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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 2 days ago

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Same Time Tomorrow

Synopsis: You broke up months ago. Things ended quietly—no screaming, no dramatic goodbye—just silence and a shared ride that never stopped. Every day after work, she still waits by your car like nothing changed. And maybe… not everything has. Between shared fried rice, familiar teasing, and a hug that lingers a little too long, you wonder if “tomorrow” still means something more.

Word Count: 1,680

Karina X M!Reader

a/n: here’s the karina fic, since she won (once again) HAHAHA

The office was quiet after 7PM.

Most of the lights were off, computers asleep, and the last echo of heels on tile had disappeared twenty minutes ago. You stayed longer than you had to—not really because of work. You just didn’t want to run into her downstairs again.

But there she was.

Leaning against the side of your car like nothing had changed. Her arms were crossed. Earphones in. Lips moving just slightly—probably singing along to whatever was playing. She did that when she was waiting. Still did, apparently.

You exhaled slowly, not quite a sigh, not quite a breath.

You walked up, keys in hand. “I thought you left already.”

She didn’t even look at you. Just checked the time on her phone and said, “You’re late.”

“I wasn’t.”

“There’s no traffic. You had no excuse.”

You unlocked the car. She slipped into the passenger seat like she still belonged there.

Technically, she did.

Even after the breakup, you never said you’d stop giving her rides home when your shifts lined up. Neither of you ever brought it up. It just… kept happening.

You got in, started the car. No music. No small talk.

But the silence wasn’t awkward. Just… familiar.

A minute in, she asked casually, “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“You hungry?”

“A little.”

She dug into her tote and pulled out a small takeout container, still warm. She set it down on the center console without looking at you.

You glanced. Fried rice. Sliced spam. A soft egg on top.

Her favorite. But it had ketchup.

Your favorite.

She didn’t say it was for you.

You didn’t ask.

You started driving. The city moved past slowly, lights passing over her face—like a flickering slideshow of old versions of her. Ones you used to know. Ones you maybe still missed.

Then, without turning her head, she spoke again.

Soft. Almost like a warning.

“You’re not allowed to be cute anymore.”

You glanced at her, confused. “What?”

“You were looking at me.” She didn’t smile, didn’t flinch. Just said it flatly. “Like that.”

“Like what?”

She finally looked at you. And for a second, she almost looked like the girl you knew—the one who used to hold your hand during red lights. The one who used to laugh at your stupid jokes.

But this time, her voice was steady.

“Like you still want to kiss me.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just kept driving.

And she didn’t bring it up again

You stopped at a red light.

The kind that takes forever to turn green. One of those junctions that makes the city feel slower, heavier. You could hear the low hum of other cars, the occasional motorbike weaving through, and somewhere in the distance, a bark of a dog. Manila at night.

She opened the container and handed you the fork.

You didn’t ask, but she did it anyway.

You raised a brow. “What if this wasn’t for me?”

“Then I guess you just stole my dinner,” she said, deadpan.

You took a bite. Warm. Soft. Slightly overcooked egg. Still good.

“Tastes like you rushed it.”

She scoffed, turning slightly toward the window. “Wow. That’s how you thank me now?”

You chewed. Smirked. “That’s not how you used to thank me.”

She looked back, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I remember you used to say thank you with—what was it again?” You pretended to think. “Oh, right. A kiss on the cheek. Or sometimes forehead. If I was lucky.”

She leaned back, arms crossed again. “You sound bitter.”

You shrugged. “I sound honest.”

Silence stretched again, but this time it was more alive. Electric. Like if either of you leaned an inch too far, something would snap.

She shook her head, but her smile betrayed her.

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“I was full of fried rice,” you replied, holding up the container. “Now I’m just full of… nostalgia.”

She laughed under her breath. Small. Short. But real.

And you hated how much that sound still did something to you.

The light turned green.

You didn’t drive.

She noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You looked at her. She was still looking at the road, arms crossed again, but her foot tapped against the car mat like it always did when she was trying not to say something.

You could feel it. The space between you shrinking. Not physically—just… emotionally.

And maybe that was worse.

“You can’t do this,” she muttered.

“Do what?”

“This.” She gestured vaguely. “Look at me like that. Say shit like that. Act like we’re still…”

She trailed off.

You finished her sentence in your head.

Still yours. Still us. Still something.

But all you said was, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She didn’t believe you.

You didn’t believe yourself either.

The car had barely moved five blocks before you heard her sigh dramatically.

“What now?” you asked, not even looking.

“I’m cold.”

You blinked. “You were literally sweating earlier.”

“Yeah, but now the AC’s pointed straight at me.”

You glanced at the vent. It wasn’t.

“You can adjust it.”

“I could,” she said, “but you’re the driver. Serve me.”

You rolled your eyes and turned the vent half a click to the left. “There. Your Highness.”

She gave a fake cough. “What happened to the guy who used to bring me extra jackets in case I got cold?”

You smirked. “He learned to let women handle their own temperature.”

She leaned back with a smirk of her own. “Wow. Character development.”

There was a pause.

Then: “What happened to the girl who used to say thank you after rides?”

She gasped. “I’m literally giving you food right now.”

“Out of guilt, probably.”

“Out of pity.”

You scoffed. “Wow. That’s low.”

“You deserved it.”

You both smiled—small, subtle. It felt weird. Not forced. Not painful. Just easy.

Like it used to be.

“You still chew fast when you’re pretending you’re not enjoying something,” she muttered.

You paused mid-bite. “I do not.”

“You do,” she nodded confidently. “You used to do that with my adobo when I made it too salty.”

You shook your head, swallowing. “I literally liked that adobo.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You pointed your fork at her. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” she said, leaning her head against the window with that smug little grin, “you still offer me rides.”

You shrugged, “Old habits die hard.”

She didn’t say anything for a while after that.

Just let the city pass by. Traffic slowing, then picking up again. The streetlights caught the side of her face—made her eyes look softer, like she was letting her guard down, even just for a bit.

And then, quiet:

“I missed this.”

You turned slightly. “What?”

She didn’t repeat it. Just stared ahead like she hadn’t said anything at all.

So you filled in the silence.

“Me too.”

She looked at you then.

No smirk. No snark.

Just her. Bare. Familiar.

And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—it didn’t feel like you were trying to win anything. It didn’t feel like someone had to walk away first.

You both just sat there, in a car that suddenly felt way too small for everything that still lingered.

You pulled over near her street. Same old spot.

The streetlamp above still buzzed like it always did, casting that dim, warm light through the windshield. You let the engine hum in the background, neither of you rushing to move.

She didn’t open the door.

Not yet.

Instead, she turned her body slightly, tucking her legs under her, facing you. One arm rested on the passenger seat, the other fiddling with the zipper of her tote.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, her voice a little softer now.

“So have you.”

A short laugh escaped her. “Guess we’re both tired of pretending we’re okay.”

You turned your head, met her eyes. There wasn’t any teasing now. No smirk. Just that look—familiar, honest, a little scared.

“I missed this,” she said.

You smiled, barely. “You already said that.”

“I know.” She paused. “I just… wanted to say it again. In case you weren’t listening.”

“I was.”

She looked down, then back up again, like she was debating something.

And then, quietly:

“Do you… still think about me?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you shifted, leaning slightly over the center console. She stayed still, eyes on yours, not moving away.

Your voice came out lower than you meant, but steady.

“Every day.”

That was all it took.

Her arms wrapped around your shoulders before either of you could overthink it. Just a soft, instinctive pull—like muscle memory. She held you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like you hadn’t been avoiding each other for months. Like she never left.

You let yourself fall into it, one arm circling around her waist, the other resting on her back. She was warm. Her hair smelled faintly like shampoo and too-long workdays.

You didn’t know who tightened the hug first.

But neither of you let go.

Not even when her voice came out again, muffled by your shoulder:

“I didn’t mean to make you wait this long.”

You rested your chin lightly on her head. “You’re here now.”

She pulled back a little—not fully, just enough to look at you.

And for a moment, it really did feel like maybe, just maybe, the two of you were still possible.

Then she smiled—small, shy, but genuine.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nodded. “Same time.”

She gave you one last squeeze, then finally stepped out, walking backward a few steps before turning toward her gate.

You didn’t drive off right away.

You just sat there for a second longer, the warmth of her still wrapped around you, even after she was gone.

#spotify #kpop #aespa #aespa x reader #aespa karina #karina #karina x reader #yu jimin x reader #karina fluff #aespa lockscreens #Male Reader #Spotify

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 3 days ago

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comments some other suggestions that are not included in the poll!

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 3 days ago

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Real Convenient

Synopsis: You were supposed to be someone. Now you’re just a name behind a counter, counting loose change and broken dreams—until she walks back in, hoodie up, years too late. Karina, your childhood best friend, battling her own storms. In the quiet of 3 a.m. shifts and stolen coco buns, you begin to remember who you were before the world fell apart—and maybe, just maybe, who you could be again

Word Count: 4,039

Karina X M!Reader

a/n: idk how to end this one shot😣 sorry y’all…also sorry for the pointless plot holes…. and its a lil different from the way i write my fics, let me know if there’s something bothering y’all or things that doesn’t sit right

The hum of the fluorescent lights has a way of crawling into your skull. It’s always been like that in here—bright enough to see the cracks on the tiles, loud enough to drown out your thoughts, but never quite enough to make you feel awake.

You scan the last pack of cigarettes.

Beep.

