Ch 7

It had been one of those nights. One of those endless, suffocating nights where everything felt too heavy — work, expectations, the unrelenting pressure of being Rafaelle Ramone Laurente De Torre. Hopkins had been relentless. Research deadlines loomed. Family obligations weighed on me like stones. I was exhausted, emotionally raw, and fed up with the life I had meticulously built — a life that looked perfect on paper but felt like a cage.

I poured myself a glass of neat vodka. Then another. "Just one," I told myself. "One glass to take the edge off." But one became three, then four. Alcohol, I thought, would be my pal tonight, would soften the edges of this relentless pressure. I thought wrong.

By the time I was swaying slightly on the couch, phone in hand, I was so drunk I wasn't thinking at all. Impulse, longing, and exhaustion collided, and I did the only thing that seemed possible: I went through my recent logs and called the only unknown number listed there.

"Hello?" Her voice came through, calm and gentle, but steady — the voice that had haunted and comforted me for years.

"Lea..." My voice broke immediately, cracking across the line like brittle glass. "I... I don't even know why I'm calling. I'm... a mess. I can't... I can't keep... I can't keep going like this anymore."

A pause. "Rafaelle?" she said cautiously. "Slow down. Breathe."

"I can't!" I shouted, though my voice trembled. "I'm so tired, Lea! I'm tired of being Rafaelle Ramone De Torre — the perfect daughter, the obedient heiress, the successful doctor, the everything. I've achieved everything, done everything, but I... I'm empty. There's a hollow in my life that can't be filled... a-a stolen happiness... I-it's... it's your spot."

Her inhale was soft, grounding me just slightly, but it wasn't enough to stop the torrent. "I want to be free... to-to just be me," I confessed, my words slurred but heartfelt. "Free from the shackles of being a De Torre, from the expectations, from the life I thought I wanted. I regret... I regret not saying yes to you, to saying no to eloping with you or marrying you. I regret being scared of the consequences. I hate— fucking hate myself for letting you go. Nandito ka na sa akin eh. I already had you yet I had the foolish audacity to turn you away. I was stupid, I'm an idiot. I let fear decide my life, and now... I have everything they wanted for me, everything I thought I wanted... and yet I'm unhappy."

Her voice softened. "Rafaelle... you don't have to carry it all alone."

"I've been living in a cage of my own making," I admitted, tears streaming down my cheeks, mixing with the bitter taste of vodka. "I've built walls, followed rules, achieved perfection... but nothing fills the emptiness. Nothing can. Except you, Lea. You were always the missing piece. You always will be."

There was a long pause on the other end. I imagined her, patient and steady, letting me unravel completely without judgment.

"I... I can't stop thinking about you," I whispered, voice breaking. "Every day. Even after all these years. I tried to be responsible. I tried to do the right thing. But... I wanted you, Lea. I want you. I... I love you. I've loved you all along."

"Rafaelle," she murmured, soft, tender, unwavering. "I hear you. I see you. All of it. You don't have to hide anymore."

I exhaled shakily, my head falling back against the couch. Alcohol had made me reckless, yes, but it had also ripped the lid off everything I had buried inside. Exhaustion, longing, regret — it spilled over in a torrent I hadn't intended but couldn't stop.

"I... I'm sorry," I whispered finally. "I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to call like this."

"You didn't hurt me," she said softly. "You just... let me see you. And I'm glad you did."

And in that quiet, fragile moment, lying there on my couch with the city lights spilling across the floor, I realized something. Alcohol may have been my undoing tonight, but honesty, raw and unrestrained, was my salvation. And through it all, she was there. Still patient, still steady, still hers — the only piece that had ever truly belonged to me.

The next morning was a battlefield. My skull throbbed with every heartbeat, my mouth felt like sandpaper, and my stomach lurched with the unmistakable punishment of too much alcohol. The sunlight that filtered through the blinds felt cruel, too sharp, too bright, exposing everything I wanted to hide.

I rolled over on the couch and felt my phone dig into my side. For a moment, I didn't dare look at it. Then the memories hit — like a film reel on fast-forward. The call. My voice breaking. The confessions I had buried for years, spilling out in a slurry rush of neat vodka and desperation.

"Oh, God," I groaned, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. "What did I do..."

I unlocked my phone with trembling fingers, terrified of what I'd find. Had I really told her everything? Had I said I loved her? Had I—

The call log confirmed it. One call to "Unknown Number" at 11:43 p.m. Duration: 14 minutes. My stomach clenched.

I opened my texts, half-expecting a wall of angry messages, or worse — nothing at all. But the thread was blank, a void. No reply, no message. Just silence.

I curled into the couch, clutching my phone like a lifeline, panic thrumming in my chest. "You really are an idiot, Rafaelle," I muttered to myself. "A complete, reckless idiot. You had to go and drunk-dial the one person who still has the power to destroy you."

Yet beneath the shame, there was something else. A strange, flickering calm. A quiet relief. Because for the first time in years, I hadn't been perfect. I hadn't been composed, polished, or dutiful. I had been raw, messy, myself.

And she had stayed on the line.

I stared at the ceiling, my throat tight, my head pounding. "I'm sorry, Lea," I whispered into the empty room. "But at least now... you know."

I closed my eyes and let the silence envelop me. Shame and hope tangled inside me like two sides of the same coin. I didn't know what she was thinking, or if she would ever reply. But a part of me, the part that had always believed in her, whispered that maybe — just maybe — this was the beginning of something I had been too afraid to let happen before.