The van engine hummed softly beneath her feet.
Kate sat in the passenger seat, her head resting lightly against the cool glass of the window. Her classmates laughed and chattered behind her, filling the vehicle with the kind of post-duty buzz only a long rotation could bring.
But Kate?
She stayed quiet.
Still.
Her fingers rested loosely on her lap, her gaze fixed on the shrinking view of the hotel from the side mirror.
That building—its walls, its halls, its dorm rooms—had seen too much of her.
It witnessed her lowest moments. Her drunk calls. Her sleepless nights. The aching silence she filled with paperwork and playlists she couldn't finish without crying.
Now, it was nothing more than a dot in the distance.
She watched as Manila began to blur by. The high-rises. The bridges. The sky beginning to shift into dusk.
Goodbye, for now.
Goodbye, Manila.
A place she once liked.
A city she once dreamed of exploring hand in hand with someone she thought would stay.
Now?
Not so much.
She exhaled slowly and pressed her lips together, suppressing the familiar tightness in her throat.
This place was no longer hers.
Sure, she'd be back. Her mother was from Manila. Some family reunions. Maybe even short visits for errands or shopping. But for now?
She needed to get out.
To escape.
To breathe.
She'd given so much of her heart in this city—and it didn't give anything back but scars and silence.
She closed her eyes for a second and whispered to herself, "Tama na."
No more hoping.
No more waiting.
No more wishing that someone who wasn't meant for her would suddenly wake up and choose her.
She was raising her white flag.
Que sera, sera.
It is what it is.
This time, she was done.
Done with half-love.
Done with questions that never got answers.
Done with temporary.
She opened her eyes again as the van moved forward, heading toward the highway—toward Pangasinan, toward home, toward a new beginning.
She placed her hand over her chest, feeling the slow, steady thump of her heart.
Still beating.
Still alive.
Still hers.
She had no more love to give anyone right now.
Not when she was just starting to gather the pieces of herself.
So from now on, it was just her.
Her goals.
Her education.
Her profession.
Her healing.
Her peace.
Love?
Let it come if it dares.
But she wouldn't chase it anymore.
.
.
.
.
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---
Time had a way of peeling you open just to see if you'd survive.
And she did.
Barely at first. Painfully. Slowly. But eventually—with grit in her spine and silence as her armor—she did.
After Manila, after the tears dried and the phone calls stopped, Kate Valentine did the one thing she never thought she could do:
She chose herself.
Every day after that was a quiet war.
Of waking up and remembering.
Of pretending she didn't.
Of learning how to keep going even when it still hurt.
It wasn't a clean healing.
There were days she laughed and still cried at night.
Days she felt empowered but would break at the scent of a familiar perfume.
Nights she thought of calling him again, but stopped herself—just before her finger touched his name.
Because she deserved more.
More than unanswered questions.
More than being someone's "almost."
More than love that couldn't stay.
And so, she poured herself into books, into charts, into long shifts that numbed the ache.
She climbed her way up with trembling hands until they stopped trembling.
Until she stood tall.
Unshaken.
And just like that…
Three years passed.
Three years.
That's how long it had been since she last saw him.
Since Mandaluyong.
Since the final tour.
Since the look in his eyes that didn't stop her from walking away.
Kate Valentine was no longer the girl who waited for closure. No longer the student nurse crying in dorm rooms. No longer the girl who clung to late-night messages and nicknames like they were lifelines.
Now, she was a registered nurse. Licensed. Employed. Sharp. Respected.
Lahat ng kung anong meron sa kaniya ngayon ay pinaghirapan niya.
All of her sleepless, tired, sad, and depressing days on medical school had paid off.
And, somehow, more beautiful.
Not just in appearance—but in how she carried herself now.
Graceful. Controlled. Unreachable.
She first worked in a hospital near her apartment in Pangasinan. Quiet days, safe routines. Familiar hallways that didn't remind her of him. But after a year and a half, she was offered a better position—a referral that landed her in a private hospital in Manila.
She hesitated at first.
