CHAPTER 4: "THE TRUTH"
1738 Words
Then we decided to end everything.
Or maybe... you decided. And I just agreed.
You already had someone else.
And I was here, waiting for nothing.
PART 1: THE WAY I FOUND OUT
You once told me, “I’ll tell you if I meet someone.”
We were at the 7/11. 2am. Sharing fries.
You said it so casually. Like it was a promise.
Like you meant it.
Like I was still someone you owed the truth to.
But I didn’t hear it from you.
I found out from someone in my old dance group.
“Uy, did you see her post?”
My phone buzzed at 11pm.
A screenshot.
It was you. Smiling.
And beside you, holding your hand, was a girl.
Pretty. University shirt. The same org as you.
Caption: “My person 🤍”
Date posted: 3 weeks ago.
3 weeks.
For 3 weeks you had someone.
For 3 weeks you let me text you “goodnight.”
For 3 weeks you let me wait.
I didn’t expect it at all. I had no idea you had met someone new.
The last time we talked, you said, “I’m just focusing on school.”
The last time we met, you said, “I’m not ready for anyone.”
I was a liar to myself for believing you.
I didn’t know what to do.
I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t ready to hear the truth.
Because hearing it meant it was real.
And if it was real, then everything we had was already over.
I was terrified.
Terrified of the answer.
Terrified of the silence after.
Terrified that if I asked, you’d say yes.
PART 2: THE WEEK OF PANIC
For one whole week, I had panic attacks.
Every night.
11:03pm. Heart racing. Can’t breathe.
I’d sit on the bathroom floor, hugging my knees, trying to count to 10.
My phone was beside me.
I wanted to text you: “Is it true?”
But my fingers shook too much.
12:47am. Sweating. Chest tight.
I’d go to the kitchen and drink water.
Stare at the sewing machine in the corner.
The one we planned to use for “our shop.”
It looked like a ghost now.
3:19am. Crying without sound.
Because lolo and lola were sleeping.
Because I didn’t want them to worry.
Because I was 20 years old and I felt like my world ended.
During the day I was fine.
I smiled at customers.
I packed orders.
I said “Thank you, have a nice day!”
Then I’d go to the CR and throw up.
My friends noticed.
“Are you okay? You look tired.”
“Just busy,” I’d say.
“With what?”
“Life.”
Until I told myself: If I love myself, and if I respect you, I need to know the truth.
I couldn’t keep living in “maybe.”
I couldn’t keep hoping for a no that was already a yes.
So on the 8th day, at 2:14am, I typed:
Me: Can we talk? I saw the post.
Seen.
10 minutes.
You: Yeah. Can we meet tomorrow?
PART 3: THE CONVERSATION
We met at the same 7/11.
Our spot.
But it didn’t feel like ours anymore.
You came 15 minutes late.
You looked good. New haircut. University hoodie.
You looked happy.
That hurt more than anything.
I was wearing the same shirt I wore when we first confessed.
I don’t know why.
Maybe I wanted you to remember.
We didn’t order anything.
The cashier knew us. She didn’t ask.
“So,” you started.
“Yeah,” I said.
And I was right. You already had someone.
Her name was Mara.
You met her in org.
You’ve been talking for 2 months.
Dating for 3 weeks.
“She knows about us,” you said. “Not everything. But... she knows.”
The world tilted.
I nodded. Like I understood.
Like it didn’t feel like someone stabbed me 13 times.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. Voice steady. I was proud of that.
“I was scared,” you said. “I didn’t know how.”
“You promised,” I said. “You said you’d tell me.”
“I know,” you whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry.
The word that ended 4 years.
PART 4: THE QUESTIONS THAT ATE ME
I couldn’t accept it. Not right away.
I kept questioning myself for days after.
“What did I do wrong?”
Was I too clingy? Too loud? Too poor?
Was it because I didn’t have a degree?
Was it because I sold scrunchies instead of joining orgs?
“Was I not enough?”
13 confessions.
4 years.
2am calls.
Hospital visits.
Birthdays remembered.
Was none of that enough?
“Was I just a secret until someone better came along?”
Someone public.
Someone safe.
Someone she could post.
Someone her parents would like.
It got so bad that I almost wanted to end my life.
Not because I wanted to die.
But because I didn’t know how to live without you.
I stood on the roof of our building one night.
Just stood there.
Looking down.
Thinking: If I jump, will she come to the funeral?
Will she cry?
Will she post “I’m sorry” on her story?
Lolo found me.
He didn’t say anything.
He just hugged me.
And I broke.
I cried for 4 years in 10 minutes.
“You’re worth more than someone who hides you,” he said.
I didn’t believe him. Not then.
PART 5: WHAT WE LOST
We lost more than each other.
We lost the report we never did.
The one from day one. Group 4.
We laughed about it once. “Fate,” you said.
Now it feels like an omen.
We were never meant to finish things.
We lost the shop we never opened.
I still have the notebook.
Page 1: Shop name ideas.
Page 2: Budget.
Page 3: “You: marketing. Me: sewing.”
I can’t throw it away.
I can’t open it either.
We lost the future we planned.
The apartment with big windows.
The dog we were gonna name “Scrunchie.”
The Sundays at the plaza.
The “I’m proud of you” texts after every sale.
Four years.
Ended with a simple “I’m sorry.”
No fight.
No closure.
No last kiss.
Just... sorry.
And a photo of you with someone else.
PART 6: THE TRUTH I HAD TO ACCEPT
The truth is ugly.
The truth is:
You chose safety over me.
You chose reputation over us.
You chose someone you didn’t have to hide.
The truth is:
I wasn’t the problem.
But I wasn’t the answer either.
The truth is:
You loved me.
In your way.
In the dark.
In secret.
In between classes and curfews.
But you didn’t love me enough to stay.
And the hardest truth?
I would’ve still waited.
Even after this.
Even after seeing the photo.
Even after the “sorry.”
Because that’s how much I loved you.
_“The truth doesn’t set you free.
It just shows you the cage you’ve been living in.”_
_“You can’t miss someone who never existed.
And I’m starting to think ‘us’ never did.”_
_“I spent 4 years loving a maybe.
Today I choose to live for a definite: me.”_
PART 7: AFTER THE TRUTH
I unfollowed you.
Then blocked you.
Then unblocked you to check.
Then blocked you again.
I deleted our photos.
All 1,247 of them.
It took 3 hours.
I cried through all of them.
I kept one.
The one from the plaza.
You’re laughing. I’m looking at you.
I keep it in a folder called “Proof.”
Proof that it was real.
Proof that I wasn’t crazy.
I started therapy.
Because lolo said, “You can’t sew a wound shut.”
The therapist asked, “What do you need?”
“To stop loving her,” I said.
“You don’t have to stop loving her,” she said. “You just have to stop waiting for her.”
I’m still learning how.
Some days I’m okay.
I pack 30 orders.
I laugh with customers.
I dream about the shop.
Other days I see a girl with your haircut and my chest hurts.
Other days I hear our song and I have to leave the room.
But I’m here.
I didn’t jump.
I didn’t give up.
I chose me.
Because the truth is:
She wasn’t my ending.
She was my lesson.
And lessons hurt.
But they also save you.
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