Mornings always felt heavier after moments like that.
I sat by the window, resting my chin on my hand, watching the sky change colors as the jeepneys passed by. The city was awake, loud and alive—nothing like the quiet ache in my chest.
Almosts have a way of lingering.
At school, everything looked the same. Same hallways. Same lockers. Same faces. And then there he was—standing near the classroom door, laughing softly with his friends.
Ethan.
The name alone felt dangerous.
"Lia."
I turned before I even realized I was moving. He stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes searching my face like he was trying to read something I didn't know how to hide.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just tired."
A lie. But one we both pretended to believe.
We walked into the classroom together, our arms brushing for just a second. The smallest contact, yet my heart reacted like it was something more. I hated how easily he affected me.
"Did you study for the quiz?" he asked, lowering his voice.
"A bit," I replied. "You?"
He shrugged. "Enough to pass. I hope."
I smiled, and for a moment, it felt normal. Like we were just two friends talking about school. But then his smile faded, replaced by that familiar seriousness—the one that always came before silence.
"Lia," he said again. Slower this time.
"Yes?"
"I—" He stopped. Looked away. Breathed out. "Never mind."
There it was. The pause. The almost.
I wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or tell him that Iwas tired of almosts. That I was tired of pretending I didn't feel anything when everything in me was screaming his name.
But the bell rang.
Again, the world interrupted us.
He took his seat two rows in front of me. Same place. Same posture. Same distance that felt impossible to cross.
I stared at the back of his head and wondered how many chances does a person get before an almost turns into never?