and I was the parting gift.

She never even paid the second invoice. Hindi na rin ako nag-follow up. I kept telling myself that I don't care.

Pero minsan, sa gabi, 'pag wala na akong sinusulat at wala na ring tumatawag, I catch myself rereading old files. Breakup letters. Apologies. Thank-you speeches. Last-minute confessions for someone too scared to say "I love you" face to face.

Lahat ng 'yon, ako ang nagsulat. Lahat ng 'yon, hindi ako ang sinabihan, and that's why I am so tired. I save my honesty for strangers now. It's safer, to be honest. Mas madaling panindigan ang katotohanan kung hindi ikaw ang may-ari nito. Mas madaling magsinungaling kung hindi mo kailangan panagutan ang epekto.

Minsan may sumulat sa akin—one-liner lang, no backstory, no attachments:

Can you write something that'll make her stay?

I stared at that line for hours.

I don't even know what's more painful—na kailangan niyang itanong 'yon, o na hindi ko alam kung kaya ko pa siyang sagutin.

Because maybe I've spent so long writing people back into relationships they shouldn't return to, na hindi ko na alam paano magsulat ng dahilan para piliin ang sarili mo.

Maybe I've become too fluent in fiction to be fluent in healing, and maybe that's what this is—what I've become. A person who knows how to say the right things, but only it's not my mouth speaking.

And I wonder if someday, someone will pay me to write the truth. Not theirs but mine. I wonder if, by then, may matitira pa akong salita para sa sarili ko, or if I've already ghostwritten myself out of existence.

The knock came again the next week, but this time, I didn't check who it was. I already knew. 

Jun was leaning against the same hallway wall like last time, pretending the air wasn't heavy between us. He looked at me like he hoped I'd forgotten everything inconvenient about him.

"Wanna walk?" he said, voice small.

"Sure," I said, because I'm not good at saying no to people I once memorized.

The city was pretending it wasn't breaking down. Streetlights flickering, dust kicking up every few steps. Same route. Same neighborhood. He kept walking one step ahead of me. Para bang hindi niya alam kung sumusunod ba ako o lumilihis na ng daan. 

"Nagsusulat ka pa?" he asked.

I scoffed. "You think I stopped?"

"I mean… for you."

I looked at him. "Did I ever?"

He went quiet after that. We reached this old convenience store, the one near the corner with the orange sign that never turned off, even in daylight. He asked if I wanted ice cream so I said yes, even though I didn't. Sometimes sugar is just something to hold.

We sat by the sidewalk. Plastic spoons. Melted vanilla. He kept checking his phone like someone was expecting him.

I watched him while he wasn't looking. He still looked at me the same way. Eyes soft, like he was seeing me instead of the idea of me, but the way he talked? Parang may script or deadline. Every word felt calculated like he was working up to a thesis or maybe preparing something to say. 

Hindi na naman para magtanong pa, hindi na rin para sirain pa, but it was already ruined the moment I started hoping this was about me again.

So I said it, half a joke and half a dare.

"Are you dying or getting married? 'Cause it's always those two reasons why people look for me."

He stilled.

Then, barely above the hum of the street:

"…The second one."

Oh shit. 

I didn't get it at first or maybe my body refused to understand. I turned to look at him, hindi na siya nakangiti. He's just holding his spoon with his ice cream untouched. 

"The second one," he repeated, softer this time.

I laughed. Like a fucking idiot. Tumawa na para bang narinig ko ang pinaka-unexpected na joke sa balat ng lupa.

"Bullshit," I said, but my voice cracked at the end. I could feel it. That split-second when everything inside me just gave up trying to hold its shape.

"You really came all the way back just to tell me you're getting married?" He looked at me, almost guilty like he wanted to say no, pero hindi niya maitulak palabas 'yong kasinungalingan.

"You could've sent a fucking postcard, Jun. Or a text. Or nothing at all. Mas matatanggap ko pa."

