It started with jealousy.
Or maybe it started long before that — in every stolen glance, every text that lingered longer than it should've, every moment where our hands didn't touch but wanted to.
But the night Jace confessed, everything broke open.
He had a bouquet of calla lilies. Said he'd been waiting for the right time. Said he admired my resilience. Said I had a laugh that made hard days feel less cruel.
I didn't know how to answer him.
And I never got the chance to. Because Elián had been watching — from the corner of the conference room, from across the loud table where team leaders laughed over lukewarm pancit and late approvals. His eyes followed Jace, not me. Like he wanted to tear the flowers in half.
Later that night, the team went out to KTV.
I wasn't in the mood, but someone handed me a mic and said, "Mara, sing something sad. That's your thing, right?"
I smiled, tired, and sang "Is It Too Late?"
When the music faded, there was quiet. Not because of my voice, but because the words hit differently when they were true. I sat down without a word. Jace smiled softly at me. Elián didn't look at me at all.
Until later.
He was the one who insisted on taking me home. I was too drunk to argue.
That night, he didn't speak much in the car. Just looked straight ahead, jaw tight.
But when we got to my place, he didn't leave.
"I'll make sure you're okay," he said.
It started with silence. Him helping me take off my heels. Me handing him water like it was a normal Tuesday.
Then his voice, low and raw:
"I didn't like seeing you with him."
I looked up, eyes blurry from alcohol and confusion. "Elián…"
"I'm not ready to be anyone's boyfriend," he said. "But I don't want anyone else holding your hand."
The words stunned me.
He moved closer, searching my face like he was looking for something to hold on to. "I don't want to lose this," he said. "Even if it's messy. Even if I can't label it."
I could've said no. I should've.
But I was tired of being strong. I was tired of pretending I didn't want him too.
So, I nodded. Just once. "Okay."
And maybe that was the real beginning.
We became something in secret.
No labels. No official declarations. But everything we did felt like love.
He started staying over — sometimes on weeknights when the stress got too much, always on weekends when we pretended the world outside didn't exist.
He'd cook eggs in the morning like he belonged there. Steal bites from my plate. Scroll through my phone pretending to be offended by how many selfies I had.
Sometimes, he'd pull me in by the waist while I was washing dishes and say, "You're pretty when you're annoyed."
And sometimes, when we were both quiet — lying under the sheets, tangled up — he'd just look at me like he was memorizing something he was afraid to forget.
One night, the silence stretched soft between us.
He had just fallen asleep — his arm draped over me; his breath warm against my shoulder. I watched him, my fingers tracing the lines of his back. I wanted to burn the moment into memory.
This man. This body. This breath beside mine.
I thought maybe this is enough.
Maybe having him this way — even if I didn't own him, even if he couldn't promise me forever — was enough.
His brows twitched in sleep, and I kissed his temple. Whispered something I knew he wouldn't hear.
"I love you."
It hurt to say it. Not because it wasn't true, but because I knew — deep down — that he might never say it back.
Still, I fell asleep beside him. Heart full. Scared. And soft.
That night, the dream came again.
A field of golden grass. A sky half-sunset, half-night. I stood at the edge of something — a cliff, a lifetime, I couldn't tell.
And there he was. The same man from before. The one with tired eyes and that sad kind of smile.
"You found me," he said.
His voice felt like a lullaby. Familiar. Distant.
"But not yet. Not this time."
I reached for him, but he stepped back.
"Love me in this life," he whispered, "but don't lose yourself again."
Then he was gone.
And I woke up to sunlight on my face, Elián's arm still wrapped around me — warm, real, here.
But the ache in my chest reminded me:
Some dreams aren't meant to stay.
Some loves… are borrowed
Five months.
That's how long it had been since I said OKAY.
Okay to no labels.
Okay to borrowed time.
Okay to a love I couldn't call mine but still felt like home.
Five months of quiet weekends that felt like promises we never said out loud. He kept coming over. Kept choosing me in every way but the one that mattered most.
And I kept letting him.
It was a Saturday night. Rain tapping softly against the windows, Quezon City hushed under its wet blanket.
We had eaten leftover pasta and watched reruns of a show we never finished.
I was lying on the couch in one of his old shirts — soft, gray, with a hole near the hem — my legs stretched over his lap, our limbs tangled like routine. He was scrolling lazily through his phone while rubbing circles on my ankle.
"What if I got pregnant?" I asked out of nowhere.
He glanced up, smirking. "You planning something?"
I shrugged. "Just a question."
He leaned back and pulled me closer. "You'd be a cool mom."
I rolled my eyes. "Cool moms don't cry in stairwells."
"You haven't cried in a while," he said softly, tucking a curl behind my ear. "You're stronger now."
Maybe that was true. Or maybe I just learned how to cry quieter.
Later that night, we were in bed — the kind of silence between us that didn't need filling.
His kisses were slow, almost reverent. The kind that didn't rush. The kind that asked for nothing but gave everything.
We moved like we knew each other by heart — his hand cupping my waist, his breath shallow against my neck. I ran my fingers down the curve of his back, feeling the tension and tenderness melt together.
"Mara," he whispered, like it meant something more than just my name.
I kissed his jaw, his chest, the line between his brows. I memorized his face in the dark.
And when we came undone, it wasn't loud. It wasn't wild.
It was quiet. Gentle. The kind of lovemaking that felt like telling the truth with your whole body.
I wrapped my arms around him as he lay against me, his head resting near my collarbone.
"I'm falling," I said quietly.
He didn't move.
"Are you still not ready?" I asked, barely audible. "To be mine — really mine."
He didn't lie.
"I don't know how to be someone's forever," he said. "I still feel broken in places I haven't fixed."
I nodded.
"I don't need a label," I whispered. "I just needed to ask."
He kissed my shoulder. "I know."
And that was the last we said.
Because we both knew I'd still love him in the morning.
Even if I'd never be the woman he chose in the end.
But something did change that night.
A few mornings later, I stood in the bathroom staring at the test.
Two lines.
Positive.
I blinked. Then laughed. Then cried.
Not because I was afraid — although I was.
Not because I didn't want it — although I hadn't planned it.
But because something inside me whispered: You're not alone anymore.
I didn't tell him.
Not yet.
He had told me he wasn't ready for forever.
And this felt dangerously close to it.
So, I tucked the test into the back of my drawer, next to a photo of us I had secretly printed. Just his hand in mine on a park bench. Just a stolen moment. Nothing more.
But it was enough to hold onto — for now