My plan moves into full swing. I started plotting how to win Rei back. I called my assistant to extend my two weeks stay in Manila to two months.
I spend the day preparing. I work with my assistant to make arrangements to stay longer in Manila.
Clothes, supplies, schedules... I plan it all.
Nothing's gonna stop me. Not this time.
I keep myself busy. My manager calls later in the day to discuss my upcoming fashion show.
It's hard to stay focused. My mind keeps going back to him, to the feel of his skin, his scent, his laugh. Even his voice still has the power to make my heart skip a beat.
I hang up after a while, my mind a jumble of half-formed thoughts.
I close my eyes for a few moments, forcing the images out of my head.
Just focus on the task at hand: get him back.
I spend the rest of the day making calls, sending emails, preparing, and planning.
The night comes, the usual exhaustion pulling at me. But I refuse to sleep.
I'm not tired. I'm driven.
I've got one goal, and nothing is going to stop me from reaching it.
The night passes me by in a blur. I work through the night, fueled by caffeine and determination.
When dawn finally comes, I force myself to take a break. I can't stay up forever—I'm only human, after all.
I try to sleep, but my mind won't stop racing, going over every possible scenario.
I end up with restless sleep, tossing and turning. This time, it's not heartache that keeps me from sleep—it's excitement.
I force myself to get up around two in the afternoon.
It's a new day, and I have a lot to do. I force my weary body into the shower.
The hot water washes away some of the exhaustion, leaving me feeling slightly more human and a lot more determined.
I dry off and get dressed, preparing for the day ahead.
My mind is clear now, filled with plans and ideas.
I'm going to get him back. I'm going to show him what he lost, and I'm going to make him regret every second we spent apart. Starting today.
I force myself to eat a light breakfast, the excitement coursing through my veins, making it hard to sit still.
I put on simple yet elegant clothes, wanting to look my best.
I take a deep breath, checking myself over one last time in the mirror.
I look better than usual, but not so much that I'd stand out.
I just want him to see me when I walk in, to do a double-take and think, "Damn, she looks good."
It's all about presentation. You need to make an impression, let him know what he's missing.
A quick glance at my watch informs me that it's the ideal time to leave.
I grab my bag and head out.
The car ride feels like it takes forever. I've got butterflies in my stomach the size of small birds, and my skin feels a little too tight.
It's almost like being on stage, with thousands of eyes watching me. Except this time—there's really only one set of eyes I'm playing for.
I arrive at the venue, slipping out of the car.
My head ducks instinctively, out of years of habit.
Luckily, there aren't any fans of rabid photographers hanging around, so my presence is inconspicuous.
I make my way to the backstage door. Thankfully, the same old security guard is on duty, so I don't have to flash any credentials. All it takes is a smile, a flash of my eyes, and a murmured "I'm here for the show," and he ushers me through, opening the door to the world of backstage again.
The backstage area isn't empty.
A few crew members are moving sound equipment, a technician is tweaking the settings on the amps, and a gaggle of stagehands seems to be gossiping about something a few feet away.
They glance up as I walk by, their gazes sliding off me like water off a raincoat.
None of them recognized me, and that's exactly what I intended.
I move towards a door at the back of the corridor. I know where it goes without even looking at the label.
My steps become almost silent. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, my breaths coming faster.
I reach the door in record time.
I can hear the sound of muted guitar music through the wood.
My hand hesitates on the doorknob. I take a deep breath to steel my nerves.
I turn the door knob and push the door open, slipping into the room with practised ease.
The sound of muted guitar music gets louder, its tone melancholic and heartbreaking.
I look up, and my vision focuses on a single person.
He's sitting on a couch, the neck of his guitar cradled between his hands. His head is bowed, his eyes fixed on the strings as his fingers dance through the strings, plucking out the haunting melody that has filled the room.
I let the door close behind me, the sound startling him.
He looks up, his fingers stilling on the strings. His eyes go wide as he looks at me.
There's a pause, an almost electric current, crackling between us like lightning.
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity.
My heart races, each beat like a drum beating in my ears. I keep telling myself to calm down, to act normal, but it's like my body isn't listening to me.
His eyes are fixed on mine, his hands gripping the guitar so tightly his knuckles have turned white.
He's the first to break the silence, his voice low and rough.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you."
My voice betrays me, coming out a touch breathless. I take a few steps forward, letting myself sink into the couch across from him.
His eyes track me the entire time, the intensity in his gaze, making it hard to stay still.
There's a moment of silence as he regards me, his expression carefully neutral.
His eyes never leave me, though. They're like a physical touch, roaming over my face, my body, taking in every little detail as if he's trying to memorize me.
The scrutiny begins to make me squirm, and I look away, trying and failing to regain my composure.
I clear my throat and manage to say, "You sound so good. You still practice a lot, huh?"
His gaze flicks back to mine, his expression still guarded.
He mutters a wordless agreement, flexing his fingers to work off the tension.
I watch as he runs his hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture that's both familiar and strange.
My heart seizes up as the urge to touch him, to card my fingers through his thick, black hair, nearly overwhelms me.