“₱163, sir.”

The man in front of you pulls out a crisp ₱1,000 bill like he wants you to notice how clean it is.

You already feel the headache creeping in. You open the till, scan the cash drawer, then look back up.

“Don’t you have a smaller bill, sir?”

Your tone’s too tired to be polite.

He looks at you. Not like a person—like a problem.

“Watch your tone,” he says, and throws a ₱200 bill at your face.

The paper flutters down, slapping your cheek on the way.

You don’t flinch. You just pick it up slowly and finish the transaction.

No one’s in the store. No one to see it.

Except the camera in the ceiling—and maybe whatever version of yourself still remembers who you used to be.

A few minutes pass.

Then, the door chimes again.

This time, a trio walks in. College-aged, full of energy, talking too loud. Probably fresh from a party. One of them squints toward the counter.

“Uy, bro… is that Y/N?”

“Teka, oo nga, ’no?”

You pretend not to hear them. Focus on restocking the gum rack.

But they’re not subtle.

“Diba UAAP player ‘to dati? ‘Yung Ateneo shooting guard? Star player, man!”

“Wala na raw ngayon eh. Injured? damn couldn’t imagine what he’s going through .”

“‘What if’ nalang siya ngayon, bro. Ganyan talaga. Life moves on.”

They laugh.

You scan a bag of chips. Don’t look up. One of them slaps a beer on the counter.

“You okay, boss?” he says mockingly, tapping your name tag with a smug grin. “Looks like you landed real far from the court.”

You don’t answer. Just scan the beer. Punch in the total.

“₱73.”

He drops the coins one by one on the counter, eyes still locked on you.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

When they leave, they push the door harder than necessary. It slams open, then shuts.

Silence again.

You check the mirror above the register—same eyes, same face, same body.

But it feels like you’re living in someone else’s skin.

The kind of skin that used to wear a jersey with a future stitched into it.

Now, just a name tag

The silence settles again. You lean your elbows on the counter, watching the wall clock crawl toward 3 a.m. Your knees ache. Not from standing—those ache all the time now. But from the echo of what they used to do.

The door chimes. You don’t look right away.

“Good morning, iho.”

You glance up.

It’s an older man. Mid-fifties. Sharp eyes, but tired shoulders. He’s dressed in a coach’s windbreaker—one that looks like it’s seen decades of courts.

Your breath hitches. You know him.

Coach Manuel.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see you here.

Just… sad.

He picks up a bottle of water. A pack of menthols. Hands them over gently.

You scan them, avoid eye contact.

“₱98.”

He places the cash neatly on the counter.

A pause.

Then—

“Saw you on TV once. Finals. You were magic.”

You don’t answer. Just nod slightly.

He looks around the store. The shelves. The clock. You.

“Thought you’d be in the pros by now.”

You shrug.

“Thought so too.”

Coach doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh.

He just stares for a second too long, like he’s seeing two versions of you at once—the boy with fire in his eyes, and the man behind the counter.

Then, quietly:

“Take care of those knees. They’ve carried more than most.”

He leaves with a respectful nod.

No jokes. No insults. Just that soft weight of someone who knows what you’ve lost—and chooses not to say more.

The door chimes shut.

You finally sit down behind the register, the silence curling around your ribs.

After hours of stocking slurpees, burnt hotdogs, and mopping floor stains that never really disappear, the store finally falls into a rhythm. Cold hum of the fridge. Tick of the clock. Buzzing lights overhead that make your head throb in sync with your heartbeat.

You’ve cleaned everything from top to bottom twice already. The register’s sticky buttons. The freezer handles. Even the coffee corner nobody really uses. There’s only an hour left before you can go home.

Just survive.

Ding.

The door chimes open again. Third time this hour.

You don’t even lift your head.

“Welcome, ma’am,” you mumble—automatic, like breathing. The words barely reach past your lips

Footsteps shuffle in. Not rushed. Not steady either. Like someone not used to being upright this long. You glance up, briefly.

Hood up. Shoulders hunched. Face down.

She moves through the aisles, hands in her hoodie pockets, as if trying not to take up too much space. She’s scanning the shelves like they might suddenly offer her a miracle.

Eventually, she walks up to the counter with her items—two boxes of paracetamol, a roll of tissue, and two energy drinks.

You scan them, barely blinking.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Will this be all, ma’am?”

Her voice is tired, but curt.

“Cigarette. Red.”

You glance up for the first time.

Her hood’s fallen slightly. Just enough for you to see her eyes.

Sharp. Familiar.

You hesitate. Then

“ID, ma’am.”

She sighs. Annoyed. Pulls out her wallet and rifles through it, muttering.

“Wala. Forgot it.”

She looks up—and for a heartbeat, your eyes lock.

Time doesn’t stop. It just… shifts.

There’s something there.

The kind of familiarity that doesn’t feel safe.

You break the eye contact first.

“Never mind,” she mutters. “Just the rest.”

You scan the last item, press the total button.

“₱137.”

She pauses. Pulls out bills, coins, crumpled receipts. You watch her count, quiet.

Her fingers shake a little.

₱107.

She places the coins on the counter, slowly.

You don’t say anything at first.

She does.

Softly, almost to herself:

“Kul—kulang?”

You nod once.

“Thirty short.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. Frustrated. She searches her pockets again—lint, an old receipt, some dust.

Nothing else.

“Tangina,” she whispers under her breath. “Can’t I just… y’know… slide for now?”

You exhale slowly through your nose.

“Store policy, ma’am.”

Her voice edges into desperation.

“Please? I’ll come back. I promise, babalikan ko ‘yan. I’m not some thief.”

You shift your weight. Something stings in your knee. You wince. You’re so tired.

Of everything.

“Look… don’t make this harder than it already is.”

She leans forward a bit, almost pleading now.

“Please. Just this once. I swear, sir.”

Something about the way she says “sir”—the bitterness in it, the strain—makes your hand twitch over the register.

You hesitate. Then grab the small ledger from the drawer, jot something down, and tear out a slip.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll cover the thirty. Just this once.”

You don’t meet her eyes when you say it. You don’t want to see the mix of guilt and pride swallowing each other whole.

She nods, voice smaller now.

“Thank you… sorry. Paper bag please?”

You pack her items in silence.

When you hand her the bag, your fingers brush—just barely.

She doesn’t pull away.

But she doesn’t stay, either.

She walks toward the exit, grip tight on the paper bag.

Ding.

The door closes.

Not so long after, you stood in front of the punch-out terminal, still in uniform, damp from sweat and slurpee mist, holding a thin envelope in your hand.

It felt lighter than usual.

You didn’t expect much.

But you didn’t expect ₱-430.00 either.

Your name was typed cleanly at the top. Below it, deductions like bruises

Coffee Machine: -₱400.00

Customer Shortage (Logged): -₱30.00

A slow breath left your lips. You pressed your tongue to the inside of your cheek. There wasn’t even a number left to take home. Just debt.

You didn’t even remember knocking over the damn machine. Some kid was running wild around the candy aisle and you turned too fast. That was three days ago.

And the ₱30? That girl. You didn’t regret helping. But right now, that didn’t matter.

You crumpled the payslip slowly and stuffed it in your pocket. Outside, the wind howled like an angry neighbor.

Fuck it. You thought. Another week. Another disaster.

You grabbed your things from the locker and stepped outside. The world greeted you with wind and drizzle. Your umbrella stuttered in the gusts like it was ready to give up too.

You counted what you had left. Just loose bills folded into your side pouch—₱750 flat. You’d stashed it away earlier, some cash tips and carry-over from last week’s half-shift.

That’s all you had for the next few days.

Maybe two days’ worth of food, if you skipped the good stuff. Canned tuna. Rice. Boiled eggs if you’re lucky. Electricity bill was due tomorrow—₱420. Water? ₱360. Your busted knee? Just another line on your mental list of things you’ll never afford.

The pain’s been more consistent lately. You’ve learned to walk differently. To hide the limp behind long strides. But it burns like hell at night.

You trudged through the streets, head down, hoodie up. Every puddle you stepped in made your socks cling cold to your toes.

When you passed a group of students laughing over fishballs, you felt something in your chest tighten. They looked full of tomorrow. You felt like you were still paying for yesterday.

Your building came into view—gray, peeling walls, a rusted gate you never bother to lock. You made your way up the creaking stairs, floorboards groaning like they resented your weight.

Unlocked your door.

Dark.

You forgot to load the meter.

No lights. No hum from the fridge. Just silence.

You closed the door behind you, dropped your bag, and sat on the edge of the bed.

No ulam on the table.

No leftovers to reheat.

No coffee.

You opened the fridge on impulse.

Empty. A single egg sat in the corner like it was embarrassed to be there.

The faucet still dripped. Tok. Tok. Tok.

A rhythm you’ve grown used to.

You sat back, resting against the wall. Your room smelled faintly of soap and metal—like all the life had already been washed out.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

You just let the silence crawl over your skin

Laid down, shoes still on, damp hoodie sticking to your back. Your fingers dug into the sheets out of instinct—seeking comfort where there was none.

You stared at the ceiling and traced cracks with your eyes.

The roof leaked a bit in the corner. You should fix it.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you close your eyes and whisper to no one:

“Sana bukas, kahit papano… mas madali.”

(I just hope…maybe tomorrow… will be a little easier.)

But you don’t believe it.

Not really.

You let the night take you anyway.

Because there’s nothing else left to do.

You clock in like usual.

