The wind of February carried a sharp chill across the rolling hills of Mindanao, but inside Cean's chest, a deeper cold settled—one that no breeze could match. The kind of cold that followed you even under the sun, tucked into the folds of old messages, half-meant promises, and smiles that only reached the lips.
She sat by the window of their classroom at MSU-Gensan, watching students bustle through the corridors. It was a quiet kind of chaos outside—one she used to love. But ever since Saylor, her almost-love, chose someone else without really choosing her in the first place, the world lost a bit of its color.
It was a situationship, nothing official—yet Cean had given so much of herself. A few months of late-night talks, subtle flirtations, small notes passed during breaks, and the kind of touch that always made her heart skip a beat. But Saylor was never really hers. And now, as the school year began to end, so did the illusion she tried to keep alive.
"You okay?" Yesha, her sister and seatmate, nudged her with a half-smile that tried to be comforting.
Cean nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
"You've been doing that a lot lately."
Cean let out a soft laugh, the kind that almost sounded like a sigh. "It's my hobby now."
Across campus, in a room filled with numbers, circuits, and calculations, Yuan sat surrounded by the sharp scent of ink and cold air-conditioning. He was used to precision, to clear answers. Yet Diane had been anything but. His first girlfriend—a whirlwind of affection and distance, of promises laced with unspoken fears.
She left him in February too. It was like the universe had scheduled their heartbreaks at the same time, as if fate had plans for them to meet with wounds still fresh and open.
Yuan didn't believe in coincidences. He believed in patterns, in timing, in God—but sometimes, even that belief faltered. Especially when he tried to make sense of the ache that Diane left behind. She was his "first everything," and he thought she'd be his last. But love, as he was learning, didn't work the way equations did.
Still, Yuan carried himself with the kind of confidence that made people think he was fine. He was extroverted, witty, quick with words. A natural speaker. But inside, he kept doors closed tight, even to himself.
It wasn't until Work Immersion started—a program meant to throw students into the "real world"—that their paths crossed. Cean found herself assigned to a small local organization focused on youth empowerment. To her delight, her friends were there too—Sky, Mia, Mak, Jer, and Yesha. It was a chaotic bunch, but it felt safe. Familiar.
Then Yuan arrived, joining from the STEM strand. Cean didn't think much of him at first. Just another pretty face with sharp eyes and a too-confident smile. He was Sky's cousin, apparently. Quiet, but not shy. Observant. Intriguing.
The first few days were uneventful. Cean mostly hung out with her circle, exchanging inside jokes and half-hearted complaints about paperwork. But Yuan kept appearing—lingering during breaks, offering help in the smallest tasks, laughing at jokes she didn't think he'd hear.
Then came the teasing. "Cean, Yuan's looking at you again," Mak would whisper. "Maybe he has a thing for emotionally unavailable girls." Jer would cackle beside him, "Or maybe Cean's gonna cry again because of someone she barely knows!"
They all laughed, but Cean didn't. Not really. Because maybe… there was something there.
Yuan, for his part, didn't even realize how often he gravitated toward her. Something about Cean's quiet sensitivity, the way she got lost in her thoughts, the contrast between her blue and black clothes and her warm, unsure smile—drew him in. It wasn't loud, this feeling. It was soft, unspoken, unfamiliar.
Their first real conversation happened by accident. They were both left behind at the office one afternoon, waiting for a sudden downpour to pass.
"You don't talk much," Cean said, eyes on the rain.
"You talk enough for both of us," Yuan replied without looking.
Cean smiled—not because it was funny, but because it felt like something broke open.
That night, he messaged her.
And then the next night. And the next. Until 3 a.m. conversations became their new normal. Until she started looking forward to every notification ping from him. Until she began wondering if she was falling again.
But this time, it was different. Yuan made her laugh. He challenged her thinking. He asked about her dreams—really asked. And even when she cried in the middle of the night, telling him things she hadn't told anyone, he never turned away. Not yet.
Little did she know, Yuan had already started falling too.
But the clock was ticking. Graduation loomed, and with it, college, distance, and the unknown.
For now, they had this: shared glances, long chats, laughter during lunch breaks, and a ring—silver, simple, gifted by Cean on Yuan's 18th birthday. "To remind you that someone believes in you," she'd said.
He wore it on a chain, close to his chest.
And though they didn't say it out loud, they both knew: something had started.
And endings—especially the ones in February—sometimes lead to beginnings.
'_'