Archive of Our Own

If clothes carried memories, then I have an entire archive of Ken tucked into the forgotten corners of my cabinet. Each piece is a timestamp and a memoir of our shared history, that seemed to invade my life every now and then. Some were vividly remembered, others almost lost to time. They sit there quietly, gathering dust—mute witnesses to every season he drifted in and out of my life.

Ken has always existed in the background of my days, he always has this ability to slip into some moments in my life before I realized I’d let him in. The saying goes that all roads lead to Rome. But in my case, no matter where I go, no matter what path I take, somehow I always find myself at a crossroads with one Ken Suson.

When we were just trainees, I’d forgotten to bring an extra shirt after practice. It rained so hard that day I could barely see past the downpour. No umbrella, no prior plan, and I silently resigned to the idea of the commute going home, preparing for the cold and already imagining myself being drenched in sweat and rainwater. But Ken tossed me a fresh white T-shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Wear it,” he insisted, like he already knew I’d argue. Then he laughed, shrugged on his hoodie, and disappeared into the storm without looking back.

I kept thinking I’d return the shirt the next day. And the next. And the next.

But the days blurred together, practice after practice, until the shirt simply settled in my drawer, almost indistinguishable from my other white shirts, and I alone would only remember when I pull it out on a random day. Ken never mentioned it again, I never found the right moment to give it back. And years later, incidentally on rainy nights, I’d still end up wearing it.

***

Living with my parents had its perks. I was broke, sure, but at least I could bring real food to training; it kept us alive when ramen cups and caffeine weren’t enough. Physical training was brutal, but the mental strain was something else entirely.

Some nights I’d find Ken in the exit staircase, staring into the dark like he was trying to hold himself together. I’d sit beside him, offer whatever encouragement my tired brain could string together, and he’d hug me like he needed it more than oxygen.

When I noticed he wasn’t eating, I shared whatever I brought, pretending I just overpacked. And because I was a messy eater, my shirt or hoodie was almost always stained, so Ken would quietly hand me a fresh shirt, every single time. I always forgot to return them, and he never asked.

One white shirt after another, given on random, mundane days, and it has quietly collected space in my poorly organized wardrobe. And one day I just woke up and realized my closet had a section dedicated to him.

***

I almost debuted with a boy group, but life nudged me toward production and songwriting instead. Ken stepped into the spotlight and stayed there, and with his talent and work ethic, it was inevitable.

Our daily shared meals became hallway nods. Hallway nods became polite smiles at award shows. Polite smiles became silence.

And that silence lingered at the back of my mind. Sometimes I wondered what might’ve happened if I’d stuck with performing. Maybe we would’ve trained together longer. Maybe we’d have more time. Maybe I could’ve returned his white T-shirt. But I learned to accept the what-ifs and the sudden gap that we’ve created.

We both weaved through the music industry for years, just grinding through the noise making sense of the path that we’ve eventually taken. We’ve met thousands of artists, I’ve contributed to a lot of albums, and I was happily fulfilling the purpose I chose. But it was foolish of me to think that someone significant from my past would never cross in my life again.

It was that time of his first merch launch. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, I received one of the first PR kits—with a handwritten note tucked inside.

“For Paulo, thank you for being there when I needed it the most. – Ken”

Being an overworked, overstressed, overstimulated writer has its downside I guess, because I kept downplaying the gesture. But in truth, my mind has been running scenarios that kept me up all night. I kept staring at the box for days before I even opened it, stuck at the letter that had gained my full attention instead of the merch inside. My writing halted, my deadlines stared at me disapprovingly.

I thought, perhaps his manager ran through his phone list, and I was still there. Or as gratitude to everyone in his past, he sent out to all former trainees as a form of goodwill. It was a small reminder that I hadn’t been erased the way I imagined.

I silently checked all the former trainees from the same company, and they did receive a token, but there was no hand written note – only the standard greetings. I kept checking for others but nothing really came up, so I let it go, and try not to think too much from it. And that’s when I decided to finally open it up, and the box contained a hoodie. Customized, with my name hidden along the inner lining.

I almost returned it. But I thought it would be rude.

His hoodie from that drop quickly became my uniform for long, cold nights in the studio. I kept telling myself I’d bring it home to wash, but I never did. It lived there—on the back of my chair, on the couch, on me—as if keeping vigil while I worked through endless demos and deadlines.