Same flickering lights, same old radio playing a half-static OPM track no one really listens to. The smell of reheated siopao hangs in the air like defeat. You tug your apron on, punch in your code, and lean on the counter like it’s the only thing holding you up.

10:04 p.m.

Ding.

She walks in again.

Same hoodie. Same dragging steps. No umbrella this time — she’s a little damp from the rain.

You barely lift your head.

“Welcome.”

Your voice is flat. Not cold, not warm. Just… tired.

She walks down the aisle without a word. Grabs two cup noodles. Two energy drinks. Sets them on the counter.

You start scanning without looking at her.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Then, almost out of instinct:

“Got my thirty pesos?”

She pauses.

Then she pulls out two crumpled 100s and a 50.

“Yeah,” she says softly.

“Thanks again. Last night… you helped me and my dad more than you know.”

You nod, counting the bills.

“Two-ten.”

She pushes the money over.

“Keep the change.”

A beat.

“That’s not for the food. That’s for the trouble.”

You place the items in a paper bag, quietly.

But something itches under your skin.

You glance up.

“Didn’t think I’d see you like this, Karina.”

That’s when her hands stop.

She grips the edge of the counter.

“So you do remember.”

You nod, slow and quiet.

“How could I forget?”

She finally meets your eyes.

And there it is — the years in between. All the growing pains, the silence, the sudden absence that no one ever explained.

You say it before you can stop yourself.

“Barangay fiesta. You always beat me at patintero. Even cheated sometimes.”

She lets out a short breath. Almost a laugh.

“You let me win.”

“’Tangina, no. I cried once ’cause you pushed me into a canal.”

She blinks.

Then looks down at the bag in her hands.

“It’s been years.”

You nod again.

“Too many.”

“And now we’re here,” she says quietly.

“You behind a counter. Me counting coins for cup noodles.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Life’s funny like that.”

She sighs.

“It’s not funny.”

A pause.

She shifts her weight, trying to steady her voice.

“My dad’s sick. Stage 3. Kuya’s abroad but money’s still tight. I’ve been taking every damn tutoring job I can find. Even this isn’t enough.”

You look down at your hands.

They’re dry, cracked from long shifts and mop handles.

“And you still gave me the thirty.”

“Didn’t want to.”

She smiles a little.

“But you did.”

The air between you grows heavier, but not suffocating. Just full of things you don’t know how to name.

“You okay?” she asks suddenly.

It catches you off guard.

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Then:

“No.”

She nods.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

You hand her the bag.

She takes it, slower this time. Like she knows she’s taking a part of something that shouldn’t be hers anymore.

Then she steps back.

“Ingat ka.”

You nod.

“You too.”

She reaches the door.

Stops.

“You still burn your rice?”

You almost smile.

“Only when I remember you liked it that way.”

She doesn’t look back. Just pulls her hoodie tighter.

Ding.

And the door shuts behind her.

But something stayed.

A quiet kind of ache. The kind that feels like home

Weeks pasts by-

The fluorescent lights above never flicker, but they hum like they’re just as tired as you. You punch in, tie your apron, and step behind the counter with your second cup of cheap coffee—lukewarm, slightly bitter, like everything else in your life lately.

A man in a threadbare tank top walks in, dragging slippers across the tile. He throws a crumpled bill on the counter.

“Three Marlboro Lights. One by one.”

You count them out silently.

“No coins again?” you ask.

He grunts, pockets the change, and leaves without another word.

Teenage boys barge in right after, giggling as they swipe instant pancit and soda.

“Kuya, can we take two slurpees if we’re cute?”

You deadpan without looking up, “Sure—if you clean the floor after.”

They laugh, then run out, leaving empty wrappers in their wake.

You mop their footprints. For the third time tonight.

You refill the ice cream chest. Rearrange the cup noodles again, just for something to do. Glance at your reflection in the sliding glass doors—your hair’s messy, your eyes are dull, and your name tag is barely hanging on.

A man in office slacks and expensive cologne enters, clearly annoyed from the start. He slams a Red Bull, three instant coffees, and a pack of crackers on the counter.

You scan them, mumble the total.

He throws a ₱1000 bill on the counter.

“Don’t you have smaller bill sir??” you ask, already knowing the answer.

He scoffs, arms crossed.

“You work here and you’re gonna give me attitude?”

You exhale slowly. “Just doing my job, sir.”

He snatches the change from your hand with a disgusted look and mutters under his breath as he walks out, loud enough for you to hear:

“No wonder you’re stuck here.”

You don’t even flinch.

A couple comes in next, arguing over which soft drink to get. The guy rolls his eyes, grabs a beer instead.

“Babe, I told you I’m done with this diet crap,” he says, pulling his wallet out.

You scan the beer.

“No ID, no alcohol,” you tell him.

He blinks, then smirks.

“Bro, I’m twenty-eight.”

“I still need to see it.”

He leans forward on the counter.

“Tangina mo ah?, You serious right now? You gonna act like you’ve got power just ‘cause you stand behind that register?”

His girlfriend tugs on his arm, muttering something under her breath.

You stare at him evenly. “Just store policy.”

He curses under his breath, grabs the soda instead, and leaves with a shake of his head.

“Enjoy your little kingdom, man.”

A young mom asks to pay her Meralco bill in five different coins. A delivery guy forgets three boxes and makes you sign anyway. The lotto booth guy next door drops off a lukewarm taho and mutters, “Thanks for helping me last time, bro,” before walking off without waiting for a response.

You nod and take it. It’s not great. But it’s the warmest thing you’ve had in days.

Hours blur. You wipe the coffee machine. Refill the hotdog roller that no one touches. You hum, just to hear something besides silence. Even the security monitor’s red light blinks slower tonight, like it’s bored watching you.

You glance at the clock—still hours to go.

And all you can think is: this isn’t what your life was supposed to look like.

After some days.

The Stereo above hum like they’ve had a long day too. You’re behind the counter again—third night this week. Your back’s aching, the cold coffee on your desk tastes like regret, and your limbs move on instinct now. You don’t even think about the clock anymore.

Then the door chimes.

You look up, not surprised.

It’s her. Hoodie, baggy joggers, hair tied back messily like she just ran errands she didn’t want to do. She walks up to the counter without a word and places a small brown paper bag in front of you.

“‘Wag ka na magtanong,” she says, pushing the bag closer. (Don’t ask questions.)

You raise a brow and open it.

A coco bun. Still warm. Slightly squished.

You blink. “What—seryo—‘to galing pa sa kabilang kanto?”

(This from that bakery across the street?)

She shrugs, but there’s a flicker of pride in her voice. “Pinag-agawan pa namin ng isang lola. Ako nanalo.”

(I had to fight a grandma for it. I won.)

You snort. “You always did play dirty.”

“Hindi ako madaya, mabilis lang talaga ‘ko.”

(I’m not dirty—I’m just fast.)

You take a bite, and for a second, everything slows down. The coconut’s still warm. The bread’s soft like you remember.

Karina leans on the counter, arms folded. “Sarap pa rin?”

(Still good?)

“Grabe, hindi pa rin nagbabago,” you mumble, mouth full. (Damn, it hasn’t changed at all.)

Then she says it—low, direct. “Pero ikaw nagbago.”

(But you’ve changed.)

You look at her.

“Mas payat ka. Hollow cheeks. Halatang wala kang tulog. At, Y/N…” She nods at your leg. “May pilay ka pa rin.”

(You’ve lost weight. Your cheeks are sunken. No sleep. And you’re limp—it’s still there.)

You shift uncomfortably.

“Manageable.”

She scoffs. “Hindi mo pa rin nagpapatingin?”

(Still haven’t had it checked?)

“May pambili ba ‘ko?”

(You think I have the money for it?)

Her face hardens. She doesn’t argue. But she doesn’t let it go either.

You finish the bun, crumple the wrapper, and toss it into the bin.

“Ba’t ka laging gising ng ganitong oras?” you ask, changing the subject. (Why are you always up this late?)

“Pag gising si Papa, kailangan bantayan. Kahit tulog siya, ayoko siya iwan.”

(When Papa’s awake, I need to watch him. Even when he’s asleep, I can’t leave.)

You nod slowly. “He’s lucky to have you.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Then:

“He used to be the one taking care of me. Parang ang bilis lang nagpalit ng roles, ‘no?”

(Feels like everything switched so fast, huh?)

You nod.

And for a beat, neither of you speaks.

Then: “Labas tayo.” she says suddenly. (Let’s go outside.)

You blink. “Huh?”

“Sandali lang. Gusto ko lang ng hangin.”

(Just a while. I just need some air.)

You both sit on the low concrete step outside the store, plastic bag resting between you. The streets are quiet, only a few stray dogs and a passing tricycle in the distance.

She opens her water bottle, takes a long sip, then passes it to you without asking. You hesitate, then drink.

“Naalala mo ‘yung fishball stand sa tapat ng gym dati?”

(Remember the fishball stand in front of the gym back then?)

You smile faintly. “Paborito mo ‘yung fake na suka na maanghang.”

(You liked the fake spicy vinegar.)

“Pinaka-spicy, hanggang sinusuka mo.”

(The spiciest—until you threw up.)

You chuckle, softly this time.

Karina leans back a bit. “Miss mo ba?”

(You miss it?)

“More than I care to admit.”

She’s quiet for a while, then:

“Y/N… seryoso, kamusta ka talaga?”

(How are you really doing?)

