The trip to Lake Sebu ended quietly—no dramatic confessions, no clinging goodbyes. Just gentle laughter, shared silence, and the comfort of knowing some stories don't need a sequel to matter.
Back at USM, Cean found herself breathing easier.
There were days Yuan would still cross her mind—like when someone held the door open for her the same way he used to, or when her coffee came with too little sugar, just the way he liked it. But the ache had dulled. It no longer clawed at her in the middle of the night. It lived softly now, like a memory she didn't need to run from.
She started pouring herself into things she used to put off—debate training, organizing outreach programs, even writing poems again. She didn't write about Yuan anymore.
Not because he didn't deserve the words.
But because she didn't need to explain him to herself anymore.
-
Yuan returned to UM with something new in his stride. Peace, maybe. Or maturity. He spent more time with Prudence, who encouraged him to speak more about the feelings he used to bury under jokes and detachment. He laughed louder now. But deeper, too.
He reconnected with his church group. Led a small sharing session where he opened up—not about Cean directly, but about learning how to let go of someone you still care about.
"It's possible," he told the group one evening, "to love someone and still understand they're not yours to keep. Love isn't always about possession. Sometimes it's about permission. To grow. To go."
Everyone was quiet.
But he felt lighter afterward.
-
Late one night, Cean received a photo from Sky.
It was a group picture—them at the Lake Sebu trip, everyone smiling, arms around each other. Cean and Yuan stood on opposite sides, but both had the same peaceful look.
Sky's message read:
"Look at you. Two people who once burned quietly… now just glowing softly."
Cean smiled.
Then turned off her phone and fell asleep—not with tears, but with warmth.
-
Sometime in December, as everyone in Mindanao prepared for Christmas, their paths crossed again.
It was at a small university leadership summit—one of those events where Humanities and Science students rarely mingled, but fate made room.
Cean was presenting on youth political participation.
Yuan was there to assist with logistics and technical support—a favor he owed Neo.
Their eyes met once during a break.
A quiet smile. A nod.
No tension. No regret.
Just two people who had shared something real, now standing on their own.
Later, after the event, Yuan passed by her table and left something behind—a small folded paper with one sentence:
"I'm rooting for you, always."
She picked it up. Read it. Folded it again.
No butterflies.
No heartbreak.
Just gratitude.
-
That night, Cean wrote in her journal:
"Some loves don't need to be rekindled.
They just need to be remembered—
with kindness, with clarity,
and with the understanding
that even if it wasn't forever,
it was still something beautiful."
-
Somewhere in the Mindanao night, under skies that had seen too many goodbyes and not enough gentle endings, two souls looked up at the stars.
Not longing.
Not waiting.
Just living.
Under the same sky.
Where red and blue no longer clashed…
…but coexisted.
'_'