I meant to send a thank you message, but by the time I realized how much time had passed, and because I was thinking too much about his handwritten letter, and the stupid embroidered name, it felt awkward. The message stayed in my drafts for months before I deleted it.

But I would be a fool to deny that I’ve thought about the gesture more times than I cared to admit.

And as his career grew brighter and louder…I stayed in the background, silently following. I watched his MVs, giggled at fancams, laughed at his random vlogs. Smiling like an idiot because I realized some of his antics has always stayed the same, and that’s when I knew that he has full control over his artistry. I almost commented on one of his funny reels but I luckily remembered that I was using my personal account, and I didn’t want to draw any attention. So I stayed in the background, just happy to watch him grow his art.

I knew I could always reach out, that he’d respond politely, but I didn’t have the courage. I figured he had thousands of messages coming in—one from an old acquaintance wouldn’t matter.

Eventually the distance I deliberately created got too heavy. I felt that I wanted to reconnect, and the itch just wouldn’t go away. It came to the point that I became too restless. So I broke down the wall in the only way I could: I finally went to see him live.

I slipped into a dim, neon-lit club, hood up, mask on, hoping to disappear into the crowd. Ken had an exclusive performance that night in a well-known bar, and I told myself I was there purely for “professional curiosity.”

But as the crowd buzzed with excitement, I felt the same anticipation crawling up my spine. I could no longer deny that I wasn’t just in attendance because I was a casual fan. I was here because I wanted to see him again, and maybe catch his attention towards the end of the night. I’ve even practiced what I’d say.

Despite the disguise, I got spotted by his staff even before the start of the show. His security team combed through the crowd, heading straight toward me. I saw it from my peripherals and I pretended not to notice. But when a large hand tapped my shoulder, my heart nearly ripped out of my chest at what he said.

“Sir, hi. Sir Paulo, right? Si Sir Ken kasi nag-request—sunod na po.”

My blood iced. My chest thrashed like wild horses, my ears pounding louder than the music played at the bar. This was not part of the plan, it was too early, too soon; but causing a scene would’ve drawn even more commotion, so I followed instead.

The moment I entered his dressing room, I was swallowed by an unexpected warm hug. Ken’s arms wrapped around me tightly, like no time had passed at all. All the rehearsed greetings in my head evaporated instantly. His presence and smell bombarded me head on.

“Bakit di mo sinabing pupunta ka?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at me.

“Sisilip lang sana ako e,” I muttered with a grimace.

“’Sus, para ka namang iba. You can always message me, Pau.”

“Um—syempre ikaw na ‘yan e. Nakakahiya.”

“Ako pa rin ‘to,” he said, tapping my arm lightly. “Walang dapat ikahiya. Tsaka baka dumugin ka ng tao. Kung maka-asta ka parang di sikat.”

“Hindi ah.”

“Kung nag-artista ka lang, Pau,” he went on, smirking, “sure ako mas sisikat ka pa. I always see your reels while you sing with your guitar.”

My ears immediately burned. “Huh? You follow me?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for a cap from his rack and placed it on my head. He adjusted the brim gently until he was satisfied, tapping my head like I was a kid he was fond of.

“There. Para pag lumabas ka mamaya, di ka masyadong tignan. Agaw-pansin ka pa naman.”

“Oo nga no,” I joked weakly, trying to calm my nerves. “Baka agawan pa kita ng fans.”

Ken laughed loudly and freely, his hand settling on my shoulder, warm and steady.

“Good luck sa stage,” I said, trying not to overthink his touch.

For a moment, his playful expression faded into something serious. His eyes held mine, searching, and I shivered under the weight of his gaze. I tried to secretly pinch myself to not get drown by the stare down. But then just as quickly, he grinned.

“Mas gagalingan ko pa, nandiyan ka e” he declared, winking before turning away. When he left, my head was still spinning at the sudden shift of events.

***

I walked out of that dressing room wearing his cap—another piece of him I didn’t quite know how to return.

The moment Ken stepped onstage, the atmosphere inside the club snapped into place like the air itself recognized its rightful owner.

I’ve seen him perform before, back when we were trainees sharing cramped practice rooms and instant noodles. But this version of Ken, the confident, magnetic, impossibly composed performer who commanded a crowd with a single breath, was someone new. Or maybe, someone I was seeing clearly for the first time.

