The first real apology came with pancakes.
He showed up at my door holding takeout from our favorite brunch spot—Sunny Side Café in BGC—the one with the overpriced truffle hash and those fluffy banana pancakes I once said reminded me of weekends at my Lola's house in Batangas. He had a sheepish grin, two lattes balanced in one hand—mine with oat milk and cinnamon, just the way I liked it, still warm enough to fog the plastic lid.
"I was an ass," he said, lips quirking sideways. "I missed you."
I stood there in my robe, mascara smudged from crying the night before, my throat sore from swallowing back the words I never said. The smell of syrup and brewed espresso hit me like memory. Sweet. Warm. Almost safe. And for a second—just a second—I felt wanted again. Like maybe it had all been a misunderstanding. Like maybe love just looked a little messy when it was real. Like maybe I wasn't foolish for staying.
So I let him in.
And that was the start of it: the cycle.
The silence.
The shift.
The sting.
The sorry.
It always moved in that rhythm, like a terrible dance I didn't know how to stop. A choreography of chaos, familiar like an old folk song passed down in whispers.
He'd pull away—suddenly, without warning. His texts less frequent, his warmth cooling like leftover sinangag forgotten on the stove.
I'd notice.
I'd ask.
He'd deflect. Turn it into a joke, say "You're too smart to be this insecure, babe."
I'd press.
He'd snap.
And I—God, I'd cry. Alone, curled up in bed with the ceiling fan spinning overhead and the moonlight drawing long silver shadows across the tiled floor. Sometimes I'd sob into my kumot, bite the edge of my pillow to muffle the sound so my neighbors wouldn't hear. This was a condo after all—thin walls, thick secrets.
Then he'd come back. Always.
With softness in his voice and hands that knew exactly where to land.
Fingers brushing my hair behind my ears.
Lips whispering, "Let's not fight. I hate when you're sad."
He'd trace circles on my back like erasers, as if affection could undo damage.
"I've never felt this way before."
"You make me want to be better."
"You're just so powerful, it scares me."
It was always wrapped in compliments.
And I—God—I fell for every one.
Because the highs were addictive.
Because he did know me, at least the parts of me I had curated and offered like gifts I wasn't sure he deserved.
Because when you haven't known consistency, chaos can feel like passion. And passion can fool you into thinking pain is part of the package.
But slowly, something inside me began to shift.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just a kind of erosion—like waves softening stone, day by day, pretending to kiss it while slowly wearing it down.
I stopped talking about my wins at work.
Didn't mention when I was invited to speak at that women-in-leadership forum in Makati.
Filtered the excitement from my voice when I hit a milestone in a project.
I dulled my shine because I'd seen his face when I spoke too proudly. That twitch of discomfort. That smirk that said You're too much.
So I made myself smaller.
I softened the parts of me he found "too intense."
I edited my laugh, shortened my sentences, stopped sending him articles that excited me. He never read them anyway.
I became a quieter version of myself—still brilliant, still witty, but dulled at the edges. Like a blade wrapped in silk. One that only cut me.
And then I began to apologize too.
"Sorry I overreacted."
"Sorry, I just get in my head sometimes."
"Sorry if I made you feel like I don't trust you."
I became fluent in the language of shrinking.
So good at making excuses for him that I forgot how to defend myself.
My friends noticed.
One afternoon over milk tea in Greenhills, Bea looked at me and said, "You don't smile the same when you talk about him anymore."
Another friend, Tanya, just raised her eyebrows when I mentioned we were "working through stuff." She didn't say anything—but her silence was louder than any advice.
Working through what?
A maze with no exit?
A man who disappeared and returned like the tide—dragging pieces of me away each time?
Even my younger cousin, a Gen Z fireball who vlogged about healing and healthy boundaries, asked me once, "Ate, do you really like him? Or are you just scared of being alone?"
I had no answer.
I started second-guessing everything.
I'd write texts and delete them.
Draft long paragraphs only to erase them entirely.
Rehearse how I'd sound casual, chill, unbothered—when inside, I was unraveling.
I hated how desperate I felt for scraps of affection.
How my entire mood could swing with the sound of a notification.
How I'd lie in bed with my phone on my chest, eyes burning, whispering konti na lang, babalik din 'yan, like some sad mantra I inherited from my mother and didn't know how to break.
And he did.
Every time.
With pancakes.
With playlists.
With promises.
And I let him.
Every time.
Because somehow, being almost loved felt better than not being seen at all.
Because in this world of curated lives and filtered affection, almost love still looked good in photos. Still got likes. Still fooled my heart just enough.
But even then, deep down—I knew.
I wasn't waiting for him to change.
I was waiting for myself to matter.