You glance at her, jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

“No, ‘wag ‘yan. ‘Di mo ako maloloko. Hindi ka okay.”

(Don’t. You can’t fool me. You’re not okay.)

You breathe out slowly. The city hums around you.

“I’m tired,” you finally say. “Wala akong ibang plano kundi bumangon lang bukas. Para magtrabaho. Para mabuhay. That’s it.”

(I don’t have any plans except waking up tomorrow. To work. To survive. That’s it.)

Karina looks at you long. “You used to dream big.”

“Dreams don’t pay Meralco.”

(Dreams don’t pay the power bill.)

She lets out a sad laugh. “Totoo rin.”

There’s silence again, longer this time. You think maybe she’ll leave. But instead—

She pulls something out of her pocket. An old Polaroid, edges soft from wear.

You stare at it.

It’s the two of you—back in high school. You’re holding a basketball, she’s holding a book. Both smiling wide like nothing in the world could touch you.

She holds it up.

“Alam mo, hindi ko ‘to tinanggal sa wallet ko. Kahit kailan.”

(You know, I never took this out of my wallet. Not once.)

You look at her. Something heavy settles in your chest.

“Bakit?”

(Why?)

“Reminder. Na minsan… may maganda ring nangyari sa buhay ko.”

(A reminder. That something good actually happened in my life.)

She hands it to you.

You hold it like it might break.

Then she says, softly, “Next time… if you’re not okay, you tell me. Hindi mo na kailangan mag-isa.”

(Next time… if you’re not okay, tell me. You don’t have to do this alone.)

You nod once.

That’s it. No dramatic hug. No music swelling in the background.

Just two tired people sitting under the hum of streetlights, learning to exist beside each other again.

And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

Days pasts, months, life started getting a lil lighter but the difficulty is still very noticeable.

It’s past midnight again. The city below flickers like it’s trying to stay awake with you. Neon signs blink tiredly. Dogs bark in the distance. The air’s heavy with that Manila kind of silence—never fully quiet, but somehow still peaceful.

You sit on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, a half-empty bag of cheap chips between you.

Karina pulls her jacket tighter around her.

“This feels like high school,” she murmurs.

You nod. “Walang pera, walang plano, puro lang kwentuhan sa bubong.”

(No money, no plans, just rooftop talks.)

She laughs softly. “You ever think about what you’d be doing now if things turned out right?”

“All the time,” you admit. “You?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. But lately, I just think about surviving. ’Di ko na ma-imagine ‘yung perfect life. I just want a peaceful one.”

You look at her—tired eyes, wind-blown hair, soft expression she only wears when she thinks no one’s watching.

“Hey,” you say, nudging her shoulder. “If we hit 30 and we’re still… y’know, single, no big life plans… wanna just marry each other?”

She turns to you slowly. “What?”

“Wala lang. Practical lang.” You grin. “We already know each other’s worst days. No surprises.”

She laughs again, but it fades into something quieter. She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t say no either.

#spotify #kpop #aespa #aespa x reader #aespa karina #karina #karina x reader #yu jimin x reader #karina fluff #aespa lockscreens #male reader #karina x male reader #karina male reader #aespa x male reader #fluff #karina angst

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 3 days ago

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posting soon!

also guys i would like your opinions, if its okay to read a fic of karina but with a different name?, i see it being more like engaging towards readerss it seems to leave marks on their hearts or sum

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 3 days ago

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but i’ll post later! so dw!

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 3 days ago

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hi guys im back, i am not dead ☺️ just prepared some stuff since im going out of the country and will be inactive for bout a week :(((

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 6 days ago

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“Loving You feels like winning~”

Synopsis: You’re a pro basketball player who sucks at volleyball—but you try anyway, just to impress your girlfriend, Winter. All you want is for her to watch, laugh, maybe play a little too… because loving her feels like winning, even when you keep hitting the net.

Word Count: 1,072

tags: fluff!

Kim Minjeong X Male Reader

The ball arcs perfectly—too perfectly. You leap for it, arms stretched, the perfect imaginary spike forming in your mind… until your foot catches the sand awkwardly and your momentum carries you right into the net.

You hit it chest-first with a loud fwump, taking half the damn thing down with you.

“Bro, you okay?”

One of the guys winces as you roll over, groaning.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you mutter, brushing sand off your face, trying to salvage an ounce of dignity.

You sit up, glance around casually—then beam.

There she is.

Winter.

Crossing the edge of the park in a hoodie, her hair tied up in a way that makes your heart stutter. She’s holding an iced coffee, watching you like someone trying very hard not to laugh.

You jump to your feet like nothing happened, chest puffed out, elbowing your teammate.

“Told you she’s real.”

He raises a brow. “You face-planted into the net.”

You glare at him.

“Yeah, but I looked cool before that.”

Winter approaches, stopping just outside the court’s chalk line.

“So this is volleyball now?” she says, voice teasing. “Didn’t you just learn the rules on YouTube this morning?”

You grin, walking over.

“I don’t need to know the rules. I just need to impress you.”

She snorts, shaking her head.

“Well, you’re halfway there. You’re impressively bad.”

You pretend to clutch your chest, wounded.

“Ouch.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “But you do look kinda cute trying.”

You lean in, eyes twinkling.

“So you admit you’re impressed?”

She sighs—dramatic, over-the-top—and taps the tip of your nose with her straw.

“Fine. A little. But don’t break your nose trying to spike a volleyball again. Please.”

You raise a hand like a scout’s oath.

“Only for you.”

After some miserable bump and spike attempts-

“Okay, plant your feet—no, wider than that.”

You shuffle awkwardly in the sand, trying to mimic the stance she’s showing you. She’s standing across from you in leggings and her old team hoodie, sleeves pushed up, looking all serious and coach-like. You? You look like a very tall duck trying to do yoga.

“Like this?”

“No.” She sighs, walks over, and places both hands on your hips.

You freeze.

“W-What’s happening?”

“I’m fixing your center of gravity. Calm down.”

You bite your lip to hide the grin crawling across your face. “I don’t know, Coach… kinda hard to stay calm when you’re touching me like that.”

She steps back immediately, rolling her eyes so hard they almost detach.

“Focus. This is volleyball, not date night.”

“You mean it’s not both?”

She gives you a look but you catch the way she’s holding back a laugh.

She walks over to the ball, tosses it up casually, and spikes it with clean form that makes your jaw drop. The ball slams into the sand at your feet.

You blink.

“Jesus.”

She dusts her hands, smug. “That’s how it’s done.”

You stare at her like she just transformed into a superhero.

“Okay, marry me.”

“Learn how to receive first.”

You groan dramatically as she jogs over, grabbing another ball.

“Come on, Love, I believe in you.”

“Even after I tackled a net?”

She throws the ball at your chest. You catch it.

“Especially after that.”

Then softer, “You’re trying. That’s enough.”

And suddenly you’re not just sweating from the sun anymore.

She gets into position again.

“Let’s go. Show me that pro athlete footwork, ‘basketball boy.’”

As the sun begins to dip when you and Winter walk side by side down the sidewalk, the court behind you, your shirt clinging to your back from all the sand, sweat, and ego bruises.

She’s sipping the last of her coffee, and you’re holding the ball under your arm like it’s some kind of trophy.

“Volleyball’s hard,” you grumble, swinging your arm a little.

“Like… really hard. But at least I have you.”

She snorts, eyes straight ahead.

“Your receive form still looks like a T-Rex trying to catch a frisbee.”

“Rude. I was improving!”

“You tripped on your own foot.”

You glance at her with a grin.

“And yet… I still scored.”

She raises a brow.

You nudge her lightly with your shoulder.

“See the girls back there? They were looking at you.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at her lips.

“They were probably wondering why a volleyball goddess was hanging out with a guy who serves like he’s throwing a pizza box.”

You laugh, bumping her again.

“They were looking at you like you were some celebrity.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks tinting just a bit.

“Well, they’re not wrong.”

You pretend to swoon.

“Exactly. I just want the world to see how lucky I am.”

She shakes her head, biting back a grin.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” you add with zero shame.

She gives you a light punch on the arm.

“If you want kisses, next time try actually hitting the ball over the net.”

“Deal. But you have to promise to catch me when I fall.”

She looks at you, smile soft now.

“I always do.”

And under the fading sky, tired but content, you keep walking—hand brushing hers, heart feeling like you just won the only game that mattered.

You’re almost at the front gate when you glance at her again—eyes twinkling, smile lazy, your voice a little softer this time.

“Hey.”

She looks up. “Hm?”

You shift the ball under your arm, still a little out of breath, still riding the high of just being near her.

“Next time… come play with me for real.”

She raises a brow. “You sure you can handle me on the court?”

“Probably not.”

You chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck.

“But I just wanna say I got to play with the prettiest girl on the team.”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile breaks through.

As she unlocks the gate, she glances over her shoulder and smirks.

“Maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two about basketball, too.”

You laugh, following her inside.

“Deal—just don’t dunk on me. I have pride to protect.”

“Sure, But if I win I get to marry you”

“okay” as she leans for a kiss.

And with that, the gate closes behind you, the day ending with the easiest kind of love. The kind that teases, stays, and shows up—even when you’re terrible at volleyball.

#spotify #kpop #aespa #aespa x reader #aespa minjeong #kim minjeong x reader #kim minjeong x male reader #aespa winter #aespa x male reader #male reader #winter aespa #winter x male reader #winter fluff #kim minjeong fluff

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 6 days ago

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The House Of Us.