From the side of the stage, safely tucked away behind speakers and staffers, I watched him transform. The bass thumped, red lights flashed, and Ken moved like he was built out of rhythm and instinct. He wasn’t just performing a song; he was owning the moment. I stood there stupidly, mesmerized and jaw dropping down. His manager playfully nudged me to return to the present, and held a laugh, and I was too embarrassed to explain myself so I went further to the back.

This was not an artist moving out of muscle memory. This was Ken getting lost in the music, drawing us into his world. Every shift of his shoulders, every drop in his voice, every sly smirk aimed vaguely toward the crowd just adds a layer of energy to the space, drawing us in even more. We were hypnotized by the performance, and I finally understood why he was dubbed a heartthrob.

Sometime in between the performance, he glanced sideways – just once. A fleeting shift of his gaze toward where I was standing. It shouldn’t have meant anything, in my head it was nothing but a performative gesture. He probably couldn’t even see me in the dark.

But the way his lips tugged upward, just slightly, made my breath catch. As if he knew, and he wanted to see me. I hated how my heart responded like an obedient fool.

At that very moment, if he’d asked me to give him my body and soul, I would’ve been a willing sacrifice.

I sang through the lines of his songs like it was the most natural thing, I smiled when the crowd got wild. I clapped and jumped and got lost in the moment more than I cared to admit. This was really Ken’s world, and we are nothing but spectators. What a sight to behold.

When he finished, the crowd roared for more, and I pretended my hands weren’t shaking. I haven’t felt alive for a long time. I blamed the adrenaline, I blamed it on the coffee that I chugged down hours before, I blamed it on the noise, the lights. Anything but him.

***

I was dragged back to his dressing room by his manager when I attempted to leave. We waited until Ken reached the room. He was still buzzing with leftover stage energy when he entered; cheeks still flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. And after navigating through a crowd of staff, he dropped onto the couch beside me, close enough that our knees brushed. I told myself it was accidental.

“So,” he said, voice low, still warm from the stage. “I’ve been meaning to ask… you free next week?”

“For what?” I tried to sound casual. And I spectacularly failed.

“Studio session. I’m planning a new track.” He stretched, his arm conveniently draping over the back of the couch, behind me. “I want your sound on it.”

My sound. Not just my opinion. In what world would a great artist want me in his next track?

I blinked. “You’re—asking me to collaborate?”

“Syempre.” He glanced at me like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “Matagal na kitang inaabangan. I still remember the days when you correct my singing and add notes to my writing drafts. So let’s collaborate! Ngayon lang kita nahuli ulit e.”

My chest tightened, uncomfortably warm.

“But only if you’re not too busy being mysterious and hiding in crowds,” he teased.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“You literally wore a hoodie, mask, and cap.”

“That was your cap!”

“Cute nga e.”

“Ken.”

He only laughed, leaning in just a little too close. “Next week ha? Wag mo ko tatakbuhan.”

My mouth was dry. “Hindi kita tatakbuhan.”

His smile softened. “Good.”

He stood up again, his staff already calling out for him for an encore and some photo op from fans. But as he reached the doorway, he took a final glance at me, with words that I’ve replayed a thousand times in my head after. “And Pau…I’m happy you finally came.”

And just like that, I slipped out of the bar, with his stupid cap on.

***

The studio session came quicker than expected.

Ken arrived later than expected. Time seemed to obey him instead of the other way around, but perhaps that how the industry goes, and it’s not like I have other things to do.

He walked in with a grin and a bag of food he thrust into my hands as a peace offering. We worked through melody lines, harmonies, verses. At some point, I must’ve rubbed my arms because I felt cold, but I didn’t notice myself doing it. Ken, however, noticed everything.

He called his staff over the phone. “Pakuha nga ng jacket.”

I opened my mouth. “Huy, okay lang ako—”

“Hindi.” He cut me off. “Nanginginig ka na e.”

I wasn’t. Or maybe I was. Hard to tell when my pulse was too busy tripping over itself at his presence. A few minutes later, one of his staff returned with a thick, oversized varsity jacket.

His name was embroidered on the sleeve. His fragrance clung to the collar, and I repressed the overwhelming waves of emotions it brought. He draped it over my shoulders himself, tugging it into place like he’d done it a thousand times.

“Mainit na ba?” he asked.

“Medyo.” I swallowed. “Salamat.”

“Keep it,” he said casually as he walked back to the mixing board. “May iba pa ako.”