"I wanted to see you," he said.

"Why? So you could feel less guilty about writing me out of your life?" His eyes fell to his shoes. "You know what I do for a living, Jun? Do you remember?" I laughed again, that same bitter, corner-of-the-mouth kind that didn't even reach my throat anymore.

"You know what, whatever. I just hope by then, may matira pa akong salita para sa sarili ko. Kasi you know what the fucked-up part is?" I said, my voice shaking now from years—years—of holding this in. "It's not just that you're getting married. It's not even that you came back just to tell me."

He looked at me, eyes wide, waiting. "It's that I still fucking hoped you'd come back for me."

Tangina, lumabas na.

"That maybe this was the part where you say sorry. Where you finally admit that you left me because it was easier to live a life that didn't include the parts of you I loved too loud."

Hindi ko na siya hinahayaang magsalita. For the first time, ako muna.

"You remember the first piece I ever wrote about love?" I asked. "Back in college? The one about the boy who never says what he means, and the boy who always says too much?"

He nodded. Barely.

"That was us, Jun. That's always been us. You, with your quiet exits. Me, with my stupid, bleeding mouth."

I laughed again, sharp and ugly. "You know why I never wrote about us after you left? Not once? Because there's nothing poetic about being abandoned by the only person who ever made you believe you were real."

He flinched.

"You made me real. Do you understand that? I was twenty when you left. Twenty. I was still learning how to talk about love without stuttering. I still believed that being chosen once meant being chosen always."

I don't even know what gotten in me to be able to let out these words. Is this the peace they're talking about?

"You broke that in me." I pointed at my chest, furious now, raw in the way that only grief can be when it's been waiting years to scream. "You were the first person I ever wrote honestly for. Not for payment. The late-night poems, the short stories you never read, the one-liners I never posted 'cause I was scared you'd know it was about you. And you? You left. Just one day, poof, you were gone. Ni hindi ko alam paano sumulat pagkatapos no'n, I kept trying. God, I tried. Every client, every voice, every fake love story—they all started sounding like you. And none of them ended well."

I stepped back, as if putting distance between me and the weight of everything I just said would keep me from collapsing.

"I became a ghostwriter because being invisible felt safer than being seen and forgotten again."

Jun finally opened his mouth. "Hao—"

"No. No, you don't get to say my name like that anymore. Not when you only remember it when you need something from me."

He looked like he was about to cry.

"Do you know what it's like to spend years telling other people's truths while your own just rots inside you?" I whispered. "To make strangers sound beautiful and wanted, when the last person who really knew you left you behind like a typo? Alam mo ba 'yon, Jun?"

He tried again. "I didn't know how to stay."

"Then you shouldn't have asked me to believe you could."

I felt my chest give out. Like everything I'd been holding together with duct tape and drafts and caffeine had finally unraveled. "You left me, Jun, and I built a life around that leaving. I made it my profession. My identity. My craft."

I wiped my face, furious that I was crying. "And now you're here talking about marriage like that doesn't split me open in places I spent years sewing shut. Kaya sana hindi ka na lang bumalik. Sana naisip mo na hindi na lang sirain. Don't ruin this more than you already have, Jun. Go marry her. Be happy. But don't you ever come back again thinking I'm still the person who will clean up your feelings for you."

I took a breath that felt like it cost something.

"I buried the version of me that loved you. Don't make me dig him up just so you can feel okay about moving on."

The week after Jun told me he was getting married, I cleaned my apartment like something inside me needed to be scrubbed too. I changed my sheets, did the dishes, took out the trash bags I'd been ignoring. I even vacuumed under the couch, found a pen I lost months ago and a receipt from a bookstore I didn't remember visiting. Naglinis lang para makalimot, people do that when they're trying not to cry, or maybe when they already are.

I didn't open any new emails that week, I just kept pressing "Mark as unread" over and over like I could make time wait.