But she took it.
It had been three years, after all.
She'd be fine.
And she was.
Mostly.
Kate had only been working there a week, but she had already caught attention.
The other nurses called her "Ma'am K"—even those older than her. She wasn't strict, but she was precise. Efficient. Mahigpit sa charting, but soft with patients. The doctors respected her. Some of them—especially the younger ones—noticed more than just her skill.
She could feel the stares sometimes.
From across the nurse's station.
From behind monitors during endorsement.
From doctors reviewing lab results who suddenly asked if she'd had lunch. And many other things.
There was this one time…
Kate was hunched over the nurse's counter, her pen gliding precisely across the medication sheet, when someone leaned over just close enough to cast a shadow on her clipboard.
"Miss Kate," a familiar voice said smoothly, almost playfully. "Nurse Kate, sabay na tayo break?"
She didn't bother looking up. "Hindi pa po ako gutom, Doc."
Dr. Elian Reyes, the newly rotated resident from Internal Medicine, let out a soft chuckle. "Laging ganyan ang sagot mo. Baka kasi… wala pang nagpapasaya sa'yo, ha?"
Simula nang mag work siya dito ay lagi nalang siya nitong inipeste ng doctor na ito. Halata naman na for the play lang ang lalaki. Hinding hindi niya ito papatulan no matter what, she' not planning to.
Kate's eyes didn't even flicker. "Or baka hindi ko lang talaga priority 'yon ngayon."
"Oof," he winced, putting a hand on his chest, faking offense. "Rejected na agad."
Still no reaction—just the sound of her pen scratching steadily on paper.
Then he tried again, leaning in and peeking over her shoulder. "Ganda ng handwriting mo ah. Pang future wife."
This time, Kate paused. The silence that followed stretched just long enough to make the air between them shift.
She finally looked up—her eyes calm but unreadable.
"Kung ganyan ang standards mo sa mapapangasawa, Doc…" she said with a soft, almost icy smile, "you might need better criteria."
Elian blinked. Caught off-guard. "Touché," he murmured, laughing gently.
Kate turned back to her chart, cool and composed. "Anything else po? May ipapapirma ba kayo?"
He held up both hands. "Wala. Just hoping you'd say yes sa dinner. Maybe… someday?"
There was a beat of silence—thick, weighted.
Kate didn't even meet his gaze this time.
"Someday, maybe," she said, voice light but distant. "But not today."
And just like that, she stood, handed him the chart without another glance, and walked away—poised, graceful, and untouchable.
Dr. Reyes could only stare. Watching the sway of her ponytail, the way her steps never hesitated. Not once.
There was something about her—something no one could quite grasp.
She was beautiful, yes. But it wasn't just that.
It was the quiet strength in the way she held herself.
The unreachable aura that came from surviving something no one else had seen.
The kind of woman who looked like she'd been shattered once—and rebuilt herself sharper.
Kate didn't even flinch. She could still feel his eyes on her back, but she kept walking.
Ganito lagi ang set up kapag may pumoporma sa kaniya.
She always smiled.
Politely.
Dismissively.
Then walked away.
They didn't understand.
To them, she was just another attractive colleague. One who looked extra graceful in scrubs, who rarely spoke about her personal life, who carried pain like perfume—just enough to leave a trace.
But to Kate?
Love was something she locked behind glass.
She had admirers—too many, if she was being honest. One of the residents even tried to send her coffee every morning. Another had written her a letter, quoting a poem he found online. One of her co-nurses tried to confess over lunch.
She turned them all down.
Without hesitation.
Not cruelly—but without room for question.
"Sorry… I'm not ready."
Or sometimes:
"I don't do distractions."
But the truth?
She didn't want to love again.
Not yet.
Not after what she had survived.
She had seen what love did to a girl who gave everything. She had seen what silence could do. What half-love felt like. What it cost.
And she promised herself, if she ever loved again—if—she wouldn't beg for it.
It would have to be sure. Secure. Honest.
Until then?
She belonged to herself.