Synopsis: You chased music, she chased stability—but under chipped blue walls and behind broken doors, you both unknowingly built a life out of sacrifice, silence, and stubborn love.

Word Count: 7,324

Karina X M!Reader

tags: angst, fluff, comfort.

a/n: holy was this lengthy 😭 (also sorry if some scenes are so phased rapidly and quick!)

It starts gloomy.

The morning sun doesn’t even try today. The sky outside is a dull sheet of gray, the kind that makes everything feel heavier before the day even begins. There’s no alarm clock, no birds chirping, just the soft clinking of a spoon stirring coffee from across the room—steady, tired, familiar.

You’re not even fully awake, but you know it’s her.

Karina’s always up before you now.

She doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t even check if you’re still breathing half the time. But the rhythm of her mornings has become muscle memory. Three circles clockwise. A tap on the rim of her mug. And then the silence of her scrolling through her phone, waiting for the leftovers to heat.

You groan softly as you sit up from the couch, rubbing your eyes. Your neck protests, stiff from sleeping wrong. Again. The couch cushion has lost its bounce, and the blanket only covers half your legs no matter how you position it. The TV is still on, stuck on some late-night channel that stopped mattering hours ago.

The apartment is dim. Curtains barely drawn, a faint drizzle casting ripples against the windowpane. Manila rain again. Quiet but persistent, like it’s always been part of the background noise in your life together. The faucet drips every ten seconds. You stopped fixing things a while ago.

You stand, stretching out the dull ache in your back, when her voice cuts the quiet.

“You didn’t sleep in the bedroom again?”

She doesn’t sound mad. Doesn’t even sound curious. Just tired.

You clear your throat. “You were already asleep. Didn’t want to bother you.”

There’s a beat of silence. She doesn’t press further. Just turns her head slightly, eyes back on the simmering pot on the stove. You brought home sinigang last night—an old lady from the bar you played at insisted. Said you shouldn’t be singing about heartbreak on an empty stomach.

Karina didn’t eat it then. She’s reheating it now. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe hunger. Maybe just habit.

You walk into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. It tastes stale.

She glances at you briefly, then looks away.

“The electric bill’s due this week,” she says, reaching for her mug. “When’s your share coming?”

You lean against the counter, blinking slowly.

“Maybe by Friday. Still waiting on payment from that gig.”

She nods once, not reacting. There’s no tension in her shoulders, no sigh of frustration. Just acceptance. The kind that doesn’t sting anymore because it’s stung too many times before.

“May said she saw your poster at Cubao,” she adds after a moment. “The one from last year. It’s still up.”

You look at her. She doesn’t look back.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Then, softer: “You looked happy in that photo.”

You swallow. Your voice is caught somewhere between your throat and the space between you. So you don’t reply.

The sinigang bubbles slightly. Too much heat. She moves to turn the stove off, one hand steadying her bag on her shoulder. You notice the way her collar is folded awkwardly.

You step forward without thinking.

“Hey, wait—”

She stops mid-step, turning to face you. Her eyes meet yours, surprised. Not annoyed. Not hopeful. Just caught off guard.

You reach out, fingers gently smoothing down the crooked side of her collar.

“It was sticking out,” you murmur.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Your hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary before you pull it back.

She looks at you like she wants to say something—something real, maybe something soft—but her gaze drops instead. She clears her throat, adjusting the strap of her bag again.

“There’s leftover rice,” she says quietly. “If you want to eat later.”

You nod.

She walks to the door, pulling it open, umbrella in one hand.

“Don’t forget to lock the gate,” she reminds you. “They said someone got robbed near the sari-sari store.”

“I will.”

She hesitates, standing in the doorway. The rain greets her instantly—gentle but relentless. The kind that soaks you slowly, without warning.

Then, just as she’s about to step out, she says it.

Soft. Almost automatic. But still real.

“Be safe, love.”

Your head snaps up. But by then she’s already gone.

The door clicks shut behind her. And the apartment is quiet again—except for the slow ticking of the wall clock and the scent of sinigang that still lingers in the air, waiting to be eaten by someone who might not feel hungry anymore

You went back to sleep but was unable to, so you stared at the ceiling as, You remember the night the rain came down so hard, it flooded the street outside and the two of you got stranded under the awning of a closed pharmacy.

Karina’s bangs were dripping, your slippers were nearly floating, and your phone was dead from the humidity. You didn’t have enough for a tricycle, and the last jeep had already passed. It was just the two of you, soaked, shivering, and cursing your luck.

But she looked at you and started laughing.

Not the polite kind. The full, head-tilted, eyes-shut laugh you hadn’t heard in a while.

You stared at her like she was insane. “We’re gonna get sick.”

“Probably,” she said, still laughing. “But it’s kinda funny, diba?”

You looked around—gray sky, water pooling at your ankles, the smell of hot asphalt—and you started laughing too.

By the time you got back to the room, you were both freezing. Clothes clung to your skin, your socks were ruined, and the fan was working at half-power. You stripped off your wet shirts and threw them onto the same chair that held all your clean laundry. Then you sat on the floor, backs against the wall, sharing a single towel.

“I’d kill for bulalo right now,” she said, shivering.

“You’d kill for any food,” you replied, reaching over to rub warmth back into her arms.

She leaned into you, her hair damp against your cheek.

“You think we’ll still be like this in five years?” she asked. “You, me. Still in some room. Still broke.”

“I hope not,” you said honestly.

She looked up.

“But I mean—I hope we’re still us,” you added quickly. “Just not… cold and hungry us.”

She smiled, tired and beautiful.

“That’s fair.”

You kissed her forehead, the same spot you always kissed when you didn’t have the words.

There was also that day at Divisoria, your first real shopping trip together.

You only had 800 pesos between the two of you, and most of it had to go to a water jug and a new rice scoop—but Karina insisted on one decorative pillow.

“Just one,” she said, holding it up like it was a sacred object. “Look, it’s a cloud! A literal cloud. It’s so soft.”

You raised an eyebrow. “We don’t even have a couch.”

“So we’ll hug it while we cry ourselves to sleep. Come on, please? It’s P129. I’ll skip milk tea.”

She bought it anyway.

That night, you saw her curled around it on the mattress, smiling in her sleep.

There was another time—just a random Tuesday—when she tried to cook dinner as a surprise.

She told you not to come home early, said she was “setting something up.” You opened the door to the smell of burnt garlic and overcooked rice.

She stood in the middle of the chaos—flour on her cheek, barefoot, wearing that oversized band shirt you loved on her.

“I tried,” she said sheepishly.

You walked up to her, kissed her forehead, and said: “You almost burned the place down.”

“But did I die?” she grinned.

The adobo was too salty. The egg was rubbery. The rice was scorched at the bottom. And yet, it was the best meal you’d had in weeks.

And every Sunday—back when you still had them—you’d wake up before noon, still tangled in each other’s limbs, and argue over what to eat.

Karina would always want sinigang. You’d always push for instant ramen.

So you’d compromise: rice, ramen, plus one sachet of sinigang mix.

You called it “sina-men.” She hated the name. She still laughed every time.

You remember how proud she was when she finally got her first paycheck. It wasn’t much, just a part-time tutoring job, but she came home with lumpiang shanghai from the carinderia and two red plastic roses.

“These will never die,” she said, sticking them in an old empty bottle beside your guitar case. “Just like us.”

You grinned and said, “Cheesy.”

She kissed you and whispered, “Live with it.”

And for a long time, you did.

You lived with her. You lived with love. You lived with the sound of her brushing her teeth too loudly, with your mismatched slippers, with fighting over what show to binge when the data was running out.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

You remember the day you moved in together.

The tricycle ride was too small for all your things—just a few boxes, your guitar, her books, some clothes, two throw pillows, and an old rice cooker. Everything else would follow later, you said. Even though there wasn’t anything else.

The landlady gave you the keys and warned you about the weak flush and the neighbor who sang karaoke at 2 a.m.

You both nodded politely, barely listening. You were too excited to care.

The room was smaller than you expected. The mattress was thinner. The walls were beige in the way that looked like they’d never been white. But Karina stepped in first, turned around slowly, and smiled like she was seeing a castle.

“It’s ours,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

You laughed, still out of breath from carrying everything. “You’re acting like we bought a condo.”

“We did,” she said, lifting her arms like she was revealing a masterpiece. “This is a deluxe unit, studio-type, no balcony but great ambiance.”

“You mean great dust.”

She nudged you with her shoulder. “Ambiance nga.”

You both collapsed on the mattress that night, no sheets yet, just the pillow she brought from home and a single towel as a makeshift blanket.

Karina rested her head on your chest, finger drawing little circles over your shirt.

“Someday,” she said softly, “we’ll have a real bed. A kitchen with cabinets. A dog named something stupid like ‘Adobo.’ You’ll be on stage, and I’ll be sitting in the crowd wearing something cute.”

“Something red,” you added. “You look good in red.”

She smiled. “And we won’t have to count coins before buying shampoo.”

You kissed her temple.

“Promise?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Promise.”

The wind blew in through the barely-sealed window. Someone was shouting outside about lost change. A baby cried two units down. But none of it mattered. Not yet.

You had her.

She had you.

And that small, broken-down room felt like it could hold a whole life.

The apartment’s quiet again when she gets home.

