It ended on a Sunday. We were sitting at my kitchen table, drinking matcha from mugs we bought together at a pop-up ceramics market. The kind of morning that should've felt soft. Safe.
Instead, it felt like fog.
I could barely look at him. Not because I was angry. But because I wasn't. And that scared me more than anything.
We had stopped fighting. Stopped trying. We were two highly capable people sharing space like polite ghosts.
He asked how my mentorship program was going. I told him one of my mentees got a job offer in Berlin. He smiled, said, "You're building a legacy."
But his eyes didn't reach me. And mine didn't reach him.
A long silence passed between us. And then—I said it.
"We're not good for each other, are we?"
He didn't flinch.
He looked down at his mug and exhaled like he'd been holding that breath for months. "No," he said quietly. "We're not."
There was no blame. No list of what went wrong. Just the soft grief of two people who tried their best, but still couldn't find each other inside the wreckage of their own survival.
I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Because even now, I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Even now, I wanted to be the graceful one.
He stood up first. Picked up his jacket. Looked at me like he was trying to memorize something—but didn't know what.
"I learned a lot with you," he said. And I nodded, because I had too.
But healing beside someone is not the same as healing with them. And awareness is not the same as intimacy.
He walked to the door, paused.
"You're going to be okay."
I said, "I already am."
It wasn't a lie, exactly. But it wasn't the full truth either.
After he left, I sat there for a long time. Watched the steam curl from my mug. Listened to the clock tick in a room that suddenly felt too still.
I thought about how we knew every term—codependency, attachment style, trauma response. But none of it saved us.
Because love is not a research project. It's not who knows more. It's not how well you speak the language of wounds.
It's whether you stay when it's uncomfortable. Whether you let the other person be messy. Whether you can hold space not just for their growth, but for their regression too.
And neither of us could.
We were too skilled at surviving. Too afraid of failing. Too exhausted to keep pretending that "mature love" always means the right love.
Later that night, I found myself rearranging the bookshelf. Not because it needed it—but because I needed the illusion of control. I dusted off a framed photo of us at Pinto Art Museum, standing under an archway of bougainvilleas, smiling like we didn't know yet how hard it would get.
I placed it in a box labeled "memories"—along with concert tickets, a worn-out copy of "Attached," and a note he once left on my laptop: "Thank you for being soft with me."
I changed the sheets. Lit a lavender candle. Put on a playlist called "Unbecoming." And I stood in front of the mirror longer than usual.
Not to inspect. But to witness.
My reflection looked tired, yes—but clear. Like I had been crying, but had come through the other side. Like I had finally stopped apologizing for wanting a love that stays.
I ordered sinigang for dinner—sour and warm, just like the rainy Sundays of my childhood. I ate slowly, savoring the comfort, the tang. I texted my best friend, "We broke up. I'm okay. Just really quiet."
She replied immediately: "I'm proud of you."
And for once, I let that sink in.
Later, I walked to the sari-sari store to buy ice cream. Rocky road. The woman behind the counter smiled and said, "Mukhang kailangan mo 'yan." I smiled back. "Oo nga po."
As I walked home, spoon in hand, city humming around me, I realized: I had been waiting for someone to choose me without hesitation.
But now—I was choosing myself.
Not because it was trendy. Not because it was part of my healing checklist. But because I had finally grown tired of holding both sides of the relationship on my own.
I didn't need a partner who could quote therapy. I needed one who could sit beside me on my worst days, hand me a blanket, and just say, "I'm here."
I fell asleep with the window open. Let the Manila night breeze wrap around me like a soft apology.
And when I woke up, the ache was still there.
But so was I.
Whole. Honest.
Not healed—but healing.
And that, I realized, was enough.
The next morning, I walked to the neighborhood café alone. I brought my journal, not to reflect on him, but to reflect on myself. I ordered pan de sal and brewed barako coffee, the bitterness grounding me in the present. A group of high schoolers were laughing in the corner. One played music from her phone—an old OPM song about letting go.
I smiled at the coincidence.
Later, I passed a street vendor selling sampaguita. I bought a small garland, tied it to my bag, and breathed in the scent of childhood mornings and church pews. I thought of my Lola, who once told me, "When you're not sure what to do, go back to what made you feel pure."
So I went home. Cleaned the apartment. Played Kundiman on vinyl. Took a long shower with eucalyptus oil steaming the mirror. I wrapped myself in a towel and stood in front of the mirror again. Not to rehearse a goodbye—but to welcome a return.
I whispered, "You did the best you could. I'm proud of you."
This wasn't just the end of a relationship. It was the start of re-parenting the part of me that thought love had to be earned through suffering.
I curled up on the couch, reading an old book I once loved but had forgotten. The words felt new again. So did I.
And this time, when I reached for my phone, it wasn't to check for his name.
It was to text myself: "You're doing great."