Work came in anyway, like it always does. New clients, same tired voices. One woman wanted me to write a birthday letter to her husband, but "make it sound like we're still in love, kahit hindi na kami okay." Another wanted a breakup message that was gentle, but "not too honest kasi ayoko pa siyang saktan, kahit gusto ko na talaga."

I wrote them all. I sent the drafts. I made them feel like they meant what they were saying, even when they didn't. I made it beautiful. I always do.

And then there was Gyu.

He showed up at my apartment with pancit canton and yakult like it was a national emergency. "Para kang gago, you're ghosting again," he said, pushing the door open with his foot. "Did you die? I need a fucking sign if you're gonna die."

I just rolled my eyes and let him in. "Want to talk about it?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Okay. Want to pretend I'm not here while you do that stupid 'I'm fine' routine you always do?"

"Yep."

"Cool."

We ate in silence, slurping noodles and sharing one yakult bottle between us because he forgot to buy two. He never asked again. That's what I like about Gyu—he doesn't make you say anything you don't want to, but he sits close enough so that when you finally break, you're not alone.

Eventually, I started working again—editing, cleaning up other people's drafts, even helping this one friend storyboard a short film. I accepted a last-minute commission from an old professor who wanted me to help craft a eulogy. He said it was for a friend who died too early, too sudden. He didn't give me any photos or voice notes, just bullet points: "Used to be a teacher. Had a laugh that made people stop in their tracks. Loved sunflowers."

I turned it into three paragraphs. It made the priest cry.

Maybe that's the curse—I'm good at goodbyes. Good at turning grief into language. Sometimes I wonder if that's why Jun came back to use me because he knew I was the only person who could make his lie sound like forever.

The truth is, after that afternoon, he didn't text. No "thank you" or "sorry."

I kept waiting anyway.

I'd stare at my phone for hours, remembering his last words. "The second one." Over and over like it was a punchline I still didn't get.

I woke up, opened my window, and sat on the floor with my laptop. A new client had messaged—a wedding vow request, again. "Make it sound like I know what love is," she wrote. I laughed bitterly because I don't either. I just write it well.

So I opened a new document, cracked my knuckles, and got to work.

I'm still here, I guess. Still writing and pretending. Still folding other people's words into something they can live with.

Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's all I'll ever get.

And then—weeks later, just when I was learning how to exist in silence again, the email came.

Subject: Wedding Invitation.

From: Wen Junhui

No message body.

Just an attachment.

And for the first time in years, I couldn't open the file. I couldn't even breathe.

He really meant it. He's really getting married. 

Gyu came over the next night, barely knocking. He had his usual box of takeout—spicy tteokbokki, two kimbaps, one order of odeng that always came with more broth than sticks. Alam niyang gutom na gutom ako kahit hindi ko sinasabi.

"May client ka ba ngayon?" he asked, placing the food on the table without waiting for me to answer. I shook my head. "Naka-schedule sila for next week. Mostly love letters."

He raised a brow. "Ibig sabihin, pwede kang makinig sa reklamo ko habang kumakain?"

"What are you even saying? I'm always listening to your drama. Hindi lang halata kasi hindi ako nagsa-soundtrack ng iyak mo." He grinned, the kind of grin that used to make my week back when I still believed I deserved to laugh freely. We ate in silence for a while, both of us poking at our food more than we actually ate it. Gyu always had this way of making the quiet feel like background music instead of tension. 

But that was the thing about friends—you think they're not paying attention, then they say something that splits you open.

"Bakit mo tinanggap?" he asked, out of nowhere.

Right. 

It took me a second. "Ang alin?" He looked at me, really looked this time. "Jun."

I tried to laugh it off, but my throat felt like paper. "Sino nagsabi sa 'yo?"

"Jun messaged me," he said, voice even. "Asked if I still hang out with you. I told him to fuck off and he told me why he's back." I set my chopsticks down. Hindi ko kaya. Biglang naging masikip at maliit ang kwarto. 

