Ch 2

Five years can make the world unrecognizable — yet some things don't change.

The jacarandas still bloom violet in October, scattering petals along the UQ walkway like confetti. The Brisbane River still curls around the city, quiet and deliberate, mirroring the light of every passing ferry. And I still find myself looking at sunsets as if I'll see her silhouette in them.

Lea Salonga.

Even saying her name in my head still feels like stepping on a bruise.

It's not that I haven't moved on — I have, in all the ways that matter. I finished my nursing degree, got into med school, survived anatomy, biochem, and three years of sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled exams. I'm now in my final year at UQ, with a stethoscope around my neck and a quiet confidence I never used to have.

But every now and then, when I'm walking past the Performing Arts Centre or catching the ferry by South Bank, I still think of her.

How she laughed that night at Luna Park.How her voice trembled when she said,"Marry me, Rafaelle."And how I said no — because sometimes the right decision can still break your heart.

It's funny how the universe tests you long after you think you've healed.

That afternoon, I was leaving the hospital after a twelve-hour rotation when my phone buzzed with a notification from the Queensland Performing Arts Centre. I almost ignored it — but curiosity made me open it.

LEA SALONGA LIVE IN BRISBANE — One Night Only.

I froze.

I read the announcement twice, maybe three times, before I could breathe again.

The concert was in two weeks.

Same city. Same air. Same heartbeat that once matched mine.

For a moment, I considered deleting the email. Pretending I never saw it. But the rational part of me — the doctor-in-training who'd learned to face things, not flee — couldn't do it.

That night, I found myself walking by the river again. Brisbane at night is soft — the water glistening under the bridges, the hum of the ferries, couples walking hand in hand. I stopped by the bench where I used to sit years ago, back when my heart was still learning to live without her.

It had been five years.

And yet, saying her name still made something inside me stir.

I didn't know if I was ready to see her again.But I also knew I couldn't go on pretending she didn't exist.

So I bought a ticket. Front row.

Not because I wanted to rekindle anything — but because I needed to know if I could finally look at her and not feel the ache.

Maybe this was closure. Or maybe it was another kind of beginning I hadn't yet imagined.

All I knew was this — for the first time in five years, the idea of seeing Lea didn't scare me. It made me feel alive.

Come concert night-- the night shimmered in that way Brisbane always does — the river catching the lights from the bridges, the hum of weekend traffic weaving through the air like background music to a memory.

QPAC glowed from across the water, the crowd spilling into the plaza, laughter bouncing off the glass walls. I hadn't been inside this theatre since I came back. Maybe that was deliberate — too many ghosts, too many reminders.

But tonight, there was no avoiding it.

The usher led me to the front row — dead centre. My heart thudded like it was trying to escape. I told myself to breathe, to just enjoy the music, to not make this more than what it was.

And then, she walked in.

Miss Lea Salonga.

Five years later, and she was still magnetic — still the kind of woman who could silence a room just by smiling. Her hair was shorter now, her presence softer, but there was a gravity to her that I hadn't seen before. Like she'd lived through storms and learned to carry the rain with grace.

"Good evening, Brisbane," she said, voice warm, familiar, impossibly steady. "It's been a long time."

The crowd cheered. I didn't move.

And then her eyes found me.

It was quick — a flicker, a heartbeat — but I saw it. That stutter in her composure. That tiny gasp she tried to hide behind a practiced smile.

I felt the air drain from my lungs.

She recovered, the consummate performer, and turned back to the microphone. But when the opening chords of the next song began — slow, tender, unmistakable — I knew this wasn't coincidence.

Baby, now that I've found you, I can't let you go...

The first line hit me like a whisper from another lifetime. She hummed this once, right here in Brisbane, at her hotel room after I got discharged from hospital and we ended up singing it together.

Now, every lyric carried the weight of the years we'd lost.

Her voice — god, her voice — it hadn't aged a day, but it had deepened somehow. There was ache there. Longing. Truth. She wasn't just performing. She was remembering.

The crowd swayed, enchanted, but I sat frozen — her eyes catching mine again during the refrain, softening when she sang,

I need you soBaby, even though you don't need meYou don't need me no, no

My throat tightened.She blinked — just once — and I saw the gloss in her eyes. Not stage tears. Real ones.

When the song ended, the applause roared.But she didn't bow right away. She just looked at me.

And in that heartbeat between sound and silence, it was as if the years collapsed.

The woman who once asked me to marry her was right there again, standing beneath the spotlight, and the only thing separating us now was everything we hadn't said.

The rest of the concert passed like a blur — song after song, memory after memory — and I clapped when everyone else did, smiled when she cracked her jokes, but my heart was a mess.

When she came out for her encore, she spoke softly: "Brisbane's always been close to my heart," she said. "There are places here that hold... very personal memories."

And then her eyes found me again.

A pause. A breath.

"Sometimes life takes us away from the people who change us," she continued. "But if we're lucky, even just for one night, we get to see them again."

The audience clapped politely. But I knew. I knew who she was talking to.

When the lights came up and the crowd began to rise, I couldn't move. My legs felt like glass. Then — over the noise, over the applause, over the curtain of distance between us — she mouthed my name.

Rafaelle.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't meant for anyone else.

And suddenly, I was twenty-one again — on St. Kilda Beach, watching her laugh, tasting the salt of the wind and the sweetness of everything that almost was.

But I didn't go to her.

Because love, even when it's true, doesn't always mean return. Sometimes it's enough to simply witness — to see the person you loved thrive, to know they're still a song you remember, even if you can never sing it again.

Outside, the night air felt sharp. I crossed the Victoria Bridge, the city shimmering below. The air smelled like jacaranda and rain, and somewhere behind me, I could still hear her voice — Baby, now that I've found you... I won't let you go.

And I whispered back into the wind, "You already did."