He seems to sense the change in my expression, his gaze narrowing.
His hand tightens around the neck of his guitar, the wood creaking in protest.
Neither of us speaks, like saying anything will unbalance whatever it is we've just started.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, saying the last thing I expect to hear.
"Why are you here?"
The question hangs in the air, sharp as a knife.
I swallow hard, trying to find the courage to respond. I want to tell him everything—how much I've missed him, how my heart still aches for him, how I've planned this whole thing out to show him I've changed, I've grown, I'm not the insecure, lovesick girl who left him behind six years ago.
I want to spill every single emotion that's been building up for six goddamn years…
But my words fail me.
My mouth opens and closes, the confession stuck in my throat. I'm also an actress by profession, but I suddenly can't remember how to act. I'm floundering, like a child again, caught between love and fear, fear of saying the wrong thing or saying nothing at all.
He senses the internal battle within me.
His gaze softens a fraction as he watches me struggle.
"You can say it," he murmurs, his voice still quiet but with something else in it now.
I meet his gaze, my heart beating a mile a minute. He's still so damn beautiful, I realize. Just looking at him ignites something within me, something I've kept suppressed and locked away for six long years.
The emotion in his words makes my heart pound faster.
I take a deep breath, focusing desperately on my lines—no, not lines. Feelings. My feelings. I have to be honest with myself if I want a chance at this. If I'm going to finally have him in my arms again.
I look at him, really look at him, searching for any emotion in those beautiful brown eyes. I can't tell what he's thinking—his expression is still guarded, his face betraying nothing.
I know him well, though. I know all of his little tells, the ones even he isn't aware of—the way he holds his spine a little too straight, the way he tightens his jaw ever so slightly when he's nervous, the way he runs his thumb over the neck of his guitar like it's a comfort object.
I can't help but smile, just a little. A wave of fondness washes over me, a sensation so familiar and so old it's like waking up from a dream. This is real. He's here.
The urge to go to him, to touch him, is nearly unbearable. I want to feel his skin on mine, to let the smell of his scent wash over me. I want him to put his arms around my waist and pull me close like he did so many times before…
I realize I'm staring, my gaze fixed on him.
He's looking at me, really looking at me. I feel exposed, bare to his gaze, like he can see everything that I'm trying to keep locked up.
He places his guitar on the couch seat between us.
I watch as he turns back to me, his movements deliberate. He leans forward slightly, his gaze searching my face.
His closeness makes my heart beat even faster. I've spent so long dreaming of having him close again…
I want to crawl into his lap and bury my face into his neck, but I stay rooted to the couch.
He's still watching me, his eyes like a brand on my skin. His gaze wanders over my face, lingering for a moment on my parted lips.
Every second feels like an eternity under his gaze.
He seems to be looking for something, his eyes searching my face for… something.
My heart is pounding so hard in my chest that I'm worried he's going to hear it.
"You got prettier."
His words throw me off, the sincerity in his voice making my heart skip a beat.
I blink, my eyes widening in surprise at the compliment.
My heart stutters, my brain short circuiting.
Pretty. He still thinks I'm pretty?
"You're blushing."
His words hit me like a shot, and I lift my fingers to my cheeks, feeling the flush of heat against my fingers.
I haven't blushed this hard over the past six years…
His eyes are still on me, his gaze flickering between my face and my hands, which are still pressed to my cheeks.
I'm hyper aware of everything—the way he looks at me, the sound of my own ragged breathing, the way my hands tremble slightly.
He's close enough that I can smell him—his cologne, his warmth.
He scoots forward slightly, the action bringing him a few inches closer. I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
He's so close now. I can see every detail of his face—the shadow of stubble beneath his jaw, the slope of his nose, the faint scar just left of, and under his left eye…
I realize I'm drinking in his image like a woman dying of thirst, committing every line and angle to memory.
He's watching me as well, his gaze roaming over my face, taking in every inch my features in much the same way I'm taking in his.
The look on his face is almost hungry, like he's starving for the sight of me.
After what feels like a lifetime, he murmurs, his voice low and rough.
"You're looking at me like no one's ever looked at me before."
The words startle me out of my thoughts.
My cheeks burn even hotter, my eyes wide. I thought I was the one trying to win him back by making moves on him… Clearly, I was wrong.
He's still watching me, his gaze boring into mine. The intensity in his gaze makes my head spin, a heady mixture of excitement and terror.
I want to look away, to look literally anywhere else, but I can't. I'm trapped in his gaze, held captive by his presence and the intensity brewing between us.
He leans closer.
His movement is so slight that I almost miss it, but I feel it in the air like a crackle of tension, thick and potent.
My heart is in my throat as I realize just how close he is to me. His breath whispers across my skin, sending bolts of electricity coursing through me.
Our lips are so close, just a millimetre away from kissing when a knock is heard on the door.
The sound of the knock snaps us out of the moment, and we both jerk back on reflex.
We both look towards the door, the atmosphere of the room shifting from charged to suddenly awkward.
His manager walked in while I ran out almost immediately, my face flushed.