Ch 4

Med school at UQ became my refuge and my crucible. The city hummed around me while I buried myself in study, rounds, and exams. I learned to live without her beside me, to convert every heartbreak into focus, every longing into discipline. I was a De Torre, after all. Excellence wasn't optional; it was expected.

Graduation arrived, and I walked onto the stage in my tailored gown, the city skyline gleaming behind me. My name was called: Dr. Rafaelle Ramone De Torre.

I scanned the audience. My family — the embodiment of wealth, taste, and social grace — sat in the front row. My eldest sister, Ava, glowing with pride and impeccable poise. My kuya Raymond, handsome and collected, nodding with quiet satisfaction. Ramon, father, refined and stately in his bespoke suit, eyes glinting with pride. And my mother, Alicia, elegant and composed, tears brimming in her eyes as she clutched her designer clutch.

I smiled at them all, letting myself feel a fraction of the pride they had for me. Ava waved subtly, whispering, "You did it, bunso." My heart swelled. But even in that moment of triumph, part of me lingered in the shadows of the theatre in Brisbane, humming the melody that never left me.

Then there was Harvard, Boston was colder than anything I had ever known. Harvard Yard greeted me with frozen rivers, sharp winds, and the precision of a place that demanded everything and gave little back. Internal Medicine was relentless; nights bled into mornings, the corridors of hospitals and dorms becoming a rhythm that kept me steady. And yet, her song came back in quiet moments. Someone humming in the break room, a melody on a street corner — I need you so, baby, even though you don't need me... You don't need me no, no — and for a heartbeat, I was transported back to Brisbane, to Sydney, to Melbourne: to laughter, coffee, and a love I had set aside.

When graduation came, offers lined up from London, Toronto, New York. But the one that made Ava cry over the phone was the letter from Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. My life, built meticulously, had opened the door I had always dreamed of. Hopkins became my universe. White halls, bustling nurses, beeping monitors. I earned my coat, my title, my place: Dr. Rafaelle L. De Torre, M.D., Internal Medicine. Every morning I walked those corridors, I carried the weight of my family name — the De Torres — and the years of discipline it demanded. But beneath the prestige, the world-class career, there was her. Lea.

Some nights, when the halls grew quiet, I'd watch Baltimore's skyline shimmer. And there she would be, haunting and tender, her voice echoing in my chest: I need you so, baby, even though you don't need me... You don't need me no, no.

No one knew her. No one would. She belonged to a version of me that existed before the white coats, before rounds, before the quiet triumphs of adulthood — the version who had loved deeply and let go.

And so I moved through the years — accomplished, composed, unshaken — carrying her song quietly beneath my pulse. A reminder that even the love you release, the hearts you leave behind, shape the person you become. Sometimes, I would catch myself imagining her, somewhere across oceans, smiling, singing, thriving. And sometimes, just sometimes, the ache felt like hope — not for a reunion, not for a rekindling, but for the knowledge that love like hers, and like ours, never truly dies.

I had chosen my path, kept my promises, honored my responsibilities, and upheld the legacy of the De Torres. And still, in the quiet hours, with the city beneath me and the lights of Baltimore shimmering, I whispered her name. Lea. And the city, like always, held me, steady and unshaken.

It was one Tuesday afternoon, and the hospital hummed with its usual rhythm — monitors beeping, phones ringing, and the quiet shuffle of residents moving between wards. I was sitting in the break room, sorting through patient charts, when Dr. Miller leaned against the counter, a sly grin spreading across his face.

"You're a musical theatre fan, right?" he asked, folding his arms.

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Depends on the day," I replied dryly, though curiosity pricked at me.

He chuckled. "Come on, Dr. Dee. I've seen the way you light up when you talk about shows. You even mentioned Lea Salonga in passing during rounds."

My chest tightened slightly. I hadn't expected anyone to notice that about me. "Maybe," I said cautiously, trying to stay neutral.

"Well, guess what?" he said, eyes glinting. "She's in town. Baltimore Music Hall. Next Tuesday. Orchestra, full production, the works. I've got two tickets I can't use. Thought you might... appreciate it."

I froze, pen mid-note. "Lea? Here? In Baltimore?"