I froze for a moment. I mentally began to protest already thinking of a thousand of reasons why I can’t just receive it, but he had already turned away, busily typing in his laptop. And as the day progressed, I was too engrossed with our work, too captivated by his presence – that I forgot to return his jacket. I told myself I forgot. But deep down, I knew the jacket will probably end up inside my cabinet again, another piece of Ken that’s almost impossible to forget.

***

The late-night work sessions added up, one more reason to keep seeing him, one more excuse to orbit his gravity. And with each visit, Ken seemed to “accidentally” leave something behind.

Another hoodie draped over my couch. A bracelet left on my coffee table. An extra shirt draped on my chair. A beanie on my desk. It was becoming too much, and it seemed I was begging to look like a curator of his personal things. At some point, I was already determined to return it all to him the next time.

And I kept reminding myself that “next time” isn’t always a guarantee. That I shouldn’t be comfortable with it. But Ken seems to fight if off.

I looked around my apartment, at the trail he left behind like breadcrumbs leading back to him. He was placing them, claiming small spaces in the rooms where I almost don’t leave.

It was as if he was familiarizing himself with the corners of my life the way he once settled into the corners of my days.

I pretended not to notice my growing collection of Ken’s clothing. I pretended that I don’t stare at them when I passed by. But every time I opened my closet or glanced at my sofa or reached for a jacket that wasn’t mine, a small part of me thought that maybe I didn’t want him to stop.

***

I wasn’t planning on wearing his clothes anytime soon. It was a conscious decision to let them be as it is; so he can just grab it anytime he sees it, and I could pretend I didn’t make much effort to take care of them.

But it was just extra cold that morning.  Ken’s varsity jacket, the one he “forgot” in my studio three sessions ago, was the closest thing within reach. I told myself I’d only wear it while making coffee. Maybe while checking email. Five minutes, max, nothing to it. I wasn’t expecting anyone, anyway.

But I ended up wearing it longer than what I’ve planned. The jacket was so comfortable I eventually just forgot to take it off while I was mixing a track, while I was washing the dishes, while I was fixing my hair, and apparently while also answering the door.

When I pulled it open, still slightly groggy and very much unprepared for human contact, there he was – the man who’s responsible for my recent distraction.

Ken Suson, in a white shirt and dark jeans, looking annoyingly handsome at 9 in the morning.

And before I could greet him, his eyes dropped to my chest. To the jacket. To his jacket. And I wanted to disappear on the spot.

His lips parted. His face was morphing into a quite smug. And the look made my spine straighten like I was caught doing something illegal.

“Ah,” he said softly, leaning his shoulder against my doorframe. “So… d’yan napunta.”

I froze. “I, I was gonna return it.”

“Mm.” His eyes flitted up to meet mine, lazy and warm. “Sure ka?”

I should have taken the jacket off right then. I should’ve thrown it into his arms and denied everything. Burned it, even. But instead I stood there like an idiot, gripping the edge of the door as if it would save me from drowning in his stare.

“You look good,” he said, voice dropping a little too low. “Bagay sa’yo.”

My lungs malfunctioned. “Hindi ko naman sinasadya sinuot—”

“Hindi?” His smile sharpened. “Hindi mo sinadya, pero sinuot mo.”

“Ken—”

“Hindi mo sinadya,” he repeated, stepping inside “pero hindi mo rin tinanggal.”

He was close enough that I could smell him now, his expensive perfume mixing with whatever scent had already settled into the jacket I was wearing. Too many versions of him layered over me, slowly evading my senses and my sanity. I felt like a thief caught red-handed. Worse, I felt like a willing one.

He lifted his hand, fingers lightly brushing the collar near my neck. Just a tiny touch, done carelessly. But it sent a shock down my spine straight to where all my sanity used to be.

“Warm enough?” he murmured.

I hated my voice for shaking. “Oo.”

Ken’s eyes softened. “Good.”

Good? GOOD?

Before I could demand what that meant, he drifted past me like he owned the place, making himself comfortable on my couch. Legs spread, arms draped over the backrest, like he was meant to be there this very morning.

Without warning, he just settled in my space, just like his damn clothes. I struggled to breathe again and I stopped myself from further imagining things when he’s around.

“May naiwan pa ata akong ibang gamit dito,” he said casually, pretending to look around. “Hanapin ko later.”

My jaw dropped. “Wala naman—”

“Meron.” He smirked, all too knowing. “Feeling ko madadagdagan pa.”

I stared at him, bewildered. “Ken, ano ba ‘tong ginagawa mo?”