"So why?" he pressed, this time softer. "Bakit mo tinanggap?"

I stared at the table, at the kimbap eaten in its plastic tray. "Because he asked."

"Putangina naman, Hao," he snapped, out of I don't know, something closer to heartbreak. "After everything?"

"He didn't do anything wrong," I said, my voice barely steady. "Not really." 

Gyu leaned back. "He left you like you were an extra chapter, bigla kang iniwan like you were a draft version of something better. Tapos walang ginawang masama?"

I clenched my jaw. "I'm used to that."

"Still, bakit mo kailangang tanggapin ang wedding invitation?" he asked, almost begging now. "Mind you, wala pa kaming natatanggap. What game is that? Bakit ikaw pa?"

"Do you still love him?" he asked, gently.

I looked at him. "Do you really need to ask?" 

In that silence, I wanted to scream. I wanted to say everything that burned in my throat. That Jun had left without saying goodbye, just vanished like I was something to grow out of. That I spent months writing love letters for people who didn't even know what love cost—because I needed to feel something, anything, even if it wasn't mine. That the words I gave others were bleeding out of me, one sentence at a time, and I didn't know how to get them back.

But of course, wala ako sinabi ni isa sa mga 'yan.

I just said, "Maybe watching him get married is the only way I'll finally get to say goodbye." Gyu's face softened, and his eyes dropped to the table. "You don't have to bleed for someone who already called you closure."

It was almost 1:17 AM when the message came in.

I remember that exact time because I had just saved my fourth letter for the day—a soft breakup note for a girl named Em, who wanted to tell her girlfriend she loved her but couldn't keep holding on anymore. She said, "I don't want to sound cruel. I just want her to know that I waited," and so I spent thirty minutes choosing words that didn't sound like knives but still bled when read out loud.

I should've stopped after that.

Pero alam mo 'yong pakiramdam na kapag huminto ka, maririnig mo na 'yong sarili mong humihinga? Tapos kapag narinig mo na siya, sunod-sunod na lahat? The silence. The weight. The memories you thought you already buried with the drafts you never sent?

I didn't want that. I didn't want to hear myself again.

So I was closing tabs one by one, already imagining the silence of my room once the fan's hum was all that's left—when the ping came in.

Subject: Wedding Vows (Confidential)

Usually, I ignore midnight messages. Lalo na 'yong walang pangalan, walang context, walang kahit anong palatandaan kung sinong tao ang gusto na namang magtago sa sarili niyang salita. Lalo na kapag 'yong subject line feels vague and ominous at the same time. But this one felt deliberate.

My hands went cold. Patay naman ang aircon, pero para bang tumigil 'yong dugo sa mga daliri ko. As if my body already knew something my brain hadn't caught up to yet.

And then I read it.

Hi. I was told you ghostwrite things like this. I need help writing wedding vows. I want it to feel soft or sincere? Nothing too dramatic. I just want something that'll make him feel like I see him. Like I've always seen him.

He means a lot to me, but I'm not good with words. You are. I just want it to be right. I hope you're available. This means a lot.

I stared at the screen.

"…like I've always seen him."

I let the cursor hover over the message—not clicking anything. May sumikip sa dibdib ko na hindi ko maipaliwanag. Hindi ako sigurado kung gutom lang ba, kung pagod, kung puyat, or grief na naman. The kind that knocks quietly, sits at the foot of your bed, then leaves without saying goodbye.

I read it again.

And again.

By the third read, I was sure.

Tangina. I knew that voice. Kahit wala siyang boses. I knew the cadence. I knew the way the message tried not to sound too much—pero sinasadyang tamaan. I knew the way she said "I've always seen him" like it was a confession and a promise all at once.

It wasn't a stranger.

It was her.

Solana.

