The first week of January 2022 settled in softly, like a well-worn blanket placed gently over the hills of Carmela's quiet hometown. The holiday lanterns still hung in doorways, their lights now dimmer, but not forgotten. Children's laughter echoed faintly from the town plaza, mingling with the occasional rooster crow or the crackle of a nearby tricycle passing by. Despite the lingering chill in the morning air, warmth thrived inside the San Jose household—in quiet breakfasts, shared chores, and the unmistakable glow of something new blossoming between Carmela and Raziel.
It was the first real January they were spending near each other in years.
Since the Christmas visit, Raziel had extended his stay in the nearby town. He rented a small room from his cousin just fifteen minutes away by bike. That detail alone made Carmela's heart flutter. He wasn't just visiting anymore—he was staying.
One morning, Carmela found herself in the kitchen, humming as she flipped tortang talong in the pan. Her mother sipped her barako coffee beside her, watching her with quiet amusement.
"Napansin ko, ang sipag mo lately sa kusina," her mother said, raising an eyebrow. "May bisita ka bang gustong pakainin?"
(I've noticed you're extra diligent in the kitchen lately. Are you planning to feed a special guest?)
Carmela just smiled as she plated the eggplant omelette. "Masarap lang magluto pag malamig ang umaga."
(It just feels good to cook on cold mornings.)
But in truth, her heart danced every time she thought of Raziel possibly dropping by. Which he often did, usually bringing turon from the market or kakanin wrapped in banana leaves. They had grown into a comfortable rhythm, not quite lovers, but no longer just childhood friends.
They walked along the riverbank one lazy afternoon, Raziel kicking a pebble ahead of them while Carmela hugged her arms from the cold.
"So," he said, looking sideways at her, "what's it like now that your family's seeing more of you again?"
Carmela thought for a moment. "It feels good. Peaceful. Like I missed a hundred sunsets here and now I get to watch them all again."
He smiled. "You're really poetic. Still writing?"
"Sometimes," she answered. "But mostly... I think I'm just writing my life better this time."
They walked in silence for a bit before Raziel offered her his jacket.
"You always forget to bring one," he said. "I should just start leaving a spare at your place."
Her cheeks flushed, but she took it. "Maybe you should."
---
Life at home had its quiet joys.
Carmela helped repaint the back wall of the house with her brothers, who had returned to their regular schedules. Her eldest brother, now teaching hybrid classes in the local high school, had taken to morning gardening as a break from the screen. The second, who handled their sari-sari store and side tech gigs, was often found tinkering with the inventory software Carmela helped create.
"Galing mo talaga, Carmela," he said one night while logging the week's deliveries. "This makes everything faster. Naiisip mo pa 'to dati pa?"
(You're really good at this. Did you think of this before?)
She smiled. "Sort of. I just wish I made it sooner."
Their sister, who was still in Manila with her family, often called in during dinners. Though she didn't know everything about Carmela's past life or her finances, she respected her sister's independence. The two often shared quiet moments over video calls, laughing over memories and exchanging thoughts about the world slowly shifting beneath them.
But it was the small everyday things that Carmela now treasured more than anything—hanging laundry while her mom sang folk songs, sipping tsokolate from a ceramic mug, listening to the quiet symphony of rural life.
And then there was Raziel.
---
One early morning, they rode tandem on his borrowed bike toward the edge of the rice fields. The path was narrow but familiar, dust puffing behind the wheels as they laughed at every sudden bump.
They stopped near a mango tree and sat on a low wooden bench.
"I remember this spot," Carmela said. "We used to come here when we were kids."
"And we used to argue about who could climb higher," Raziel added.
"I always won."
"I let you win."
She nudged him with her elbow.
The sun slowly rose behind the far hills, casting a golden glow over the rice paddies. Carmela watched in silence.
"Do you ever think about... what if we had met later?" she asked quietly.
Raziel looked at her. "I think about how lucky I am that we met at all."
The words stayed with her like a soft echo in her chest.
---
Later that day, her mother found her folding laundry with a faraway look in her eyes.
"Anak," she said gently, "minsan, kahit tahimik ang puso mo, kita ko pa rin ang galaw ng damdamin mo."
(Daughter, sometimes even when your heart is quiet, I still see the movement of your feelings.)
Carmela paused. "Ma, do you think... do you think we find the right people more than once?"
Her mother smiled. "Sometimes. But the second time, we love them better."
---
At the end of the week, Raziel helped install a new solar light near the San Jose's front gate. It was a simple task, but symbolic.
"Para kahit mawalan ng kuryente, may liwanag pa rin," he said.
(So that even if the power goes out, there's still light.)
Carmela looked at him and nodded. "Thanks for always being here."
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he smiled and tapped the solar light twice. It blinked back, steady and bright.
Just like them.
---
By mid-January, the days grew warmer again. School preparations, meetings, and investments began to fill Carmela's mornings. But she kept her afternoons free, often helping her mom sell homemade snacks or walking with her nephews.
One Sunday, the family held a backyard barbecue. Her eldest brother brought his guitar, and they sang along to OPM classics. Carmela sat beside Raziel, a plate of grilled liempo in one hand and a cold soda in the other.
As the sky turned from gold to indigo, Raziel leaned in and whispered, "Do you think about the future much?"
"All the time," Carmela said. "But lately... I'm more excited than afraid."
He nodded. "Me too. Especially if it means more days like this."
She looked at him, the twinkle of Christmas lights still hanging from the eaves reflecting in his eyes.
"Me too," she whispered.
And that night, as the stars gathered above and her family laughed behind them, Carmela felt something settle inside her. Not an ending.
But a beginning.