The youth summit in General Santos was full of ideas and action. Students in lanyards moved from booth to booth, government officials delivered speeches, camera crews swirled around capturing every moment, and the air buzzed with anticipation. The event was a celebration of the future—of youth stepping into the roles they would one day own.
Cean had been invited as a speaker, her topic focused on civic youth engagement—a subject close to her heart. She stood at the podium, addressing a sea of young faces, her voice steady but her heart beating fast, nervous as she is. The stage was bright, and the pressure of it had her thinking in flashes.
Yuan, coincidentally, was also at the summit. He had come with his engineering org to present a tech-based community solution project, something they'd worked tirelessly on for months. Both of them had known about the summit, but neither knew the other would be there.
Not until it happened.
Cean had just finished her talk. Her heart was still pounding in her chest as she made her way off the stage, feeling a rush of relief and a wave of exhaustion. That's when Sky, who had helped organize the event, came rushing toward her, her expression a blend of excitement and warning.
"What?" Cean asked, confused.
Sky only pointed across the hall.
There, standing by his project booth with Neo and Prudence, was Yuan.
His hair was slightly longer, his skin a bit more sun-kissed, and he wore a red lanyard that somehow seemed to highlight everything about him. He was laughing, the sound of it familiar and comforting in a way Cean hadn't expected.
For a moment, Cean couldn't breathe. The world felt quieter, smaller. Time seemed to suspend in a way that only happens when something—someone—unexpectedly steps back into your life.
Then Yuan turned.
And their eyes met.
It wasn't cinematic.
No swelling music. No slow-motion steps. No whispered promises.
Just two people, standing in the middle of a crowded room, sharing a moment that felt like a secret the universe had quietly gifted them.
Yuan raised his hand slightly in greeting, the movement almost hesitant. Cean, equally unsure but undeniably aware, gave a small nod.
And then, just as quickly, the world moved again, pulling them back into the current of the summit. The moment lingered, though—heavy in the air between them.
Later, during the break, Cean found herself in the same lounge as Yuan. It was a small space, crowded with people, but the distance between them felt miles. She was refilling her water bottle, trying to steady the buzz in her chest, when a voice, low and familiar, said, "You were great out there."
She turned, surprised to see him standing there, a small, genuine smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Thanks," she replied, her voice sounding more stable than she felt.
Yuan nodded, his smile widening a little. "I liked what you said about compassion in leadership. It stuck with me."
Cean blinked, a bit taken aback. "You watched?"
"I did," he said with a soft chuckle. "Didn't want to miss it."
A brief silence fell between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was… natural, in a way. A comfortable gap that didn't require filling.
"Your project's impressive," Cean said, her gaze drifting toward his booth in the distance. "I can tell you've put a lot of work into it."
Yuan shrugged slightly, a modest smile touching his lips. "We're trying. It's still a work in progress, though."
"Still," Cean said, her voice firm but warm, "it's impact-driven. And that counts."
Another pause. The noise of the summit, the voices and footsteps of people rushing about, seemed distant, like they were both floating in a bubble that only they inhabited for those few moments.
"So…" Yuan started again, his voice quieter now. "How have you been?"
Cean considered the question. There was a part of her that wanted to say she was fine, that everything was busy, that life was going on as it should. But for some reason, this felt different. There was no reason to lie.
"I've been growing," she said softly, her eyes meeting his with honesty.
Yuan's gaze softened, his expression mirroring something like relief. "Me too," he said quietly. "I've been growing."
Neither of them needed to say more. The words hung between them, but it was enough. It was the truth, unspoken but understood.
They didn't stay much longer in the lounge. Cean was swept away by a panel organizer, and Yuan was called back to his team for the next presentation. But just before he left, Yuan reached into his pocket and slipped a small folded piece of paper into Cean's hand.
Later, in the solitude of her hotel room, Cean unfolded the paper.
Written in neat, familiar handwriting was a message:
"I think we needed that silence between us.
Not to forget—but to remember gently.
Thank you for being part of the person I'm becoming."
Her heart didn't race. Her eyes didn't sting with the familiar ache. She didn't feel the desire to rush forward or backtrack.
Instead, she smiled. And with a careful touch, she folded the paper back up, tucking it into the pocket of her jacket.
Because some things weren't meant to be reignited.
They were meant to be remembered, with grace.
That night, Cean and Yuan both slept better than they had in months.
Not because they had gotten back together.
Not because they had fixed everything.
But because they didn't need to.
They had simply found peace in the space between them.
'_'