The girl from the photos I refused to zoom in on. The name I never said out loud. The one person I told myself I wouldn't think about again—not because of who she was, but because of who she had.

Jun.

I leaned back in my chair, slowly, para hindi marinig 'yong paghinga ko. As if being quiet would make it less real. As if silence could protect me from something I already saw coming.

I pressed my palm against my chest.

Hindi ko alam kung ano 'yong gusto kong pigilan—iyak ba? sigaw? or just the sick, sinking feeling that I was about to write something I had no business touching.

Na parang all this time, I've been trying to write myself back into the world slowly, quietly, word by word only for her to ask me to ghostwrite vows. To him.

And she didn't even know.

Or maybe she did.

I don't know what's worse.

I opened a blank document. Reflex na siguro, or maybe I needed something to look at that wasn't that fucking email. I didn't even mean to name the file. It just happened.

Solana – Wedding Vows Draft

And just like that, I felt like throwing up.

My hands were shaking. I haven't felt this kind of cold in a while—the kind that starts in your fingertips, climbs up your arms, and settles in your bones like regret. 

I sat there for a long time.

As if the rest of the message would magically appear. As if she'd say, "By the way, it's Jun. He's the one I'm marrying. Surprise." As if I wasn't already bleeding at the thought.

And then I laughed.

'Yong tawa na walang tunog. 'Yong tawa na hindi na talaga tawa. I remember what Wonwoo said, when you've cried too much, when you've used up all your noise, the only thing your body remembers how to do is laugh.

Kasi alam mo 'yong feeling ng someone reaching into your life at the exact moment you were trying to forget them? It's not that easy to walk away from.

Not when it feels like the universe is playing games again.

Around 2:45, I finally sent the message to Gyu asking him to come. Wala nang hi, wala nang kumusta. Wala akong lakas para magpaliwanag. I just needed to be out of my own head.

And somehow, he came.

By 3:12, naririnig ko na 'yong tunog ng sasakyan niya sa gravel. Hindi siya agad bumaba at mas lalong hindi ko kayang igalaw lahat sa akin. Pareho kaming tahimik. Parang may kaluluwa sa hangin na nagsasabing, "Huwag kang maingay. Baka bumigay."

He slid into the other side of the bench, keeping enough space between us like he knew I couldn't be touched right now. Gyu wasn't the type to ask questions when he knew I didn't have the answers yet. He just sat there, steady. Warm in the way people forget to be.

"Tangina," I said after a while, voice cracking like glass.

He didn't look at me. Just nodded a little. "Okay."

I laughed. "Hindi. Hindi siya okay."

"Okay," he repeated. Like he was letting me unravel.

So I did.

Binuksan ko 'yong phone ko. Hindi ko alam kung gusto ko ba talagang basahin ulit o ipasa na lang. I didn't say anything, I just tilted the screen towards him. The message still there. Untouched. 

He read it.

Mabagal.

Line by line. Hindi siya umangal. Hindi siya nagsalita. I just watched his eyes move, like he was tracing something he didn't want to believe. Then he blinked. Once. Twice. Tapos binalik niya sa akin 'yong tingin.

"Si Solana?"

I nodded.

"And she's marrying…"

Hindi ko nasabi. I didn't have to.

Jun.

His face went still. That kind of stillness na hindi mo basta-basta makikita sa kanya. Parang everything in him locked down all at once. He didn't look angry. Just scared for me, I guess? He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a lighter, then put it back. Hindi siya nagyoyosi. Alam ko 'yon. Pero dala niya pa rin lagi. Just in case I needed it more than him.

"Putangina," he whispered. "Hao…"

I laughed again. Mas malambot ngayon. Mas masakit. "Nakakatawa, 'no? She said she wanted to sound like someone who sees him. Who always seen him." I looked down at my hands. Ang dami kong gustong sabihin pero lahat nagsisiksikan sa lalamunan ko. Para akong mauubusan ng hangin.