He met my eyes, expression unreadable, “Wala naman. I just need several reasons to always come back to you. You know, in case takbuhan mo na naman ako.”

I refuse to acknowledge how my heart stopped and sprinted at the same time. I wanted to hide away and just think, cause I can’t seem to reason straight when Ken’s around. I looked down at the jacket again, his jacket, wrapped around me. And all I could think was that I’m already in deep trouble.

“Pau? Tara, let’s write another one.”

***

Ken didn’t bring up the jacket again for a while. Not directly, at least. But he looked at me like he was waiting for something to happen. For awhile, it was quiet, for awhile I had my sanity and peace.

But, he showed up at my studio again, this time for “reference checking” which was his code for “hanging out.”

He walked in, tossed his bag on the couch, and he stretched like a cat: arms overhead, shirt lifting just enough for me to immediately look away for the sake of my sanity.

“Uy,” he greeted, smiling as if he owned the room. “Nagkape ka na ba? Ako wala pa.”

His aura today was light. Too light again in the early morning. Too casual like he’s not noticing how I’ve been fumbling randomly on my keyboard. Whoever was in a good mood without coffee?

Before I could even answer, his eyes swept over me in that slow, deliberate way he thought I didn’t notice. “No jacket today?”

I blinked. “Ha? I—uh—I returned it already.”

Ken tilted his head. “Did you?”

“Yes?” I tried not to sound offended. “You took it home.”

He hummed like he didn’t quite believe me.

“Tsk. Sayang.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Bakit?”

Ken walked closer, stopping just close enough for the air between us to tighten.

“Bagay kasi sa’yo,” he said quietly, eyes dropping to my shoulders… then back to my mouth… then my eyes again. “Nasanay lang ako.”

My heart was ready to complain to the universe. This was too much for a person who has not drank his cup of coffee first.

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Ken, hindi ko naman habit magsuot ng—”

“Pwede naman gawing habit,” he cut in smoothly.

I choked on my own breath. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, smug and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to watch me combust.

“Kung gusto mo,” he added, he reached into his bag and pulled something out. A hoodie. One I had definitely never seen before. Navy blue, soft, well-worn. It had hints that it had lived many lives with its owner. He held it up between us.

“Try mo,” he said, casual but eyes glinting. “Mukhang sa’yo bagay yung kulay.”

What was I supposed to do with that? Frame it? Tattoo it?

“Ken,” I sputtered, “hindi ka pwede basta—”

“Basta magpahiram ng damit?” he finished for me. “Eh dati ka pa namang collector ko, ‘di ba?”

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. He took a small step closer. “Gusto ko lang makita,” he murmured, “kung gaano kaganda sayo yung iba.”

The other ones. As in… plural? Gagawin ba ako netong model ng mga jacket niya? My brain flatlined for a second. He chuckled at my expression, lightly nudging the hoodie against my chest.

“Relax, Pau. Hindi naman kita pinipilit.” His smile softened, warm and a little too gentle. “Pero bagay talaga sa’yo.”

And because he was Ken and he was cruel in that effortless, stupidly charming way, he leaned in just enough for his breath to tickle my ear. “Wear my things more often.”

I nearly died. No autopsy required.

By the time I regained control of my limbs, he was already settling on the couch, unlocking his phone, acting like he didn’t just declare psychological warfare on my sanity.

I stared at the hoodie in my hands, an internal battle of what I should appropriately do next ensued within. I should return it, but maybe it’ll offend him? I should give it back, but he said he wants to see it. But what for? Secret audition sa next model niya ng merch drop?

“Paulo,” he called lazily without looking up, “isuot mo na.”

I put it on. Of course I did. Madali naman akong kausap.

And when his eyes finally lifted and he saw me in it…

He smiled. His eyes raked from my face to my feet, and up again. My face flared, and I felt hot, just by being inspected. I watched him watch me as he stared too long. I felt too exposed that I thought he might actually read my mind and laugh at my internal panic.

His eyes twinkled with mirth, perhaps enjoying how I was awkwardly standing still.

“Yan,” he said. “Mas gusto ko.”

I knew, without question, that I was doomed. I knew I wasn’t going to sleep that night, and it won’t be because of coffee.

***

I don’t know what possessed me.

Maybe it was the interview I watched that morning, some host joking about how Ken “must be seeing someone secretly” because he’d been glowing lately. Maybe it was the comment section saying his taste in guys was probably “pristine” and “a fashionista as well.” Maybe it was the realization that I had an entire cabinet dedicated to a man who didn’t even know what he was doing to me.

