"Wherever I am, whoever I'm with—you're still the best person and place I could run to, Naure," he said with a soft smile, pulling me into a tight hug.
He was leaving the country soon. There were big opportunities waiting for him overseas. I didn't really want to hug him, but he pulled me in like he didn't want to let go.
"Of course. I'm obviously the best person for you," I joked, gently patting his back.
I might've looked like I was smiling, but inside, I knew I was going to miss him. I didn't know when we'd get to see each other again.
"I'll call you all the time, okay? Just... don't ignore my calls," he said. I could feel his shoulders shaking, and his tears were starting to soak through my shirt.
"Wait—" I gently pushed him back to look at his face. "Are you crying?"
He quickly turned away and wiped his tears on his sleeve.
"Oh come on, Emilliano. It's not like we're never going to see each other again," I teased, reaching up to wipe the tears from his face with my thumb. "Don't be so dramatic. People might think I made you cry."
His lips trembled as he stared at me. I knew how hard this was for him—moving to a country he didn't really know. Sure, the U.S. is huge, full of possibilities. But for someone like him—someone who never feels at home anywhere unfamiliar, who loves to explore but still gets homesick—I understood.
"I know you'll be fine in the U.S., Emilliano," I said, gripping his shoulders. Steady. Reassuring. "You have your manager, Luis, the whole production team—remember?"
"They're not you, Naure." His voice sounded like a child's, upset and stubborn. "You've been with me since we were kids. You're not in America."
Maybe it wasn't the move he feared. Maybe it was being without me.
I've been with him since I could remember—we grew up together. He was my constant and for the first time in our lives, we were going to be apart.
"You'll have your phone. You can call me whenever you're free. I'll pick up, like you said," I told him. But he shook his head.
"What if you change while I'm gone? What if I don't recognize you anymore?" His voice cracked, and tears fell again. "What if we both change?"
"People do change. That's normal," I said gently. "But that doesn't mean how we treat each other has to change."
"I swear, Emilliano. I won't change."
"Fine. Promise?" He held out his hand, and I smiled, placing mine on top of his. Slowly, I slid my hand off his palm—like we always did when making promises. Our little way of sealing it. Just between us.
But little did I know—he'd be the one to break that promise.
No call ever came. Not in the years he stayed in America. So many times I wanted to dial his number, just to ask how he was. But I held myself back. I didn't want to be a distraction. I didn't want to get in the way of his success—especially as his name slowly became known across America.
He got project after project. I watched them all.
But after four years, I stopped. Not because I didn't like the movies. Not even because I stopped admiring his acting. I stopped because I had finally accepted it—we couldn't go back to how things were. He was no longer in my life, and I was no longer in his. That was that. I put a period at the end of our story.
But fate really does like to play.
After six years of complete silence—imagine that—he came back to the Philippines. And not just that, he ended up being cast in the adaptation of my book. And now, it's like nothing ever happened. Like those six years didn't matter at all.
And that's fine. Really.Something unexpected happened that day, and I only have myself to blame.
I woke up to the sound of a ringing phone. Still half-asleep, I grabbed the phone and held it to my ear—but I was confused. The call was already ongoing, yet I could still hear ringing from somewhere else.
That's when I realized—it was his phone ringing.My phone was in the living room.
I ended the ongoing call on his phone—he hadn't hung up the night before. It had been running for nearly 10 hours. The phone was warm in my hand.
I scrambled out of bed, remembering someone was trying to call me. In my rush, I slipped on the stairs and twisted my ankle—but I forced myself up and limped to the living room.
When I found my phone and saw it was Cath calling, I answered right away.
"Hello?" I said, wincing.
That's when I really felt it—the pounding in my head, the sting in my ankle. I sank to the floor from the pain.
"Hello?! What happened?!" Cath's voice was loud and frantic—I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
Groaning, I didn't know whether to hold my head or my foot. "Are you already on set?" I asked.
"Oh god, yes! You just woke up?" she asked.
"Yeah…" I closed my eyes tightly. "But I'm not needed on set today, right? I want to sleep more." I pouted.
"You dummy. Emilliano isn't here either—and no one can contact him."
I ran a hand through my hair. "What?" I glanced at the clock. "It's already 12 PM," I whispered, now worried.
Today wasn't the first day of actual filming, but it was still important. Everything was prepared—wardrobe, locations, the full cast. The only thing left was one final reading. Cath always did this with her projects, just to see if the delivery of lines had changed. It was also the first time the full cast would be in one room together.
"Do you have any way of reaching him?" she asked again. "We can't get ahold of him—Luis said he lost his phone."
My eyes narrowed. Lost? But… he gave me that phone and what about the new one he used to call me?
I let out a breath. "No." I lied. I'll just call him later.
"Oh—sorry. I forgot he cut you off," she teased, and I immediately ended the call. She knew. She always understood.
I sent her a text instead:Start the reading without him. Focus on the parts without his lines so you can move forward.
It'd be a waste of time to keep waiting for that guy. No need for everyone to suffer.
I headed back upstairs with his phone in hand. I dialed his number using his own phone. After a few rings, he finally picked up.
"Hi," he greeted. He was in the car, I could tell, though I wasn't sure if he was the one driving. "Why?"
"You're not on set," I said. "They're waiting."
"I know."His voice was calm. "I didn't wake up when my alarm rang. Only woke up when you ended the call."
Like it was nothing.
"Yeah?" I said softly. "Take care."I didn't wait for his response—I ended the call and set the phone aside.
Since I wasn't needed at the studio, I decided to head home to Cavite.
I always loved coming back here—everything about it felt peaceful. Like home.
"Maa?" I called out as I entered the gate.
Our house was old-fashioned—straight out of a vintage novel. It was passed down from my mom to my grandma, Amenda. I never got to meet her, so I never got to ask how old this house really was. But my mom once said it had been around since the Japanese era.
The smell of my mom's kaldereta greeted me as I stepped in, but something else caught my attention—a large photo frame.
"Ma?! Why is this still here?" I asked, walking closer and lifting it off the wall.
It was a photo of me and Emilliano—we were both five, wearing matching red clothes, crying. I took a deep breath and carried it to my room, placing it in the storage box with the rest.
It's not that I don't want to remember him. This house is filled with memories of him.But I don't want other people to know who he was to me. Especially not with how often Mom throws parties here.
"Oh? Why are you hiding it? He'll look for that when he visits again," Mom said behind me.
I knew that line by heart. For almost six years now, every time I came back to Cavite, Mom would mention him—always, always Emilliano.
"Ma… he's not coming back," I said quietly, lowering my head."We're not the same people to him anymore."