DRIFTED TO 1935

CHAPTER 2

I opened the glass door of our house, and the world welcomed me with a hush so intimate, it felt like nature had been waiting just for me. The sky stretched out endlessly, painted in a soft, flawless blue that seemed to hum with peace. Wisps of clouds drifted like daydreams, and birds glided effortlessly across the open canvas above, their wings slicing through the air in perfect silence.

The sound of the ocean reached out to me—waves crashing and retreating in an eternal rhythm, a lullaby only the sea could sing. It was a song I had memorized from the stories of my youth, from every moment I imagined peace but never quite held it in my hands—until now.

The breeze wandered toward me, wrapping itself around my skin with just the right touch of warmth. It smelled faintly of salt and sunlight, like the air had been dipped in gold and memory. It played with the hem of my robe and lifted strands of my hair like a gentle lover's fingers. I stepped onto the balcony, a steaming cup of tea cradled between my hands, and let myself become part of the stillness, of the light.

This view—this exact view—had lived in my dreams for years. I had always imagined myself here: a house perched on the edge of the world, with the sea at my feet and the sky at my crown. I used to whisper this dream to the stars, wondering if the universe was listening.

I never expected that Rome would be the one to listen—and more than listen, he gave life to it. Not just a house by the shore, but one nestled inside a resort. A surprise. A gift. One of many that came not from wealth, but from knowing me so well, he could bring my soul’s blueprint to life without needing to ask.

I took a slow sip of my tea. The heat traveled down my throat like a soft flame, filling the hollow of my chest with comfort. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting that warmth settle into the corners of me. The cup felt perfectly weighted in my hands, as though it belonged there—just like I belonged here, in this life we’d built.

Setting the cup gently on the round glass table beside me, I lowered myself into a white wooden chair, its paint just slightly chipped by the sea breeze, its surface still cool from the early morning. The chair creaked softly as I leaned back, offering a comfortable cradle to my tired body—still buzzing from yesterday's magic.

Our wedding. A day that felt like a waking dream. Every petal, every note, every vow etched in my mind with glowing permanence. I could still hear the clinking of glasses, the music, the laughter of friends and family. And I could still feel his hand, firm and warm, never letting go of mine.

We hadn’t even had time to share our first night as husband and wife in the way most couples do. But we’d whispered about it in bed, his arm around me, eyes already heavy with sleep. We agreed: it would be more special in Singapore. Our long-awaited honeymoon.

Our destination of dreams, and now, thanks to a raffle prize we never expected to win, it was ours. Entry 99. Out of hundreds. And yet, fate reached out its hand and chose us. A sign, I thought. A quiet nod from the universe that this—us—was meant to be.

Below, the beach had come alive. I heard laughter rising in bursts, echoing up from the sand like tiny celebrations. Children ran in bright swimsuits, kicking up water as they chased each other along the shore. Banana boats zipped across the ocean like playful streaks of color.

Jet skis carved paths through the waves, leaving behind trails of foam. Their joy reached me, mingling with mine. I smiled, grateful. I had never felt joy like this. Not the kind that pulses quietly through your veins even when you’re doing nothing but sitting still.

I finished my tea in slow sips, then stood and stepped back inside.

The air was cooler in the bedroom, the curtains swaying gently with the morning breeze. Rome was still asleep, buried in soft white sheets, his chest rising and falling with the calm rhythm of dreams. His beard caught the light filtering through the window, and I stood there for a moment just watching him. There was something tender, almost sacred, about seeing someone you love deeply in a state of complete rest—unguarded, peaceful.

I didn’t wake him. I wanted him to rest a little longer. He’d carried so much of yesterday’s weight—planning, organizing, entertaining. He deserved this slowness. This stillness.

I padded softly to the kitchen, reaching for the chopping board. My hands moved on their own—slicing herbs, mincing garlic, adding a touch of ginger. The scent of fresh ingredients filled the room like a warm welcome.