"And you have," Gyu said, almost like a fact. "You always did."

I nodded. Kasi totoo. Kahit pa walang pumansin. Kahit pa siya, hindi. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, eyes on the concrete. "What the fuck am I supposed to do, Gyu? Write it? Write the words I spent years trying not to say out loud? And then what? Hear them on their wedding day? Watch them turn my silence into their forever?"

Wala siyang sinagot.

I think that was the kindest thing he could've done. Hindi niya ako binigyan ng bullshit. Hindi niya ako pinilit tumayo. He just stayed.

'Yong katahimikan namin, parang lumulubog sa gitna ng gabi. Walang hangin. Walang ilaw. Kahit 'yong mga damo sa paligid, parang natutong tumahimik para lang pagbigyan kami. Para lang marinig 'yong hindi ko masabi.

Then, finally, he shifted. Dahan-dahan. Parang ayaw niyang guluhin 'yong paraan ng pagkakabasag ko.

"Okay lang kung hindi mo kaya," he said. His voice was soft, like he was handing me a way out. "Sabihin mo lang."

"Hindi ko alam kung anong kaya ko, Gyu." I rubbed my palms together. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Medyo tabingi 'yong upo niya, para siyang handa akong saluhin kahit anong sabihin ko.

I felt it before I saw it—Gyu's fists curling on his lap. It was a helpless tension that comes when the person you care about is being gutted in front of you, and you can't do shit but hold the knife with them.

"She doesn't know, does she?"

I shook my head. "No one does. Hindi niya alam. Hindi niya alam na ako 'yong nagsulat ng birthday letter niya noon. Na ako 'yong nagsulat ng cover story niya sa magazine spread. That I've been writing his truths for years while he's been living in them like they're his own."

"Tangina, Hao." Gyu looked away, like the words were too bright to look at head-on. "And now she wants you to write their wedding vows?"

I nodded. Swallowed hard. 

"Putangina talaga."

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He looked like he was trying not to cry. And it hit me—how familiar this felt. How many times had Gyu picked me up like this? Sat with me in the middle of some breaking point, too scared to speak, too kind to leave?

"What are you gonna do?" he asked eventually.

I stared at my hands again. My voice barely made it past my teeth. "I don't know."

"But do you want to do it?"

What do I want?

Do I want to hear Jun hear the words I wrote—words I could never tell him out loud, only to watch her say them to him? Do I want to be there, sitting among the guests, smiling like it doesn't hurt, pretending I didn't pour myself into every line like it was the last thing I'd ever write?

"I don't even know who I am outside of this anymore, Gyu," I whispered. "I've written love letters I never got. Confessions I never heard. Proposals I'll never receive. And now this? A wedding vow for someone who never even asked if I was okay the day he left?"

My voice cracked.

"I want to say no. I really do. But what if this is the last thing I ever get to give him? What if this is it, Gyu? What if this is the only way I get to tell him—without really telling him?"

He didn't say anything. I looked at him then, really looked. And I saw it—how tired he was. Never of me, but of seeing me like this. Year after year, writing for people who never thought to read me back.

He reached over slowly, resting a hand on the back of my neck.

"You're not just what you write, Hao," he said. "You're not just the words you give away."

I closed my eyes.

"Then what am I?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled me into him. And for the first time in years, I let myself break.

I wasn't expecting him to stay this long. Gyu wasn't built for silence—he joked too much, loved too loudly, always had something in his hands to fiddle with. But tonight, he sat there like he didn't know how to move without breaking me. I kept waiting for him to say something stupid to make me laugh, drag me somewhere for ramen, or tell me it wasn't that deep.

Pero wala. Wala talaga. Tahimik lang siya.

"Putangina, Gyu…" My voice was hoarse. Parang pinilit ko pa siyang ilabas kahit alam kong dudurog lang siya sa lalamunan ko.