You’re in front of your laptop, headphones on, sound-editing a recording from the night before. She doesn’t say hi. Just places her bag by the wall, takes off her shoes, and walks straight to the bathroom.

The fan whirs. The screen glows. You play the chorus one more time—tweak the reverb.

When she comes out, her hair’s wet, and she’s already in her pambahay. She sits on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone.

You lift your headphones slightly. “How was work?”

“Okay.”

“Did you eat?”

“Mm. At the office.”

You nod. She doesn’t ask about your song.

You stare at her for a moment longer. She looks tired again. Her fingers are still scrolling, but you’re not sure she’s even reading anything. You close your laptop with a soft click.

“I submitted the demo,” you offer.

“Huh?”

“The one for that record label. Yung sinabi ko last week.”

She nods. “Cool.”

Silence.

“That’s it?” you ask.

She looks up, confused. “What do you mean?”

“It’s kind of a big deal, Rin.”

“I said cool.”

You try not to sigh. “It’s not just ‘cool.’ I stayed up two nights for that.”

She sets her phone down. Her voice stays level, but colder.

“And I stayed up three for a report I needed to finish. Didn’t see you clapping for me.”

That stings. But you swallow it.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what do you mean?”

There’s a pause. The kind where you both know what’s underneath but aren’t brave enough to say it.

“You’re not here anymore,” you say finally, quieter now. “Even when you are.”

Her jaw tightens.

“And you think you are?” she snaps back. “You’re always at gigs or buried in headphones. You come home when I’m asleep. You leave before I wake up. Anong gusto mong maramdaman ko?”

“I’m doing this for us—”

“So am I!”

You flinch.

Her voice cracks slightly. She hates when that happens.

“I’m not the same girl who bought pillows shaped like clouds anymore,” she says, eyes wet but defiant. “I have bills to pay. A future to build. And I’m scared all the time, Y/N. I’m scared I’m outgrowing a love that’s supposed to grow with me.”

You don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?

She picks her phone back up. Wipes her eyes quickly, pretending she’s just tired.

You sit there, frozen, hearing everything but saying nothing.

Later that night, you both lie in the same bed, facing opposite walls.

You want to reach out.

She wants you to reach out.

But no one does.

And somewhere between silence and stubbornness, you both fall asleep.

Alone. Together.

You lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling fan, listening to the sound of her breathing from the other side of the bed. She’s asleep—or pretending to be.

And your mind drifts back to the night it all started falling apart.

It was supposed to be a rehearsal.

You’d shown up late again—guitar strapped, lungs burning from running, fingers still sore from a solo you’d been working on. The room smelled like sweat and stale chips. Jay was packing up his pedals. Renz had already unplugged the mic. Nobody was looking at you.

You dropped your bag, heart racing. “Guys, come on. Don’t pack up.”

Jay didn’t even flinch. “There’s no point, Y/N.”

“What are you talking about?” you said. “We have the gig at Commonwealth next week.”

Renz scoffed. “You think that gig’s gonna save us?”

“It might.”

“No, it won’t,” Jay cut in sharply. “You’re late every time. You don’t listen. You don’t even pitch in for the van. I have mouths to feed, man. My son’s drinking powdered coffee for dinner.”

You stepped forward, voice tight. “Just a little bit more. One more amazing gig and we’ll have a future. Don’t you want that?”

Renz laughed bitterly. “You’re still saying that shit? We’ve been saying ‘one more gig’ for four years. My wife’s waiting for me to quit this band so we can move provinces and start over. I told her I’d give it one more month. That month was two months ago.”

“So what?” your voice rose. “What am I gonna tell Karina then? That I gave up? That I quit before it got good?”

Jay turned around slowly, his face tired in a way you hadn’t noticed before.

“That’s not how it works, Y/N,” he said. “It’s not about chasing dreams anymore. It’s about surviving.”

You felt something break in your chest. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe both.

“So you’re just gonna leave us like that?” you snapped. “Just like that? After everything?”

Jay’s eyes flickered. He didn’t shout. He didn’t flinch.

“I have mouths to feed, Y/N. Please understand. My son can’t eat properly. I can’t keep playing gigs for exposure and beer.”

Your hands were shaking now. “So that’s it?”

He nodded. “That’s it.”

You looked at Renz. He avoided your gaze. Picked up his amp. Turned away.

Your throat burned. Your palms clenched.

“Fuck it,” you muttered. “FUCK THIS. FUCK YOU. I CAN DO THIS ALL ALONE ANYWAY.”

No one responded.

Jay walked out.

Renz followed.

And just like that, your band was gone.

You blink up at the ceiling.

Karina turns in her sleep, facing away.

Your chest feels heavy again—not just from the memory, but from the weight of everything you’re trying to carry alone.

You thought chasing the dream was the hard part.

Turns out, trying to keep it alive is even harder

You don’t remember much from the night before.

Only fragments. A crowd. A bottle. Something about the sound guy pissing you off. A chair flying. The crack of something shattering.

Then— Light.

Bright and burning through your skull.

You open your eyes and you’re not home. You’re lying on the gutter outside a bar on E. Rodriguez, head resting against a trash bag, the cement wet from last night’s rain.

And standing above you—face pale, eyes swollen, still in her wrinkled blouse—is Karina.

She’s shaking.

Not with anger.

With exhaustion.

You can barely lift your head. But you see the waiters in the background, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Ma’am,” one says, arms crossed. “Your boyfriend destroyed our chairs. The stovetop. The overhead lights. Are you paying for it or what?”

She doesn’t say anything.

She just pulls her wallet out and hands over the last bills she has.

You try to say something. You really do. But all that comes out is a croak.

She bends down beside you, voice low, furious.

“I told you I had my exam today.”

You blink, slow.

“I told you—you promised—you’d stay home.”

She grabs your arm, struggling to lift your limp, drunken body. You’re heavy. You’re dead weight. Her shoulder almost gives out.

She tries again.

And again.

You hear her breathing break.

You feel her hands tremble as she holds your face.

“I can still make it. Maybe I can still—”

But your body collapses again, and so does her hope.

She looks at her watch.

And then she looks at you.

And for a moment, she actually considers leaving. Just walking away. Letting you rot on the sidewalk.

But she doesn’t.

Because she loves you.

Because she always chooses you.

So she misses the exam.

It’s a few nights later. Her birthday.

You cleaned up. You made sinigang. You even lit one of the cheap tealight candles she used to like.

She walks in, late, silent, tired. Her eyes scan the table. The food. The vinyl sleeve on the couch.

You grin nervously. “Happy birthday, love.”

She doesn’t say anything. You pick up the vinyl and show it to her, proudly.

“It’s your song. I named it ‘Track 01.’ I wanted to give you something real. Something—”

“You wanted to give me something real?”

Her voice slices through yours.

She stares at you. Unmoving. Unblinking. Expressionless.

“You wanted to give me something real after I pulled you out of the street covered in vomit on my exam day?”

Your face drops.

“Karina—”

“I chose you.”

Her voice starts shaking. “I had every reason to leave you there. I was already late. I studied for months. That was my chance. But I chose you.”

You move toward her. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never do.”

She picks up the vinyl.

“You know what this is to me?”

She throws it.

The record crashes against the wall.

Plastic cracks.

Silence.

She’s breathing hard now.

“You can always spend for music. Always. We can be broke. We can have no food. No soap. No rice. But for music?”

She steps closer.

“There’s always fucking money for that.”

You just stand there.

Small.

“I’m done.”

She whispers it. Dead cold.

“I’m tired of losing while you dream.”

And this time, she walks straight into the bedroom.

You hear the drawer open. You hear the zip of her bag.

And you don’t stop her.

Because you know this time…

She really means it

You follow her into the bedroom.

She’s grabbing clothes blindly—folding some, stuffing others. Her bag’s open on the mattress, already half-full.

“Karina, please—”

She doesn’t look at you.

You step closer, voice breaking. “Please, Rin. Don’t go. I have a gig next month—it’s in QC, at that new rooftop joint. People from the label will be there. It could be my big shot to be recognized, I swear. Just… just wait a little longer.”

She slams the drawer shut.

“It’s always that fucking passion that drives you crazy, Y/N! You know that?”

You flinch.

She finally turns, her eyes glassy but burning.

“You gamble everything on hope. You always say ‘just one more’—one more song, one more set, one more chance. And while you’re chasing dreams, I’m out here working double shifts, taking side jobs, buying our damn soap while you make beats at 2 a.m.!”

“I’m doing it for us!” you shout.

“No, you’re doing it for you.”

The words hit harder than anything she’s ever said.

“You think you’re fighting for this relationship just because you’re chasing success. But I’m the one fighting to survive it. I’m the one who’s been holding it together. Remind me—who’s idea was it to live together?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because it was yours.

“You said we’d make it work. That we’d figure it out. That love was enough.”

She lets out a dry laugh. “Well guess what? Love doesn’t pay Meralco. Love doesn’t refill shampoo. Love doesn’t put rice on the fucking table.”

You take a step forward. “Please just believe in me. One last time, Karina.”

She’s shaking her head before you finish.

“No. No, I can’t. I won’t. Because believing in you meant losing myself. It meant carrying your weight while pretending I was still okay. And I’m not, Y/N. I’m not.”

She zips up the bag.

“Your passion can’t feed us. It can’t fix this. It can’t fix me.”

The silence after that feels endless.

She grips her bag tighter, like if she lets go now, she’ll fall apart too.

You try to reach for her hand.

“Please.”

She pulls away.

