The Gap Between Us

CHAPTER 20: UNFORGIVEN

The café in Quezon City is small—wood tables, mismatched chairs, the smell of fresh-ground coffee and rain-soaked pavement drifting through the open door. I sit by the window, black coffee gone cold in front of me, penguin plush from the arcade tucked inside my bag like a secret I never let go of. Five years. Five years of carrying that necklace, that photo strip, that ache.

And now he’s here.

Reagan stands two tables away, older, sharper around the edges, but still him—the same steady eyes, the same quiet posture. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move closer. Just watches me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again if he blinks.

I stand slowly. Legs unsteady.

He takes one step.

I take one step back.

“Zhyra,” he says again. Voice rough. Like it’s been locked away too long.

I touch the upside-down crown pendant at my throat. Habit. Armor.

“I have a boyfriend,” I say. The words come out flat. Factual. “His name is Marco. We’ve been together for two years.”

Reagan’s face doesn’t change much. But I see the flicker—something raw, something that hurts.

He nods once. Slow.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I looked you up. Saw the photos. He seems… good for you.”

“He is.”

Silence stretches. Rain taps the glass.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Because I never stopped loving you.”

The words land soft. But they hit hard.

I close my eyes for a second. Breathe.

“You let her hug you,” I say. Voice barely above a whisper. “You let her cling. You let her confess. And you didn’t push her away fast enough.”

“I was shocked. I froze. I pushed her away after. I told her no. I told her I loved someone else. I told her I was taken.”

I open my eyes. Look at him.

“I didn’t hear that part.”

“I know.”

“I walked away. I left. I ghosted you. And you didn’t come after me.”

“I tried,” he says. Voice cracking. “I called. I texted. I went to your house. Your parents said you were in Manila. I looked for you. For months. Then years. I never stopped looking.”

I feel tears burn. I blink them back.

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“I know that now.”

I look down at my cold coffee.

“I believed you once,” I say. “I believed every word. And then I saw her arms around you. Heard her say she loved you. And I thought… maybe I was always just the girl who chased. The girl who was never enough.”

“You were always enough.”

I shake my head.

“I couldn’t forgive you. Not then. Not when it hurt so much I couldn’t breathe.”

He takes another step. Stops when I tense.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me today,” he says. “I’m asking you to hear me. I never wanted her. I never loved her. I loved you. Still love you. Five years. Every day.”

I look up.

“And if I say no? If I say I’ve moved on?”

“Then I’ll leave,” he says. “I’ll walk out that door. And I won’t come back unless you ask.”

Rain taps harder.

I touch the pendant again.

“I have a boyfriend,” I repeat. Weaker this time.

“I know.”

“He’s good. Stable. Kind.”

“I’m happy for you.”

I feel the crack widen.

“But he’s not you.”

The words slip out. I don’t mean them to.

Reagan’s breath catches.

I step closer. One step.

“I never took this off,” I say. Fingers on the crown. “Five years. I dated. I tried. Nothing stuck. Because every time someone touched me, I compared. Every time someone said they loved me, I heard your voice instead.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches.

“I hated you for that,” I whisper. “For making me unable to let go.”

“I’m sorry.”

I look at him. Really look.

“You waited.”

“Always.”

Rain pours.

I step closer again.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want you to leave.”

He exhales. Shaky.

“Then I won’t.”

I reach up. Touch his face. Wet from rain. Warm from him.

“I still love you,” I say. “Even after everything.”

He closes his eyes. Leans into my touch.

“I still love you too.”

I kiss him.

Soft at first. Tentative. Then deeper. Desperate. Five years of missing him in one kiss.

He kisses back. Hands on my waist. Careful. Like I might break.

When we separate, foreheads touching, rain drumming.

“I need time,” I whisper.

“Take all the time you need.”

I nod.

We sit. At my table. Coffee cold.

We talk.

Not about the past. Not yet.

About now.

About Manila.

About jobs.

About life without each other.

And slowly, the crack starts to mend.

Not fixed.

Not forgiven.

But open.

Ready.

Maybe.