"You don't have to say it," he whispered. Eyes still on the ground.

"I do," I croaked. "Kasi kung hindi ko 'to ilalabas ngayon, baka hindi na ako makahinga bukas."

And I meant it. God, I meant every syllable.

I turned to him, finally, and I knew I looked wrecked. Alam kong maga na 'yong mata ko, my lips are shaking. I looked like someone who'd just been dragged out of the ocean by the collar. Barely alive. 

"I watched him fall in love with someone else and I still stayed. I stayed through the silences, through the bad songs, through every fucking moment he pretended he didn't know I was still there."

"Hao—"

"Huwag," I snapped, voice breaking. "Don't tell me it wasn't love. Kasi kung hindi 'to pagmamahal, then what the fuck have I been bleeding for?"

Gyu's jaw clenched. He looked away, and for the second time, I saw his hand curl into a fist like he wanted to hit something. Maybe Jun. Maybe the air. Maybe himself for not being able to fix this.

I laughed again. "Galing 'no? Sa dinami-rami ng puwedeng magsulat ng vows nila, ako pa rin. Ako pa rin 'yong pipiliin nilang maging boses nila. Parang tanga lang."

"I think I already knew," I whispered. "The moment I read her message, I think a part of me already knew it was for him. I just pretended I didn't. Kasi gusto ko pang maniwala, kahit sandali, na maybe—maybe this was just another job. Maybe it wasn't gonna break me this time."

"Hao," he said gently. "You don't have to burn for people who never asked you to catch fire in the first place."

And fuck. That broke me.

Because they never asked. Jun never asked. And yet here I was—still burning. Still begging for smoke. I dropped my head into my hands, shoulders shaking, and finally let it happen. I sobbed. 'Yong totoo. 'Yong marumi. 'Yong parang sinasakal ka ng sarili mong katawan.

I didn't sleep.

I just sat there with swollen eyes and a raw throat, staring at the blank document on my laptop like it was a fucking coffin. Gyu had fallen asleep on the couch. Shoes still on. Arms folded tight over his chest like he was scared that if he loosened up even a little, I'd disappear.

But the room was quiet now, save for the occasional creak of old floorboards and the buzz of the monitor light. I could hear my own pulse in my ears. Feel the weight of my own name pressing down on my chest. Hao. Putangina, Hao. Ang galing mo talaga magpakamartir.

I cracked my knuckles then set my fingers to the keys.

And I wrote.

For her. For the woman who would stand across from him and call what they had love.

"To my dearest Jun," I typed. My breath stuttered.

Then I kept going.

"I used to think love shouldn't keep anyone tired. I used to think that's the rule—to not make your partner feel like they're wasting their time finding the love they think they deserve. Minsan nga napapasabi ako na gustong-gusto ko ng appreciation. I don't want something loud about that, but to hear even a small thank you, a small nod, or even a small reaction for something I did, I accept those as love. Gusto ko lang naman makita rin ako kagaya kung paano ko kayo tignan. I just want to be held, mahirap ba 'yon? I am not even asking for you to give me everything or love every part of me. I am just asking you to appreciate the parts I gave for you to be whole. Kasi alam mo naman 'yan, isang thank you message mo lang, isang appreciation mo lang, babalik naman ako, pero I don't fucking feel anything. Tangina. Mahal kita, but you left without any sign. Hinayaan mo akong malunod sa mga tanong, hinayaan mo akong maging boses ng iba because you never dared to give me my own voice. Tangina, Jun. Noong nawala ka, nawalan na rin ako ng boses. Pero tangina mahal kita. I love you more than my own voice, and that's why it hurts.

Do you know what that means? It means every time I write for someone else, I'm using the words I saved for you. Lahat ng hindi ko nasabi noon, binibigay ko ngayon sa mga taong hindi ko mahal. And the worst part? They pay me for it. They pay me to sound like love, while the only person I ever wanted to write for never gave me a reason to finish a sentence.