Or maybe—I was just tired of imagining things that weren’t really there.

So I packed everything I found: every shirt he once lent me, every jacket he “forgot”, every hoodie that somehow migrated into my home, even that stupid cap from his last live performance.

I placed them neatly in a large paper bag, folded better than my actual laundry.

It looked pathetic because it looked like I was returning a part of myself. My chest ached as I carried it out of my house, I’ve decided that I’m letting go of my most prized possessions – my seasons with Ken.

When I got to his place, his household staff kept giving me curious looks, but no one stopped me. I think they all assumed it was something music related. Ken opened the door himself.

He smiled sincerely perhaps a little surprised too that I was visiting his place.

“Tamang-tama, kakagising ko lang. Uy, may dala kang—”

His smile faded when he saw the bag. And it disappeared completely when I held it out to him.

“Sa’yo ‘to,” I said. “Lahat.”

There was a moment, just a thin slice of silence, where confusion flickered across his face, but then he turned stoic.

“Bakit? Anong meron?” he asked, voice low.

“I just… I thought I should give them back. Baka kailangan mo.”

“I don’t,” he said immediately.

“Well, still. Hindi naman akin ‘to.” His jaw tightened.

“Kanino pa ba?” he muttered.

I swallowed. “Ken, please. Ayoko lang na—”

He took a step forward, closing the gap between us so quickly it stole the rest of my sentence.

“Paulo.” My name sounded different in his mouth. “Bakit mo yan binabalik?”

I couldn’t look at him.

“I’m getting confused,” I admitted quietly.

There it was. The truth I’d been dancing around for months.

“Confused,” he repeated the word like a curse.

“I’m reading into things too much,” I whispered.

He stilled.

And then, very carefully, he took the bag from my hands. For a split second, relief washed through me. Until he walked straight into his living room, dumped the entire bag onto the couch. And said, with a fire I had never heard in his voice: “No.”

I blinked. “Ha?”

“No,” he repeated, firmer. “Hindi ko tatanggapin ‘to.”

“Paulo,” he said, stepping closer, “every piece of clothing I left with you… I left it because it was the only way I knew how to stay close. You never reached back.”

“You left training, I get it, it was not meant for you, but you also left me behind, without an explanation why.”

“—I, I – those were hard times, Ken.”

“Still, did you even open your spam emails? I was trying to reach you out, you changed numbers. I tried reaching through your socmed, but I guessed you changed accounts too. Kelangan talaga iwasan lahat, pati ako? Ready naman akong makinig Paulo ah, ready akong tulungan ka sa kahit ano man…but you never let me. Bakit ba parati mong sinosolo lahat?”

“I left because it wasn’t for me, Ken.”

 “—You left without really looking back, Pau. And it hurt because it meant you did not trust me enough to understand. But I stayed in the sidelines. I waited for you to come out of your shell again.”

“Kahit hindi mo ako tinatawagan. Kahit hindi ka nagme-message. Kahit nagtatago ka pag may gig ako. I tried Pau – fuck it, I did. But I can’t seem to go through that stubborn and beautiful brain of yours that I’m here. I’m here for you. You could’ve just left the training, but did you have to leave me too?”

I closed my eyes, throat burning, all the years that I kept to myself, spilled over.

“I left because I was losing myself, Ken.” My voice cracked. “Hindi ko na kilala sarili ko. The pressure, the expectations—I was drowning. And the worst part was I wanted to stay with you. But staying meant breaking apart...”

 “…I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

“Kaya ako nag-iiwan ng mga gamit ko,” he continued, voice raw, “kasi hindi ko alam kung papayag kang nandyan ako. At least sa mga damit ko, kasama mo ako. Kahit ilang taon kang di nagpaparamdam, iniisip ko na lang na sana di mo pa rin itinapon ang mga damit na binigay ko. It’s the only way I could be with you, Pau. Because you didn’t really allow anyone in.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden…”

“You should realize that you’re not…”

I couldn’t breathe, my knees ready to give out, but Ken caught me on time. And I cried it out – all my frustrations, my what ifs, my insecurities. I cried while Ken remained still, just a steady anchor, just there. And I belatedly scolded myself why I’ve deprived myself of such security.

Ken looked at me after a while, eyes glistening—not with tears, but with frustration and something else. “Alam mo bang tuwing nakikita kitang suot ‘yung jacket ko, para akong—” He stopped, laughing humorlessly. “Para akong umuuwi sayo.”

