I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, wearing one of his oversized sweaters.
The sleeves swallowed my hands, and his scent clean, crisp, faintly citrus, still clung to the fabric. It was deliberate.
Sebastian always chose every small thing, even if he never said it out loud.
The morning sunlight outside my Manila window didn't feel warm today.
Not with him already thousands of feet away, flying back to Seoul.
I wrapped my arms around myself, eyes drifting past the empty duffle bag in the corner, gone, just like the echo of his laugh or the soft way he held my hand when no one was looking.
It'd been almost a year since we found each other again.
A year of whispered midnight calls, plane-ticket goodnights, secret coffee-shop kisses when the world didn't know and couldn't place.
But now… now the distance stretched wider than just an ocean.
My phone buzzed.
Sebastian:
Landed safe. Call once we're settled at the unit.
Miss you already. 🧡
I re-read the message, heart thudding.
"God, i miss you too," I murmured to the empty room.
-
DAY 3 – The First FaceTime
It was a Wednesday, healer's day off for me, dance practices for him.
I'd just wrapped a brand shoot and walked into my living room when the screen lit up: Sebastian's username flashing like a beacon.
He appeared on screen, dorm-lit, hair damp, lines of exhaustion cradling his eyes.
He looked tired. Still stunning, but tired.
"Did i wake you?" he asked, voice low and hopeful.
"No," I lied. My voice trembled. "Just got home from a shoot."
He sighed. "Dance practice. My knees are 85 years old now."
"Show me one move," I teased.
He smirked.
Then suddenly got quiet. "Can you stay on the call until i sleep?"
My heart clenched. "Always."
So we stayed.
In silence.
Light breathing on either end.
I watched him drift off, his chest rising and falling through recessed half-light.
He looked peaceful, something i promised him he'd always have via memory, or here, in pixels from across the sea.
-
He was in Seoul. I was in Manila.
He had rehearsals, fan signs, dance battles on late-night Korean TV.
I had script readings, brand shoots, interviews, nights on set.
I'd wake to find a good morning text.
He'd fall asleep to my voice memo of rain in my window.
I'd send him clips of empty streets at 2 a.m.
Seoul time—just to remind him i was awake and thinking.
We learned, together, how to carry love through time zones.
Coffee for me = his late-night snack.
His lyric drafts = my midday playlist.
My dull days = his digital hugs via heart emojis.
Distance meant saying I love you in voice notes across sunrise lines.
-
It was late Thursday night, the kind where Manila's rain pattered like a lullaby across my window.
He sent a voice memo.
"I wrote something. Not for SOLSTICE… for you."
The note read like a headline but felt intimate. I pressed play.
His voice, raw, real, filled my room:
"I don't need a stage when i've got your smile..."
"I don't need the lights when your eyes shine brighter..."
"And even if the world forgets my name..."
"I'll still be the boy who loved you in silence..."
Tears welled.
How do you survive a love like this? One that sings across oceans?
-
TWO MONTHS IN – A Private Gala
A few weeks ago, I got invited to a Lueur gala in Manila.
Even though i'd returned to the brand, I still bristled at all the glitz and cameras.
But it was worth it, seemed harmless, private.
I wore black.
Soft waves in my hair.
The necklace he gave me resting at my throat.
Inside the ballroom, everything shimmered—crystal chandeliers, champagne trays, elegant gowns.
The world was polite, distant.
But i'd been told to check the garden.
And so i did.
Past the glass doors, under fairy lights and petals, he was there.
Sebastian, looking unreal, waiting.
Every cell in me shook.
He moved toward me.
I ended up in his arms before i could think.
No stage, no spotlights, just the soft hum of distant laughter and my heartbeat thundering between us.
"I told them i needed three days off," he whispered, tracing circles on my arm. "I told them I was losing my mind without you."
We laughed.
We cried.
We held each other like time could snap at any second.
-
Tonight, we wrapped ourselves in one blanket on my balcony.
Manila glowed in galaxies below us.
"I missed this," he said, tilting his head on my shoulder.
Me too.
"Do you think…" he paused, voice unsteady, "we'll ever be able to just… be us? Without hiding?"
I sighed. "I don't know. But i think we're worth the risk."
He tilted his head back, gazing at the sky. "You know... if the world forgets my face, I'll still be him. But if i never had you… I'd never know what i lost."
My chest seized.
"Promise me," I whispered, holding his hand.
He didn't hesitate. "I promise."
And in that hush, between city lights and starlight, we didn't need more than each other.
-
Days blurred into FaceTimes and longing texts.
We weren't perfect.
We had bad days, static on the video chat, missed calls, grumpy eyelids 7 a.m. my time and 9 p.m. his.
We learned again: fought again, then forgave again.
Distance tested us, but we decided to grow together.
One night, I woke to this:
Sebastian:
I got cut in dance rehearsal. Nothing serious but i wanted you to know.
Also… can you send lyrics to that song you wrote last year?
I panicked.
I'd scribbled lines in old notebooks about pain and hope and mornings i never thought i'd see.
I found the page in minutes, snapped a pic, and texted:
"Just some lines. I still like it."
He responded with a heart emoji.
It wasn't romantic.
It was real.
-
Three months after he left, I got a letter in a small Lueur box.
Inside: a plane ticket to Seoul. A note:
Come see the studio.
Just for a day.
Let me meet your world and introduce you to mine.
– S
A whole day in his universe. I packed but hesitated.
Long flights aren't easy.
Long goodbyes are harder.
But i went.
-
I landed at dawn. He was there waiting through customs.
No huge gestures, just sleep in his eyes and relief in his smile.
We went straight to practice studio. He pulled me inside.
"Welcome to my second home," he said.
The room hummed with energy.
Posters of past tours.
Sound booths.
Mirrors.
Mirrors where i saw him—when he taught me a step in secret.
The first time he said these shoes would hurt less if i fell for you.
He stood in front of me, eyes closed, and tapped his temple.
"Tell me a line. Any."
I whispered, fragile: "I don't need a stage…"
He opened his eyes. Recognized them.
Smiled softly.
We spent hours there, me watching him move, teaching me Korean lyrics, him laughing at my accent.
I learned more about his world in those hours than i had in months of text messages.
The sweat.
The dedication.
The silence.
The quiet pain he'd hidden from me last time.
He pulled me close to the mirror and kissed my temple.
"It's real," he whispered. "I need this and I need you."