And you, fuck, how do you live with that? Tell me, Jun. How do you live knowing you turned someone into an echo of everyone else? How do you sleep at night knowing the only thing left of me is every lie I write in someone else's name

Kasi hindi ako makahinga, Jun."

I typed, eyes burning as my fingers hovered over the keys, unsure if I should keep going—these were my words not hers.

"I've always been the type to write things down instead of say them. Hindi ako sanay magsalita. Hindi ako sanay sa harap ng tao, but every time I think of you, my hands just start moving. You make me want to put into words things I never had the courage to say aloud."

Napakagat ako sa loob ng pisngi ko. I could feel it again—'yong bigat. 'Yong tinig na hindi akin, pero galing sa akin. 'Yong damdaming kailangan kong iparamdam sa 'ngalan ng taong hindi naman ako ang minahal.

"I love you because you made me feel like I could be soft. You made me feel like I didn't have to earn every inch of affection, like it was mine just by being yours. And maybe I never said this enough, or maybe I always said it too late, pero ikaw 'yong tahanan ko, Jun."

My fingers slowed. I stared at the blinking cursor.

That wasn't hers.

"I want a future where we forget to count the years because we're too busy living them. Where the smallest things—coffee in the morning, yakap kapag pagod ka, random check-ins sa gitna ng araw, feel like vows we keep choosing to say, every damn day."

I paused. Pinikit ko mga mata ko. And for a moment, I wasn't writing for her. I was writing for him.

For the version of him that used to hold my hand when no one was looking. For the man who used to sit beside me in silence and made it feel like the world had nothing left to prove.

But none of that belonged here. Not in this vow. Not in this wedding.

So I deleted everything. 

And wrote instead:

"You once asked me what kind of love I dreamed of. I said, the kind that stays even when there's nothing left to fix, and now I know—it's you. It's always been you."

Sa huling linya, binura ko ulit. 

How do you write vows for the person who taught you how to love, when they'll be receiving it from someone else? How do you erase yourself, over and over, and still call it writing?

I backspaced the line again.

Then typed:

"I promise to be the silence you'll never have to question. The quiet you'll always come home to, and if someday, you forget how we began, I'll be the one who remembers for both of us."

Save.

Send.

Close tab.

And just like that, another piece of me vanished, but at least this one, she'll read out loud.

I sat there for a long time. Long after the tears dried. Long after the sun began bleeding through the cracks of the curtain, casting this dull, indifferent light across the floor. 

Wala na. Tapos na ang script. Tapos na ang gabi. But for some reason, I did not cry. Because some part of me thought—maybe if I stayed still enough, quiet enough, maybe he'd come back.

Not Jun—not the man getting married.

But the boy who used to look at me like I was a song he was still learning the lyrics to. The boy who used to laugh into my neck like the world wasn't ending. The boy who used to call me home even when he never said the word.

Pero hindi siya dumating.

No matter how many times I try to scream his name. No matter how hard I summon his presence, hindi siya darating. 

Maybe I wasn't the ghost after all. Maybe I was the grave.

Maybe this—this whole thing, this job, this life, this body that keeps writing things that don't belong to me. Maybe I've been the burial site all along. A soft, quiet place where other people come to grieve, to confess, to be loved without earning it, and then leave when they're whole again.

And I? I stay behind with the echoes and the drafts. With the versions of vows that will never be read. With the names I never got to say out loud.

That's what it means to ghostwrite love, isn't it?

To become fluent in devotion you'll never receive. To speak tenderness like a language no one ever bothers to translate back to you. To write yourself out of the ending every time, and call it professionalism.

So yeah.

I saved the file.

I sent the email.

I closed the tab.

And then I looked at myself in the mirror, eyes red, lips trembling, and whispered to no one in particular.

"Putangina, Hao. You really gave everything, didn't you?"

Then I smiled.

And I fucking meant it.