The sky over Manila looked gray when we landed, the kind of gray that never promised rain, just exhaustion.
It was strange how everything felt both familiar and foreign at the same time.
The air smelled heavier, the noise sharper, the roads too fast and too slow all at once.
I sat by the car window, watching the city slip by.
Billboards, bridges, high-rise buildings, the same skyline I'd grown up with, the same streets that had carried me to lessons, events, performances.
And yet, it felt different now.
Maybe because for once, I wasn't alone in the backseat.
Calix sat beside me, his arm resting on the window frame, his gaze turned to the city like he was seeing it for the first time too.
He didn't say much, just the occasional remark about traffic, or how strange it felt to miss the chaos after weeks abroad.
It was quiet.
Comfortable.
When the car stopped at the condominium, I stepped out and inhaled deeply.
The air smelled faintly of rain and pavement.
I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath since we left the airport.
The lobby guard greeted us with a polite smile. "Welcome home, Ma'am, Sir."
Home.
The word lingered longer than it should have.
We took the elevator together, me on the left, Calix leaning against the mirrored wall, humming softly to himself.
I caught his reflection once, then looked away.
The silence between us wasn't heavy anymore.
It was steady.
When the elevator dinged at our floor, he spoke first.
"You want to grab dinner later? Or you'll lock yourself up again?"
I shot him a look. "You make it sound like prison."
He grinned. "You don't exactly give 'open-door policy' vibes, Aurora."
I pressed my keycard against my door. "I'll think about it."
He smirked. "That means no."
"Maybe."
"Maybe means yes."
I shook my head, but didn't argue.
He was right, maybe.
Inside my unit, everything was exactly how I'd left it: pristine, sterile, too quiet.
The curtains were still perfectly pleated, the furniture untouched.
But the moment I sat down, it didn't feel as empty as before.
I stared out the window, the city lights glowing faintly against the early dusk.
My reflection looked back at me, calm, expressionless, as always.
And yet, something small and unfamiliar had settled beneath that stillness.
Not noise.
Not chaos.
Something softer.
Peace, maybe.
And I hated how much of that peace had started to sound like his laughter.
—
The next morning, I woke to the sound of the city outside, the familiar hum of traffic and distant sirens.
I dressed quickly, deliberately, not wanting to waste time overthinking anything.
Calix was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in hand.
"You're up early," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
"I could say the same about you," he replied, tilting his head with that lazy grin I was beginning to recognize as his way of disarming people.
I grabbed a cup, poured some water, and watched him silently.
There was a strange comfort in having him here, even without saying much.
I didn't have to explain.
I didn't have to defend.
I didn't have to perform.
He caught me staring. "Thinking about your horse again?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm thinking about how quiet it is here without all the cameras."
He chuckled softly. "Yeah, this beats applause any day."
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
We moved through the morning together, slowly. Coffee, toast, quiet music playing somewhere in the background.
I noticed how natural it felt to walk beside him, to hear his soft humming, to feel his presence without needing to explain it.
–
Later, we went for a drive along the quieter streets of Manila, the windows down, the wind brushing past us.
He didn't force conversation, didn't ask questions.
He just drove.
And somehow, that silence made me realize how much I enjoyed it.
I started noticing small things about him I had never paid attention to before:
The way his eyes softened when he looked at something he liked.
The tilt of his head when he was thinking.
The quiet patience in his gestures.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I began to ask a question I had never allowed myself before.
Is this… happiness?
No, not exactly.
It was softer than that.
Warmer than I thought I deserved.
And yet, I found myself wanting it to last.
I told myself it wasn't love.
I had never loved anyone before.
I didn't know how.
And maybe that was part of the reason I didn't resist him.
By the time we returned to the condo, the sun had dipped low, painting the room in gold.
He glanced at me, casual, and said, "You look… content."
I almost laughed at the word.
Content.
It implied that something could last.
And yet, the idea wasn't entirely unwelcome.
"I'm fine," I said, quietly.
He didn't push, didn't question.
He simply nodded, letting the moment hang between us.
And for the first time in years, I allowed myself to feel it, the small, disarming warmth of being with someone who stayed without asking for anything in return.
I wasn't in love.
Not yet.
But I wanted to be near him.
I wanted his presence.
I wanted the quiet certainty that, even if the world demanded everything else from me, he would remain.
And that, for now, was enough.