Gensan glowed in the warmth of December—lanterns strung across streets, jeepneys humming with carols, and strangers offering smiles more easily. It was the season of homecomings, of soft forgiveness, of warmth after the storm.
For Cean, it was her favorite time of year—not because of the lights or the gifts, but because people slowed down. They remembered. They softened.
She did, too.
One quiet evening, as she sat under the tree in her childhood backyard—wrapped in a hoodie and lost in thought—Yesha plopped beside her with a mug of hot cocoa.
"You've been staring at the sky for an hour," Yesha said. "Expecting stars to write back?"
Cean laughed. "Maybe."
Yesha nudged her shoulder. "Thinking about him?"
A pause.
"Yes," Cean answered honestly. "But it's different now. I think of him like… a favorite chapter. One I don't need to reread, but still grateful I lived through."
Yesha studied her. "You really loved him, huh?"
"I did. But I love myself now, more."
Yesha smiled, proud. "That's growth."
Cean nodded. "That's peace."
Meanwhile, Yuan was home in Gensan, too, helping his mom decorate the modest family sala with recycled parols. He wasn't expecting Sky to show up at his doorstep with a box of puto bumbong and a knowing look.
She flopped onto the couch, uninvited—as always.
"I saw Cean last week," she said casually.
Yuan glanced up from the lights. "Yeah?"
"She looked happy. Calm."
He smiled faintly. "Good. She deserves that."
Sky crossed her arms. "You still love her?"
A long pause.
Yuan thought about all the mornings he woke up wondering how she was, all the poems he never gave her, all the things he almost said.
"I do," he admitted. "But not in the way that hurts anymore."
Sky nodded. "You're better, too."
Yuan tied the last of the lights, sat back, and sighed.
"I don't know what the future holds. But if our story ends here, I'm okay with it. We mattered. That's enough."
-
A few days before Christmas, Cean received a package.
Inside was a small blue notebook.
No name.
No note.
Just a simple inscription on the first page:
"For the words you never said—write them here."
She didn't need a name.
She knew.
She held the notebook to her chest and whispered, "Thank you."
-
On Christmas Eve, they both stood in a different place, surrounded by different people, yet strangely thinking the same thought:
That love, even when it ends, doesn't always have to leave behind ashes.
Sometimes, it leaves seeds.
For strength.
For grace.
For better versions of themselves.
And somewhere between memories and moving on, the whispers of broken hearts faded—not forgotten, but transformed into a song of healing.
A song only they could ever understand.
'_'