“I already gave you everything I had, Y/N. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

And then she walks past you.

This time, you don’t try to stop her.

You just stand there.

Surrounded by her perfume, the echo of your own dreams, and a broken vinyl on the floor.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the scent of her perfume still lingering on the pillow.

The door’s barely stopped swinging from when she left.

And suddenly…

You’re back there again. Just last week.

Out on a tiny makeshift stage beside a carinderia in Marikina. Your set started at 10 p.m., ended at 12:30. The crowd was half-drunk, half-asleep.

You played through a busted amp. The mic cut out twice. Someone asked for “Eraserheads” then talked through your entire original song.

Afterward, the guy handed you a wrinkled ₱100 bill.

“Sorry pare, we only give this to acoustic solo sets. House rule.”

You smiled. Shook his hand. Took it anyway.

You told yourself it was enough to buy sinangag and 2 eggs in the morning. Maybe a sachet of coffee. Maybe you could surprise Karina with a small breakfast, maybe she’d smile again.

You walked home that night, tired but proud.

You were trying.

Trying to be a provider. A partner.

Trying to hold onto your dream without letting it kill you—or kill what’s left of your relationship.

But it wasn’t enough.

You look at your wallet now.

₱80. Crumpled. Still there from tonight’s gig. You didn’t even get to give it to her.

You clutch it in your hand like it might still mean something. Like you could hand it to her tomorrow with a smile and make her believe in you again.

But she’s gone.

And suddenly it hits you—no matter how honest your work is, how much your heart is in it…

It won’t matter to someone who’s already given everything and gotten nothing back.

You bury your face into your palms.

The silence feels permanent.

And for the first time since this all started—

You’re afraid your dream might not be enough to bring her home.

It’s been a week.

The house still smells like her.

Half her clothes are gone. The other half you can’t bring yourself to fold.

There’s a note taped to the fridge, short and simple:

“Don’t forget to unplug the rice cooker. You always do.”

—K

You read it every morning. You still forget to unplug it.

The sink’s empty. No one leaves hair in the bathroom anymore. The pillows are fluffier on one side—hers. You haven’t slept on the bed since she left. You use the couch again now.

The vinyl is still cracked. Still on the floor. You haven’t touched it.

You try to make music again.

You sit down, open the software. Try to loop something. Record a verse. Hum a chorus. But everything sounds hollow.

Like a shell.

Like a voice calling into an empty room and getting no answer.

You play the last song you wrote for her.

She never got to listen to it.

Maybe she didn’t want to.

You check your phone.

No messages.

You scroll up to your last conversation—

Her last text: “I’ll be staying at my mom’s. Please don’t come looking for me. Not yet.”

You type a reply.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete again.

You go outside and sit by the gate. She used to wait there when you got home late. Hug you before you even stepped inside. You wonder if she’s doing okay. If she passed the exam. If her mom’s treating her well. If she misses you.

You wonder if she still believes in you—even just a little.

But you don’t ask.

Because this time, you don’t get to ask.

And for the first time in years—

You wonder what it’s like to stop chasing.

To let go of something…

Before it destroys the rest of you.

She always said she’d come back.

When she’d visit home. When she’d get mad. When she’d walk out after a fight.

“Babalik ako, promise.”

But this time?

She didn’t say it.

And that silence tells you everything.

6 Months Later.

The door creaks open around 3:15 in the afternoon.

You don’t hear it at first. You’re in the kitchen, rinsing rice. You still rinse it three times, like she used to nag you to. Some habits stayed.

When you look up, she’s standing in the living room.

Karina.

Hair longer. Skin a little paler. She’s wearing slacks now, a work badge slung around her neck, and her old gray hoodie—the one you used to steal during storms.

She looks around. Not at you.

Just the walls. The couch. The space.

“Hey.”

You wipe your hands on your shirt. Your heart’s doing that weird thing again.

“Hey.”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t cry.

She just nods.

“I’m not here to stay.”

You nod too. Of course.

She walks further in, glances at the cracked vinyl still sitting under the shelf. You didn’t have the heart to throw it out.

“The house…” she says, voice level. “I’m selling it.”

The moment she brings it up, something in you tightens.

“I’m selling the house.”

You pause. Mid-stir, rice cooker humming behind you.

“What?”

“It’s the fastest way to get enough for my brother’s operation. I’ve already spoken to an agent. They said if we stage it well, it’ll go in under two months.”

You dry your hands slowly.

“You’re serious?”

“I wouldn’t come here if I wasn’t.”

You laugh—but it’s dry. Lifeless.

“You’re really going to sell our house just like that?”

She crosses her arms. Stays firm.

“Y/N, I don’t have a choice.”

You step forward.

“There’s always a choice, Karina. This house—it’s the last thing I have left of you. Of us.”

She doesn’t soften.

That part of her is gone.

“And my brother’s losing his eyesight. He’s sixteen. He hasn’t even been to the beach.”

You lower your voice.

“Then take the speakers. Take my guitar. Take the damn vinyl. But don’t take this house.”

“I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Then don’t take what’s not just yours.”

You snap it a little too hard.

She winces, just a bit.

But she exhales, steadies herself.

“It’s in both our names. We agreed on that before we even moved in.”

“Because we thought we’d be forever.”

She stays quiet.

And then—

“We’re not.”

Her voice is gentle. That’s what hurts more.

“I don’t wake up in this house anymore, Y/N. I don’t eat here. I don’t laugh here. You think this place holds memories? To me, it’s just a collection of broken things.”

Your chest sinks.

“But I kept it alive. I watered the cactus. I fixed the curtain rod. I didn’t change a single frame on the wall.”

“Exactly.”

She looks at you now. Eyes tired.

“You didn’t move on. You froze time.”

Silence.

You rub your thumb along the edge of the table.

“Maybe I wasn’t ready.”

She steps closer. Not to argue. Just to level.

“I understand.”

Then she looks away.

“But I can’t keep living in something we already buried.”

You bite your tongue.

“Do you have buyers?”

Your voice is steady, but quiet—like you already know the answer.

Karina sighs.

“Not yet. I’m kinda… struggling.”

You nod once, not looking at her.

You rinse the rice slowly, precisely, like how she taught you.

Then she says it.

“I’ll be staying here for renovations. I don’t want you tainting the reputation of this house so it can sell.”

That gets a small smile out of you. You don’t show it.

“Suit yourself then.”

You return to the sink.

Behind you, silence.

Then—

“You ate yet?”

“No—” she answers, caught off guard.

“I’m making sinigang.”

You glance at her.

“Missed it. After all these years.”

She watches you.

Really watches.

Noticing the fresh kangkong leaves already on the counter, the neatly sliced labanos, the tomatoes glistening under clean kitchen light.

No shabby, dying gulay. No crumpled seasoning packets half-used.

Not the kind of meal you’d scrape together from leftovers and desperation.

The floor’s swept. Curtains washed. Cactus still sits by the window—dead, but upright.

You’re not doing so bad.

You don’t look like a mess anymore.

And that, somehow, makes something in her ache.

She leans against the wall, arms folded.

“You kept the place nice.”

“It’s still home.”

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

She nods once. Doesn’t reply.

Instead, she walks into the living room. Runs her hand along the edge of the couch.

The same couch where you two fell asleep watching reruns.

The one where you first said I love you, after one too many beers.

You stir the pot gently.

The scent of tamarind and slow-boiled pork starts to fill the air.

And in that moment—just for a second—it almost feels like nothing’s changed.

Almost.

She’s staying you muttered, she’s back, your heart did some lil jumpy jumps but you fought the creeping smile your face tries to and label it as the reaction you get when you cook sinigang.

The day after, You start brewing two mugs of coffee again.

Karina walks into the kitchen without saying anything, her hair still damp from the shower. She sees the mug, pauses.

“You remembered.”

You shrug, sliding it toward her.

“Still no sugar, right?”

She lifts it, takes a sip, then hums softly.

“Still bitter.”

“So are you,” you mutter, sipping yours.

She shoots you a look over the rim of her mug, but there’s no bite in it. Just something half-smiling. Almost.

She’s vacuuming the rug with her earbuds in when you come sliding across the floor in socks like a kid on caffeine.

“Y/N!”

“It’s clean now. You’re welcome.”

You crash into the couch with a dumb grin. She rolls her eyes, pauses the music, and jabs your thigh with her foot.

“You’re such a dork.”

“Takes one to love one.”

She stares at you for a beat too long before walking away. No comeback.

The house smells like pork adobo later that night. She leans on the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching as you stir the pot.

“You always hum when you cook?”

You glance over your shoulder.

“Only when I’m not burning things.”

A smile tugs at your lips. “You still like boiled eggs in this, right?”

She stiffens.

“You remember that?”

You don’t answer. You just drop one in.

She lingers a second longer, then slips away.

The first couple that visits the house is young—bright-eyed, hopeful. You lead them around, pointing out the small things. The window she fixed. The shelf you built. You let them imagine a life that isn’t yours.

Then, in the kitchen:

“Oh, and don’t mind the crying at 3 a.m.”

The woman blinks. “I’m sorry?”

You nod solemnly. “Ghost. Former tenant. Always sings Hanggang Kailan off-key.”

They leave ten minutes later.

Karina hits your arm as soon as the gate shuts.

“Seriously?”

“They weren’t gonna love the house the right way anyway.”

She tries not to smile. Fails. “You’re impossible.”

