The day after the dream, I felt… lighter.
Not healed. Not erased.
But something had settled inside me — the ache wasn't sharp anymore. It was something softer. Something I could carry without flinching.
Jace had been planning the trip for weeks. He said it wasn't a big deal — just a quick getaway, a break from the city, fresh air, a change of pace. "You need to breathe somewhere else," he told me. "Let your soul stretch its legs."
I didn't argue.
I said yes without overthinking, and maybe that was the first sign that something in me had shifted.
The drive out of the city was quiet, but not awkward. Jace played music — some old OPM songs I'd forgotten I loved. He tapped the steering wheel in time with the beat, humming low under his breath. He didn't push me to talk. Just let the silence between us fill itself.
I watched the scenery pass in slow motion — the gray of Metro Manila softening into the green of the province, buildings replaced by fields, traffic replaced by sky.
"I used to picture this," he said, eyes still on the road. "You. Me. Somewhere quiet. No distractions. Just space to figure things out."
I glanced at him, unsure what to say.
He added, "Not that I expected you to say yes."
"I didn't expect me to say yes either," I replied, surprising both of us.
We didn't say anything after that. But the quiet wasn't heavy. It just… was.
⸻
We reached the coast by late afternoon.
The air smelled like salt and sun-warmed earth. The ocean was calm, gray-blue, and glittering, waves curling gently onto the shore. It wasn't a grand resort — just a quiet beachfront cabin and the steady rhythm of water meeting sand.
I walked barefoot down the shore while Jace unpacked. The wind tugged at my hair, and I let it. I felt undone in the best way — like I could finally exhale.
"Hey," he called softly from behind me. "Dinners in an hour. I brought wine."
I smiled without turning back. "Do you always try this hard?"
"Only when it matters," he said.
⸻
That night, we ate outside, beneath a sky scattered with stars. The wine made my thoughts a little slower, my tongue a little looser. The sea sang somewhere nearby.
"I don't know how to do this," I said finally.
"Do what?"
"Move on… without pretending."
He looked at me — really looked — and didn't speak right away.
"You don't have to pretend," he said. "You just have to be honest."
"I still think of him," I admitted.
"I know."
"Sometimes it still hurts."
"I know that too."
I looked down at my hands. "Isn't that unfair to you?"
He was quiet for a beat. Then:
"Maybe. But love isn't always fair. It's just real. And right now, what's real is this — you and me. This moment. This chance."
I felt something in my chest crack — not painfully, but like a door opening.
"You're not a replacement," I whispered.
He nodded. "I know."
"And I don't know if I can love you the way you deserve yet."
"I'm not asking for that," he said gently. "I'm just asking you to try. To let me be here. However long it takes."
I wanted to cry.
Not out of sadness.
But because for the first time in a long time, someone was choosing me without needing me to be anything other than exactly what I was — a little broken, still healing, still learning how to breathe without the weight of the past.
So, I leaned my head on his shoulder.
And he didn't say a word.
He just sat there, letting the silence hold us.
And under the stars, beside the sea, with the memory of a dream still flickering in the corners of my mind, I thought—
Maybe this is how it begins.
Not with fireworks.
But with presence.
With softness.
With someone staying, even when you haven't figured everything out yet.
⸻
I didn't know what would happen next.
I didn't know if I would ever fully let go of Elián.
But in that moment, with the ocean in front of me and someone kind beside me, I knew one thing:
I was no longer waiting.
I was walking toward something.
Even if I didn't know what it was yet