Gensan glowed in the warmth of December—lanterns strung across streets, jeepneys humming with carols, and strangers offering smiles more easily. The air was thick with roasted corn, lechon, and laughter—laughter that sounded lighter in December, as if hearts remembered how to breathe again.
It was the season of homecomings. Of quiet reconciliations over chocolates and suman. Of stories told over and over, not because they were new—but because they mattered.
For Cean, it had always been her favorite time of year—not for the gifts or glittering lights, but for the way time seemed to soften. People slowed down. They remembered what they'd forgotten in the rush. And more than anything, they allowed themselves to feel again.
So did she.
One wind-brushed evening, wrapped in an old hoodie and sitting under the mango tree in her childhood backyard, Cean sat still—barefoot, knees drawn to her chest, her gaze tracing the constellations she used to name with her father. Her breath fogged in the December air, but her chest felt warmer than it had in a long time.
A soft thump beside her.
"You're either waiting for a meteor shower or a sign from the universe," Yesha teased, settling beside her and handing over a mug of hot cocoa that steamed between them like a shared secret.
Cean accepted it with a small smile. "Maybe both."
Yesha bumped her shoulder. "Or maybe you're thinking about him."
Cean exhaled, not with weight—but with release. "Yeah. I am."
Yesha didn't speak. She just listened, like she always did.
"But it's not the same," Cean continued. "It's like… he's become this favorite chapter in a book. One I don't have to reread. I just… I'm glad it existed."
Yesha tilted her head, watching her closely. "You really loved him, huh?"
"I did," Cean admitted. "But I love myself more now. And that love doesn't ache."
Yesha smiled, eyes soft. "That's growth."
Cean nodded, eyes on the stars. "That's peace."
---
Meanwhile, across town, in a quiet neighborhood tucked behind old acacia trees, Yuan was helping his mother wrap colorful parol frames with foil and cellophane. Their living room was small, lived-in, and filled with the scent of fresh pine. Music played low from an old speaker—Jose Mari Chan, of course.
He didn't expect Sky to barge in, but then again, she never knocked.
She entered like a breeze with a box of puto bumbong in one hand and a smirk on her face. "Merry Christmas, bro."
Yuan raised a brow, amused. "You always come bearing carbs."
"You're welcome," she said, flopping onto the couch like she owned the place.
She unwrapped the steamed rice treats as if they were bribes. "Saw Cean last week."
Yuan paused in the middle of taping fairy lights. "Oh?"
"She looked… good," Sky said, tone softer than usual. "Not just 'I'm-fine' good. Like, genuinely peaceful."
Yuan sat down beside the Christmas tree, absently adjusting a crooked ornament. "Good," he said after a beat. "She deserves that."
Sky watched him for a moment. "You still love her?"
The question hovered in the air like snowfall.
Yuan didn't rush the answer. He thought about it—really thought. About how her name still lived in the back of his notebooks. About how some mornings, without meaning to, he still reached for the phone. About all the poems he wrote in his head but never shared.
"I do," he said quietly. "But not in the way that hurts anymore."
Sky leaned back. "That's rare. And… mature. Who are you and what did you do with the old Yuan?"
He chuckled, then sighed. "I don't know what the future looks like. Maybe we're done. Maybe we'll cross paths again. But if our story ends here, I'm okay with that. We mattered. That's enough."
And somehow, saying it out loud made it real.
-
A few days before Christmas, Cean found a small brown package tucked between letters on her desk. No sender. No postage.
Inside was a soft, worn, blue notebook—just like the one she used to carry everywhere in college.
No name.
No note.
Just a handwritten line on the first page, in familiar ink:
"For the words you never said—write them here."
Her breath caught.
She didn't need a name.
She didn't need a signature.
She pressed the notebook to her chest and closed her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered—to the past, to the sender, to the ache that had finally become memory instead of pain.
-
On Christmas Eve, under different roofs and with different people, they each stood by their windows, candlelight flickering on their faces, unknowingly thinking the same thought:
That love, even when it ends, doesn't always leave ashes.
Sometimes, it leaves seeds.
Seeds for strength.
Seeds for grace.
Seeds for the quiet becoming of who they were always meant to be.
And somewhere—tucked in the spaces between memory and moving on—the whispers of broken hearts weren't silenced…
They were transformed.
Into music only they could hear.
A song only they could ever understand.
'_'