"Exactly," he said, leaning closer, voice conspiratorial. "I know you'd enjoy it. You love musical theatre, right? This is practically a private performance for your kind of fan."

My pulse stuttered. I nodded slowly, trying to mask the surge of emotions stirring in my chest. Years had passed since I last saw her perform in Brisbane, and yet the memory of that concert — the lights, the music, her voice threading through the air as if it belonged to me — was still vivid, almost painful.

"Two tickets?" I asked carefully.

"Yep," he replied with a grin. "I can't go. Thought you might want one."

I stared at him for a moment, weighing the idea. Part of me wanted to say no, to remain untangled from memories and longing. But the other part — the part that had quietly carried her song in my chest for years — felt a pull too strong to resist. "I'll take it," I said finally, voice low. "Thank you, Miller."

By that evening, the thought of the concert had settled into my mind like a persistent melody. I imagined walking into the hall, slipping into a seat near the back, and seeing her again. From a distance, safely tucked away, I could admire her brilliance without disrupting either of our lives. My heart thudded with anticipation and a familiar ache, a reminder of the life I had walked away from for responsibility and duty.

The days that followed were a blur of patients, charts, and rounds, but my mind kept returning to her — to the warmth of her voice, the quiet afternoons in Australia, the laughter and stolen moments that had once belonged to us. And when Tuesday night finally arrived, I found myself standing outside the concert hall, Baltimore streets crisp and alive with city lights, the tickets clutched in my hand like a fragile promise.

I slipped into a seat near the back, letting the crowd wash over me, keeping to the shadows where I could watch without being noticed. Even from afar, she already seemed to glow.

When she appeared, radiant and commanding, the room seemed to tilt. Lea Salonga — poised, elegant, every movement graceful — stepped into the spotlight. The orchestra swelled, and the first notes of "Kailangan Kita" drifted through the hall. My chest tightened immediately.

Her voice was pure, powerful, and achingly tender, threading through every corner of the space:

Kailangan kita, ngayon at kailanmanKailangan mong malaman na ikaw lamang

My throat caught. I had carried this song silently for years, a reminder of what I had loved and let go. The refrain came again, resonant and relentless:

Ang tunay kong minamahalAng lagi kong dinarasal

I gripped the armrest, trying to keep my pulse steady. Around me, the audience cheered and murmured, leaning into every note, but I felt removed — a ghost lingering in the corner of her brilliance. Every smile, every laugh, every graceful movement belonged to her, not me. And I was here, watching from a distance, tethered to a life I had walked away from.

She spoke between songs, warm and gracious, and I imagined what it would be like if she looked my way and recognized me. But I knew she wouldn't. I wasn't meant to exist in this part of her world anymore. I was Dr. Rafaelle Ramone Laurente De Torre, Harvard-trained, Hopkins doctor, heir to a refined, wealthy family — a woman built to be composed, accomplished, unshaken. And yet, in that moment, every layer of control I had constructed over the years seemed to crumble.

I tried to focus on the music, on the technical perfection of her performance, but my mind wandered to Australia, to our afternoons together, to the quiet moments we had stolen. That life was gone. I had chosen my path: Harvard, Hopkins, responsibility, discipline. Yet sitting there, the ache of her presence was alive, insistent, undeniable.

The final notes rang out, and the audience erupted into applause. I clapped with them, standing politely, a smile in place, but inside, I felt the sting of distance more sharply than ever. She took her bow, radiant, as if she could light the city itself, and I stayed in my seat for a moment longer, drinking her in from afar, knowing this was the safest distance I could maintain.

As the lights came up and the crowd began to file out, I lingered, my gaze fixed on her as she exited the stage. I wanted to run, to speak, to reach across the years and tell her everything I had never said.

But I didn't. I couldn't.

I left the hall into the crisp Baltimore night, coat tight around me, hands deep in pockets, walking slowly down the streets. Her voice followed me, drifting into the air, lingering like a melody I could never quite grasp. I had chosen discipline over desire, responsibility over longing, yet the refrain repeated endlessly in my mind:

Kailangan kita... ngayon at kailanman...

And tonight, more than ever, I did.