Chapter 9: Annulment Day
1095 Words
The morning of our annulment, the sky was clear. Uncomfortably clear, like it hadn’t rained in weeks—as if the world itself had decided not to mourn with me.
I woke before Rafael did.
He looked peaceful in sleep, lips parted slightly, one hand resting near where I used to lie. There was a time when just watching him breathe had felt like punishment—proof that I could never reach past his walls. But now? Now it felt like knowing the sun would rise. Constant. Quiet. Real.
And still, the clock ticked toward goodbye.
I slipped out of bed, carefully, quietly, like a ghost.
Today would’ve been the end.
Today was supposed to be the end.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like brewed coffee and the promise of something normal. I set the table, even though I had no appetite. My hands shook when I opened the cupboard. The plates we bought together rattled as I lifted one.
One year ago, Rafael and I had signed a contract under sharp lights and colder silences. No feelings. One year. Then annulment.
No attachments.
No real marriage.
And yet, here I was—attaching.
Still married, on paper. But infinitely more in the ways that mattered.
I didn’t hear him enter the room, but I felt him behind me.
His voice, low and gravel-soft, cut through the quiet. "You’re up early."
I turned. "Couldn’t sleep."
He nodded. Walked over. Poured himself coffee, then paused.
“I had a dream,” he said. “You were gone.”
I swallowed. “I’m still here.”
“Are you?”
The question wasn’t meant to hurt. But it did.
He leaned against the counter. “I know what today is.”
“So do I.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to go through with it,” I said quietly.
He looked up sharply. Hope bloomed in his face, raw and unfiltered.
“I thought you might’ve changed your mind,” he said.
“I did. Weeks ago. I just… didn’t know if you had.”
He crossed the kitchen in two strides. Took my hands.
“I burned the annulment papers, Samira. The night you went to my father.”
My breath caught.
“You what?”
“I knew,” he said, “if you were brave enough to face him for us, then I had to stop running from this.”
He lifted my hand to his lips. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”
I pressed my forehead to his chest. “I’m telling you to stay.”
That afternoon, we went to the courthouse anyway.
Not to sign anything. But to witness something.
Another couple sat across from the clerk. Strangers. A man and woman who looked younger than us, their hands clenched too tightly, their eyes already gone. They didn’t speak as the papers were filed. Just nodded when asked, rose when told.
The woman’s eyes flicked toward me as they left. And in that brief glance, I saw it: the fracture, the regret, the hollow.
I gripped Rafael’s hand.
“I don’t want to end like that,” I whispered.
“You won’t,” he promised.
We walked out into the late afternoon sun, brighter than it had any right to be. Rafael hailed a car, but I stopped him.
“Let’s walk,” I said.
We wandered aimlessly through the city, past flower stalls and sidewalk cafés, past the life we’d ignored for so long while pretending we didn’t need it. Somewhere between Roxas and Ayala, Rafael stopped and pulled me into a bookstore.
It smelled like ink and possibility.
He wandered off.
When he came back, he was holding a leather-bound journal.
“No more contracts,” he said, offering it to me.
I opened it. Blank pages.
“A new beginning,” he said. “For us. You write the first line.”
I smiled.
And I did.
That night, we didn’t celebrate with champagne or a fancy dinner. We stayed in. Ordered takeout. Ate on the floor of our living room.
Rafael turned on music.
We danced. Slowly. Silently.
At one point, I whispered, “Do you regret anything?”
He thought for a long moment. “Only the time I wasted pretending I didn’t love you.”
I buried my face in his shoulder.
He held me tighter.
In the days that followed, the world didn’t magically change.
Rafael still had work. His father still loomed in the background. My father’s firm still struggled. But there was peace in the middle of it now. Like we’d built a house in the storm and finally found shelter.
Every night, I added a new line in the journal.
He made me laugh today.
We fought over which pillow is fluffier.
He kissed my shoulder before leaving for work.
We’re trying.
We’re trying.
We’re choosing each other.
Again and again.
On what would’ve been our first anniversary—had the contract still meant anything—Rafael handed me a key.
“Come see,” he said.
He led me to a small, quiet building in the heart of Quezon City.
Inside: a newly renovated space with wide windows and a sunlit terrace.
“For you,” he said.
I blinked. “What is this?”
“Your firm. Navarro Design Studio. Independent. Yours.”
Tears blurred my vision. “Rafael—”
“You gave me everything,” he said. “Let me give you this.”
I threw my arms around him.
He whispered, “No contract needed.”
We never announced anything formally.
No vow renewal. No press statement. No spectacle.
Just quiet mornings. Shared meals. Arguments about paint colors. Laughter in grocery aisles. Kisses stolen in elevators.
Love, soft and steady.
Not signed.
Just lived.
Sometimes I look back on the girl I was a year ago.
Afraid. Guarded. Ready to give everything away just to keep her father’s dreams alive.
She wouldn’t recognize the woman I’ve become.
Braver.
Softer.
Still in love with the man she never meant to fall for.
On a rainy Tuesday, Rafael found me on the couch, flipping through the journal.
He sat beside me.
“Want to read some together?” I asked.
He nodded.
I turned to a random page.
Some things fade with time. But not this.
He kissed my cheek.
“No,” he said. “Not this.”
We didn’t need ink to make it real.
We just needed time.
And love.
And each other.
Always each other.
- Writer