“Still got a good arm, though.” You rub yours dramatically.

At the sari-sari store, your fingers brush reaching for the same noodle pack. You both freeze.

“Sweet and spicy?” she asks, almost laughing.

“Still your favorite.”

She draws her hand back. “We’re not—”

“—even together,” you finish.

Silence.

Then:

“Get both.

She nods.

Laundry day. You sweep while she folds. It’s quiet—too quiet—until she finds your old shirt. The one she used to hate. She pauses, rubs the faded print between her fingers, presses it lightly to her face.

She doesn’t know you’re watching.

When she tosses it into the drawer, her hands linger a little too long.

You say nothing.

It starts raining just as you step out of the tindahan. You pop open the umbrella. She steps under it without asking. Your arms brush.

She doesn’t pull away.

You don’t say anything.

But in your head, you whisper please stay.

Later that night, the rain tapping gently on the roof, you sit on the floor with your guitar. It’s old, slightly out of tune. Your fingers remember anyway. You hum under your breath—soft, unsure.

Her favorite song.

You don’t look up, but you know she’s there—leaning on the doorway, arms folded, half-hidden in shadow.

“Still not done?” she asks softly.

You smile to yourself.

“It’s getting there.”

A beat. Then you start singing, barely above a whisper.

“You used to hum this in your sleep,

When we still fit on one side of the bed…

When dreams were cheaper than rice,

And your hand never slipped from mine…”

Your voice trembles at the end.

You stop She sits down beside you without a word, knees brushing yours.

“Sing it again?”

Her voice cracks just a little.

You nod.

Strum once.

And this time, when you sing—

She hums along.

Not like a stranger.

Not like a lover.

Just someone who, despite everything, still remembers the words.

A Week Later.

The café hums with chatter and the clink of iced coffee glasses. Karina stirs hers slowly, the ice nearly melted. Her friends—Jo and Elle—sit across from her, half-lounging in mismatched chairs, legs tucked up like they always did in college.

Jo nudges her.

“So… how’s house renovations with the ex going?”

A sly grin. “Any spontaneous back hugs?”

Karina groans. “Please.”

Elle scoffs, sipping her matcha.

“I still don’t know why you’re even letting him stay there.”

“Because he still lives there,” Karina mutters.

Jo raises a brow. “And maybe because some part of you still likes hearing him sing.”

Karina glares. “He hurt me. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re not,” Jo says. “But love doesn’t always make you smart.”

A beat. Then softer—

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. But presence? Presence puts the heart in danger.”

Elle cuts in, more blunt.

“He left you crying yourself to sleep on your birthday, Rina. Don’t romanticize it just because he’s being decent now.”

Karina doesn’t answer.

She stares into her watered-down coffee.

It’s raining again the night you plan it—because of course it is.

You save what you can. A few candles. Her favorite dishes, all warm and spread out on the table like a memory made real. No records this time. No vinyl. No starving for a dream.

Just rice. Kare-kare. Tuyo and itlog na maalat. Simple things.

And a cake, kind of crooked. But real.

You wait.

She comes home, umbrella dripping, brows furrowed. She opens the door and stops.

Her eyes scan the table. The lights dimmed. The food. The silence.

You step out from the kitchen, a guitar slung low across your chest.

She blinks, stunned.

“What is this…?”

You clear your throat, suddenly nervous.

“Happy birthday, Rina.”

Then, softly—your voice a little hoarse—you sing.

That unfinished song. The one she hummed in her sleep.

She stares at you.

Then closes her eyes.

You finish.

You put the guitar down. Step closer.

She doesn’t move. Her breathing’s uneven.

“I didn’t get you a record this time,” you whisper.

“I noticed.”

“I thought you deserved more than music.”

You reach forward.

Fingers graze hers.

Then—

You kiss her.

Soft. Careful. Tender

The sensation of her soft lips, makes you heat up.

She lets you.

Just for a second.

Then pulls back.

And bolts out the door.

The rain drenches her instantly, but she doesn’t stop.

You chase after her, barefoot, heart pounding harder than the thunder.

“Rina—please! What’s wrong?!”

She spins around in the middle of the street, soaked, fists clenched, voice cracking like the sky above you.

“Why? Why again? Why do you keep making me fall in love with you?”

She chokes out a laugh—sharp, bitter, broken.

“Is it because you know how to hold me just right? Because you know what to say, what to sing, what to cook?”

Her hand presses hard against her chest.

“You don’t love me, Y/N. You know me. And that’s why it’s so fucking easy for you to undo me.”

You’re frozen, your breath caught in your throat.

“I’m smart,” she whispers. “In every part of my life, I know what I’m doing. But when it comes to you—”

Her voice catches.

“I become so, so fucking stupid.”

You take a step forward, cautious.

“Rina… I never meant to hurt you. I was trying—”

She cuts you off.

“You were trying?!”

She laughs again, but there’s nothing amused in it.

“I gave up everything. I worked overtime, skipped meals, shelved my dreams just to keep us afloat—while you were ‘trying.’”

You swallow hard. The rain sticks your shirt to your skin, heavy like your guilt.

“I thought love would be enough.”

She stares at you, eyes wild with pain.

“Well, it wasn’t. And it sure as hell isn’t now.”

“Then let me make it enough.”

Your voice is desperate now, trembling.

“Not with songs. Not with promises. With me. I want to be enough for you. Not for the stage. Not for a crowd. Just you.”

The storm quiets for a second. All that’s left is her shallow breathing, the sound of her heart breaking all over again.

“Why now?” she says, barely audible.

“Why not when I needed you the most?”

You pause. Then, simply:

“Because now, I know what it feels like to wake up and not hear your voice. To eat alone. To sing into silence.”

You look her in the eye.

“Because I know now what I lost. And I’d rather fail a thousand times than lose you one more fucking time.”

And just like that—

She shatters.

Not in rage.

In grief.

Because she still loves you.

Even after everything.

Especially after everything.

After some moments.

You both sit at the edge of the street, rainwater pooling around your shoes, the world around you muted like it’s giving you space.

She hugs her knees, shivering.

You don’t touch her. You just sit beside her, breathing with her, waiting until she’s ready to speak.

Minutes pass.

Then softly—

“You never said anything.”

You glance at her.

“About what?”

“The pipe under the sink. The roof. The groceries that just… showed up when I thought we had nothing left.”

She swallows. “I used to think it was luck. That maybe the universe pitied me.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“I wish it was luck.”

She turns to you. Her voice is small now. Tired.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at the sky, raindrops still falling light and steady.

“Because I thought I was supposed to fix it without making it your problem. Because every time I looked at you, you already looked so tired.”

You pause.

“I didn’t want to add more weight.”

She’s quiet.

You go on, your voice low, a little hoarse.

“I played every night. Slept at terminals. Took the early gigs, the unpaid ones, just for a hot meal. Borrowed tools from neighbors. Spent hours watching YouTube videos just to fix the goddamn roof because you cried the night it leaked on your desk.”

You bite your lip.

“And I know it doesn’t make up for how I failed you emotionally. I know showing up with eggs and canned tuna isn’t the same as being there.”

She doesn’t interrupt. Her breath catches, once.

“But I never sat around doing nothing, Rina. I wasn’t just chasing a dream. I was surviving. For both of us. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

The rain slows to a drizzle.

You finally turn to her, cheeks soaked not just by the rain.

“You were hurting. I was too. But I never stopped trying.”

She nods, once. Eyes glassy again.

“I know.”

She pauses. “I just… needed to hear it.”

You don’t ask her to come back.

You don’t kiss her again.

You just sit there with her on the curb, two people who once built a life, watching the rain wash the street clean.

And for the first time in a long while—

You both finally feel light

You both walk home in silence, the rain finally tapering off, leaving behind only the chill in your soaked clothes and the stillness of early dawn.

The front door creaks like it always has. The scent of leftover adobo still lingers faintly in the air. She kicks off her shoes, still shivering, while you disappear into the room for a second.

When you return, you’re holding something—an old, slightly creased envelope.

You place it gently on the table beside her.

“Here,” you say softly. “For your brother.”

She blinks.

“What?”

“For Chico’s treatment.”

She stares at it, then at you.

“Huh? How did you…?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just smile.

Then, casually, you give her a soft pat on the head.

“I sold my vinyl collection.”

You shrug, trying to play it off like it doesn’t sting.

“Turns out nostalgia’s worth something to people. Who knew?”

Her mouth opens, but no words come.

“But you loved those,” she finally whispers.

“You’ve been collecting them since you were sixteen.”

You nod.

“I did.”

You look at her, eyes warm.

“But I love you more.”

She covers her mouth, overwhelmed, breath caught halfway between a sob and a smile.

You step closer, voice softening further.

“So… can we not sell the house?”

You gesture around—at the mismatched paint, the worn-out floorboards, the crooked frames.

“I know it’s falling apart. Cheap. Tired.”

Then your hand lands on the wall—light blue, chipped, familiar.

“But every broken tile, every hole in the roof… they’re memories. You and me, trying. Failing. Loving. Crying. Laughing.”

Your eyes meet hers.

“It’s not just a house, Rina. It’s us. It’s where we learned how to love, even when we didn’t know how.”

You take a deep breath.

“So let’s keep it. Let’s fix it. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s ours.”

And that’s when she finally breaks—collapsing into your arms, laughing and crying all at once, holding you like she never wants to let go again.

And you hold her back.

No stage.

No spotlight.

Just her.

Just home.

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