“Pero binabalik mo lahat,” he whispered. “Na para bang yung huling paraan ko para manatili sa’yo… tinanggal mo na rin.”

“I was getting confused, and afaird again.”

He reached into the bag, pulled out a hoodie, gripped it tightly.

“Tingnan mo ‘to,” he said. “Sa’yo yan, Pag binigay ko na, wala nang bawian.”

“Alam mo kung bakit bagay sa’yo?” His voice was low, “Alam mo ba bakit ang ganda-ganda mo tingnan pag suot mo mga damit ko?”

I shook my head numbly, unsure already of what to say. He stepped closer again, invading my space—just enough for our breaths to meet.

“Bagay,” he said slowly, deliberately, “dahil sakin ‘to galing. Bagay kasi ako pumili.”

His hand brushed the fabric against my chest.

“At,” he whispered, eyes locked on mine, “bagay ang mga damit ko sa’yo…kasi bagay tayo.”

I laughed-cried at what he said. Everything seemed to lighten up, my walls seem to crumble down, every defense and pity I’ve told myself – all slowly withering away like sand.

“Ang korny mo pa rin pala?”  It was Ken’s turn to laugh through his tears, but he grabbed me again, hard, against his chest and I was then engulfed in his infinite warmth. I inhaled his scent, and it feels right, it feels like home. Perhaps I need to get used to the feeling of Ken’s warmth – unyielding and overwhelming. It feels like I’m finally where I was supposed to be.

“Mahal kita Pau. Mahal na mahal. Words are failing me right now, but you get it, I hope you really do.” He continues to whisper in my ears, as his arms secured me in his embrace, as we swayed to a silent rhythm. “I’ve imagined how I’ll say it to you a thousand times over, but i guess this is the right time.”

Ken’s voice softened to a near-plea. “Huwag kana umalis sakin ulit please. Don’t return what I gave you. Don’t push me out. Don’t pretend you don’t know. Don’t be afraid to share your troubles, I’ll always be here.”

 “Ken…”

“I know you feel it. If you don’t want me,” he said shakily, “sabihin mo lang. I can take it. Pero wag mong sabihin na walang ibig sabihin ‘tong lahat.”

“I don’t want you gone, hindi ko kaya.” I whispered back, as I clung tighter into his embrace.

I feel his shoulders collapsed with relief. “You don’t have to say it back Pau, having you here is enough. You’re always enough.”

“Ayoko, gusto kong malaman mong mahal din kita, Ken. More than you’ll ever know.” I stopped hugging him then and looked straight into his eyes, I couldn’t stop the smile that broke through my face as I see his utter disbelief. “Mahal kita, and I’m taking back my clothes.”

And to my relief, I feel Ken relaxing, smiling now.

“Weh? Di nga? Di ako naniniwala hangga’t walang kiss e.” I couldn’t help it, seeing Ken this happy altered something in my brain permanently. As the hazy fog of happiness cleared up, and I was done crying and laughing with him, I finally silenced his laughter with a kiss on his lips.

I hear him choke and breathe out. But he finally recovered, and we kissed like it was long overdue. Slowly at first, and then the snowballing hunger took over. He kissed me with passion it burned through my chest. Like how it was always supposed to be.

Ken lifted me up and dumped me amongst the pile of clothes that were almost forgotten.

I was bombarded by his layers of scent, his presence and his overflowing emotions, engulfing me all at once.

My head buzzed in ecstasy, my heart soared, nerves tingling until my toes curled. And I caught myself trembling at the feeling of immense love, of Ken pressed against me.

And suddenly everything clicked into place—the first white shirt he tossed at me in the rain, the hoodie that lived in my studio, the cap he put on my head in that crowded club, the jackets he pretended to forget, the ones he loaned me, the ones he left on purpose.

I used to think I was collecting memories of him. But maybe he was building a home in me, one piece at a time. Kissing him didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending. It felt like opening the cabinet I’d avoided for years and realizing every forgotten piece had been waiting for this moment. For us. For me to realize that I’ve always had Ken.

And as I held him, warm and real in my arms, I know he’s not just here to drift through my seasons anymore. He’s staying where he’d always belonged.

Ken kissed me with all the thirst of years spent waiting, and I kissed him back with every secret I’d kept pressed into folds – unrestrained, and finally, unfolded.