Ch 8

The next few days passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and lingering anxiety. I kept my phone close, half-expecting a response from Lea, half-dreading it. Every buzz made my heart lurch. And somehow, she knew.

Messages began trickling in — brief, careful, attentive. "Rafaelle, are you okay?" one read. Another: "Don't push yourself too hard. Take care of yourself." And then: "Call me when you can. No rush. Just... don't disappear."

It was relentless in the gentlest way possible. She didn't chastise me, didn't mock me, didn't judge me for my drunken confession. She simply checked, again and again, like a lighthouse keeping her signal on, ensuring I hadn't vanished entirely into my exhaustion and despair.

At first, I ignored them, telling myself I needed space, that I had to maintain control. But the truth was — every time I saw her name, a small, stubborn thread of warmth and relief tugged at me. It was both comforting and terrifying. Comforting because she cared, terrifying because she had seen me at my weakest, and I had no defenses left.

By the third day, I finally texted back, my fingers trembling: "I'm... alive. Survived. Thank you."

Her reply was almost instant: "Good. That's all I wanted to know. Don't make me worry again, Rafa. Even a little."

The persistence continued, subtle but unwavering. Sometimes it was a text checking on sleep. Sometimes a question about meals. Sometimes a playful message to make me laugh. Always careful, always warm.

And through it all, I realized how much I had missed this — her presence, her care, her quiet insistence that I didn't have to carry everything alone. It was maddening and soothing all at once.

For the first time since that night, I allowed myself to relax, even just a little. To let her in. To acknowledge that I wanted it, needed it, even if I still had walls up, even if I still had responsibilities and boundaries to honor.

Somehow, through a drunken confession and weeks of quiet persistence, she had reminded me that I wasn't as alone as I thought. And that thought... made everything feel just a little lighter.

After days of her constant, gentle checking-in, I finally found myself holding the phone, thumb hovering over her contact. The texts had been a lifeline, small threads of connection weaving through my otherwise relentless days. But now I needed more. I needed her voice.

I took a deep breath and dialed.

"Lea..." My own voice sounded tighter than I expected. The line rang once... twice... three times.

And then: voicemail.

I sank onto the couch, heart tightening. Of course, I thought. She had been busy, probably miles away, living her life while I had been overthinking every moment.

Just as I was about to hang up, my phone buzzed. A new message from her.

"I saw your call, Rafa. I'm in London right now. Rehearsals. I have a stint of concerts here. Okay ka lang ba? Usap tayo when I get back to NYC? I'll travel to Baltimore ulit if I must unless you want to meet halfway or ikaw naman ang bumisita sa NYC, your call. Be safe xx"

I exhaled, a mix of relief and frustration threading through me. Relief, because she hadn't ignored me, frustration, because the distance between us suddenly felt impossible.

I stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, feeling the tug of all the emotions I'd been bottling up for years. Finally, I typed a careful response:

"Okay, sige. We'll work it out pag nakabalik ka na rito sa US. I'm doing okay, hope you are too. Ingat ka d'yan and try to rest when you can. I'll be here, don't worry too much, I'll wait."

I sent it, then set the phone aside, letting the quiet settle around me. Even though she wasn't here, the thread of connection remained unbroken. Her awareness, her care, her patience — it was all there, even across continents.

And in that moment, I realized how much I had come to rely on it, how much I had needed her — not in a reckless, impulsive way, but as a quiet, constant presence in the storm of my life.

The days stretched out slowly, each one blurring into the next as I tried to focus on work, research, and everything that should have kept my mind occupied. But nothing could drown out the persistent hum of her presence in my thoughts. Every message she had sent, every small check-in, played on a loop in my mind. Her care was constant, gentle, unwavering, and it both comforted and tormented me.

I found myself replaying our texts over and over, imagining her words spoken aloud, imagining her voice as if she were right there beside me. "Be safe. Usap tayo when I get back." Simple words, but they carried weight, warmth, and promise.

I wanted to call her again, to hear her laugh, to hear her gently scold me for being so tense, so uptight. But I didn't. I reminded myself that she was far away, busy, living her own life. She didn't need the burden of my longing while she was halfway across the world.

Still, every morning I checked my phone first thing, hoping for another message, another word from her. Every evening, I stared at the screen, wondering what she was doing, whether she was safe, whether she thought of me as much as I thought of her.

Work became both a distraction and a torment. Every patient, every research note, every task reminded me that I was alive, that I had responsibilities, that I had built a life — and yet, beneath it all, the emptiness remained. The part of me that had always belonged to her, the part that could never be filled by accolades or achievements, ached relentlessly.

I hated how much I missed her. Hated how much I longed for her presence, for her understanding, for the quiet way she always saw me. And yet, I couldn't let myself push beyond the boundaries I had set. I couldn't abandon the life I had created, reckless as I wanted to be.

So I waited. I measured each day carefully, allowing myself the small comfort of her words and the promise of her return. I let the longing simmer quietly, a flame contained but persistent, reminding me that some things were worth waiting for. That some connections, once formed, could survive distance, time, and even restraint.

And all the while, I whispered to myself in the quiet of my apartment, over and over: Come back soon, Lea. Come back soon.