Darius couldn't find the words to describe what he was feeling.
Shock? That wasn't enough.
It was like a bomb had exploded in his chest, and all the pieces of his heart—pieces he had carefully put back together—had shattered all at once.
"Why?" he whispered, staring blankly ahead. "Why did this have to happen? Of all the women… why her?"
He tried to compose himself, but no matter what he did, he couldn't shake the cold that spread through his body. It was like the world turned freezing, even though he knew it was noon and scorching hot outside. The woman who had stood before him earlier—the woman he had once loved more than himself—was the same woman who had broken him. No warning. No explanation. She just left.
Suddenly, memories flooded his mind.
The first day he saw her—wearing their junior high uniform, holding a book, brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of a chart at the school library. His simple "Excuse me" had been the beginning of everything.
From there, everything moved quickly.
They fell for each other. They loved. They made promises.
"Forever," she whispered one night, leaning against an acacia tree by the oval.
"Forever," he replied, wrapping his arms around her.
"Forever," they said together while watching the tiny lights from their viewpoint, one night they spontaneously drove to Tagaytay.
"Forever," as he held her from behind.
But there was no "forever" the night she suddenly disappeared. All she left was a text: "Sorry." And then she was gone. He was like a child abandoned in the middle of a violent storm.
He also remembered the time they made promises again, happy and full of hope, after he gave Angela a promise ring under a Sakura tree during a trip to Kyoto, Japan.
And now, Angela was back. Not as an ex. Not as a ghost from the past.
But as a woman connected to his child.
His and Elle's child.
Darius gasped.
"Goddamn it, Angela Marie Adriano…"
His throat tightened. He wanted to speak. He wanted to scream all the pain and questions—but he couldn't.
Because it wasn't just his feelings on the line anymore.
It was his child.
And Elle.
The quiet world they built together.
He tried to remain composed during the meeting earlier. No one noticed the tension boiling beneath his words. But with every second, every glance at Angela—who looked as if nothing had happened, as if she wasn't the reason he used to cry himself to sleep—he felt his soul being slowly scorched.
When the meeting ended, he was the first to leave the conference room. No goodbyes. No second looks.
He needed to get out.
He needed to breathe.
Because it felt like a massive stone had been dropped on his chest, making it nearly impossible to inhale.
He didn't know where his feet were taking him—he just walked fast, straight out of the hospital. The sun's heat hit his skin, but all he felt was cold. The world seemed pointless. His quiet life was crumbling.
For some reason, he ended up at a resto bar. It was still closed. A few staff were cleaning inside. On any other day, he would've just walked past. But today, it felt like the only safe place left in the world.
He approached the entrance, introduced himself properly, and asked politely.
Thankfully, the owner was kind—and Filipino-American. They let him in.
Moments later, he had a glass of alcohol in hand. Something he'd long sworn off—because of the terrible decisions he made while drunk. But today, he didn't care.
"You've got one hell of a sense of humor…" he muttered as he drank. "This isn't funny. It hurts. It really f***ing hurts."
He let his forehead fall into his palm, trying to fight off the memories. But it was like watching a movie in his own head—with no pause button.
"Wasn't everything you did to me back then enough? Weren't you satisfied?" He refilled his glass, shaking his head. "Just when I thought I had moved on… just when I thought everything was finally okay… that's when you return, as if nothing ever happened."
He closed his eyes. Took a moment.
He could hear the growing bustle around him—the sound of a mop on the tiles, glasses clinking, a staff member laughing nearby. But to him, it was all noise. The only sound that truly echoed in his mind was the thudding of his heart—like a bomb threatening to go off.
"I did everything for you," he whispered. "But you still left. Wasn't my love enough? Did you ever really love me? Or… was I just a toy to you?"
He noticed his hands trembling as he held the glass. He tried to take a deep breath, but it was as if there was no air left in his lungs.
Out of the corner of his eye, his phone lit up.
Elle. Eleven missed calls.
He didn't answer. Not yet. He couldn't pretend he was okay.
He drank again. Shut his eyes.
How long would he be trapped between two worlds—the past that refused to let go, and the present he was trying so hard to protect?
This wasn't the right way to face the situation. He knew that. But it felt like the only question left now was:
How?
How could he move forward when the ghost of yesterday returned in flesh and blood?
How could he be a father to the child he and Elle had, if a part of him was still hurting over Angela?
How could he choose what was right, when the wounds inside him hadn't truly healed?
He stood up. Paid the bill. Left nothing but a quiet "thank you."
As he walked home, the night deepened. A cold wind blew, but it wasn't enough to cool the heat of anger and pain burning in his chest. The alcohol's warmth in his throat did little to numb the ache he carried.
One thing he knew for sure.
His story with Angela wasn't over.
And he had no idea how to get out of it without getting hurt all over again.