At some point, love stopped being a feeling and became a strategy. Andre and I weren't partners anymore. We were players in a game neither of us admitted we were playing.
Every moment had subtext. Every silence carried weight. If I didn't text first, would he? If he shared something vulnerable, was it real—or just another display of emotional currency?
We knew the language of wounds too well. He'd say, "I'm noticing you seem avoidant right now." And I'd reply, "Or maybe I'm just tired of trying to soothe your inner child when mine is screaming."
On the surface, we were still us. Still the "conscious couple" that people envied. Still swapping trauma resources and going to workshops together. But behind closed doors? We were shape-shifting to survive each other.
He stopped asking how I really felt. I stopped sharing even when he did. He withdrew in his cold, thoughtful way. I retaliated by performing indifference louder. We both knew we were slipping.
One night, I brought up something simple—how he didn't acknowledge the anniversary of our first date. I wasn't even angry. Just… disappointed. He said, "Do you really need rituals to prove this matters?" And I said, "No. I need to not feel invisible."
That landed. He blinked. Said nothing. Then went to wash the dishes. And just like that, the game continued: Disconnection masked as "maturity." Emotional withholding packaged as "boundaries." Politeness in place of vulnerability.
We weren't yelling. We were editing ourselves in real time. Avoiding any real intimacy because we knew exactly how much it could hurt.
The irony? We'd spent months teaching each other how to recognize red flags… But not how to lower them.
I began journaling things I couldn't say aloud. He began working later. "Just catching up," he said. I started posting quotes about "choosing yourself." He liked them but never asked what I was really trying to say.
We weren't partners anymore. We were mirrors, each hoping the other would blink first.
I started fantasizing about being alone again—not because I didn't love him, but because being alone at least made sense. It was a language I spoke fluently. The ambiguity between us was becoming a slow kind of cruelty.
There was no dramatic final straw. Just a thousand paper cuts. The sound of forks clinking against plates in silence. The subtle edge in his tone when I interrupted. The way we stopped laughing at each other's jokes.
I tried one last time. I cooked his favorite meal—adobo, just the way he liked it, salty and rich. We sat across from each other in candlelight. And still, it felt like a formality.
I said, "Do you still want to be here?" He looked down. Took too long to answer. Then said, "I want us to work."
But it didn't sound like a promise. It sounded like a report.
That night, I lay awake while he slept beside me. I counted the ways we had become strangers who could explain each other's traumas but couldn't hold each other's hearts.
In the morning, he left early for work. I stood at the window and watched the rain coat the city in blurred silver. It reminded me of mornings in Baguio, the kind where the fog kisses the tops of houses and everything smells like pine and cold damp soil. I brewed barako coffee, strong and earthy, the kind my lola used to make. I wrapped myself in my favorite oversized hoodie and whispered into the mug, "We both deserve better than this."
The next week, I sent him a message: "I think we should take some space." He replied, "I think you're right."
No pleading. No drama. Just two people bowing out. Not because they didn't care—but because caring wasn't enough.
We had loved each other like analysts. But what I needed was a partner. And maybe, someday, he'll find someone who needs that kind of precision. But I need someone who asks, "How was your day?" and stays for the long answer.
I walked alone to my favorite café. Ordered taho from the street vendor on the corner. Watched the soy pudding steam in the morning air. I added more arnibal than usual. The sweetness coated my tongue and reminded me I could still choose little joys, even in the middle of endings.
And for the first time in months, I didn't look at my phone. I just… existed.
Two players. One game. And now—finally—no more scoreboard. Just me, walking off the field.
I took the long way home that morning, through a park where leaves fell in quiet spirals. I let the wind tangle my hair. I didn't rush. Didn't plan my next move. I bought myself breakfast. I chewed slowly. I smiled at a stray dog.
I thought about the way Andre once held my hand during a storm. How he said, "We're learning how to love better." And how sometimes, learning still means losing.
I walked past a bookstore and went inside. Bought myself a secondhand poetry collection, the pages soft with use. I sat on a bench outside and read the first line aloud: "You cannot heal in the same place that broke you."
And I knew then—this wasn't heartbreak. It was a return.
A return to myself.
But this time, I didn't see the end as failure. It was a reset.
The beginning of a new kind of intimacy—the one I owed myself.
The kind where I stop apologizing for wanting to be held, heard, chosen.
No more games. Just truth. Just me.