I placed the pan on the stove and stirred gently, the rising steam curling into the air as the soup began to simmer. It was his favorite, after all. A quiet morning ritual. But this morning, it carried more meaning. This was our first morning as husband and wife. The first of many.

Once everything was ready, I ladled the soup into a wide ceramic bowl and placed it on a tray, along with a small saucer of sliced calamansi and a spoon. I carried it back to the bedroom, careful not to spill. When I reached the bed, I set the tray down on the nightstand and brushed my fingers lightly over Rome’s forehead. His skin was warm, his hair soft beneath my palm. I smiled as I leaned down and kissed his cheek, slow and full of love.

He stirred, the corners of his mouth twitching. Then he smiled, his eyes still closed. When he opened them, the softness in his gaze stole my breath. There it was—that look. Like I was the only person in the world.

“Good morning, dear,” he said, voice still husky with sleep.

“Morning, dear. Here’s your favorite,” I replied, lifting the tray and placing it on his lap.

He looked at the bowl, then at me. “You first,” he said, picking up the spoon with a teasing grin. “Here comes the airplane.”

He guided the spoon toward my lips like I was a toddler, complete with playful sound effects. I laughed, blushing a little. “You’re making me look like a child, dear,” I said, trying not to spill the soup as I leaned forward to sip.

He chuckled, then leaned in and kissed my temple. “That’s okay. You’ll always be my baby,” he whispered, and in that moment, the world outside faded. The only thing that existed was us, wrapped in morning light, laughter, and the taste of something deeper than love.

I joined Rome, sharing sweet moments feeding each other. The room was full of laughter as Rome kept playing. After the meal, we decided to take a shower together, rubbing each other’s bodies with soap. He gently massaged my back. I felt his breath on my nape. I couldn’t resist turning back.

We both stared at each other, then we chuckled.

"Can we do it now?" Rome asked about the things we should do.

"How about our promise that we’re going to do it in Singapore?" I replied.

We stood together under the warm spray of the shower, the sound of water cascading around us creating a quiet, intimate rhythm. The water enveloped us, softening our features and blurring the sharp edges of the world outside. We stood close, our bodies pressed gently against each other, the closeness of Rome’s skin heightened by the wetness that glistened on mine. I reached up, brushing water droplets from my husband’s face.

A soft smile was exchanged.

The showerhead, spraying in an even rhythm, caught the light, casting fleeting, shimmering reflections across our figures. The moment felt suspended in time—only the water, the cold, and the shared space existed, creating a sense of connection that was quiet yet powerful.

After we stepped out of the bath, the world felt like it had slowed down just for us. The mirror was fogged, the air warm and quiet, like a soft cocoon wrapped around everything. He reached for a towel and gently placed it over my shoulders, his hands lingering. His touch always had a way of grounding me.

"You’re going to catch a cold," Rome murmured, voice low and tender.

I smiled, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. “Then keep me warm,” I said, half a joke, half a quiet plea. And he did—just by being near.

We moved around each other with ease, no rush, no need to fill the silence. I stood at the mirror brushing my hair while he buttoned his shirt beside me. I could feel his eyes on me, and I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked it. There was a comfort in his gaze that made me feel seen in the deepest way.

When I noticed him fumbling with the last button, I turned to him. “Come here,” I said gently, closing the space between us. My fingers brushed against his chest as I did the button for him, then smoothed the fabric down.

“Perfect,” I said. I meant it—not just the shirt, but the way he looked at me, the way this moment wrapped itself around us like a quiet promise.

Rome helped zip up my dress, his hand warm against my back. I leaned into him instinctively, letting my eyes close for just a breath. The intimacy of it all—the shared quiet, the soft touches, the love that didn’t need to be spoken—it filled my chest so full I thought I might cry, if I let myself.

The bags were already packed. Everything was ready. But we stood there a little longer, holding on to something neither of us wanted to let go of.

"You ready?" he asked me, his hand finding mine.

I looked at him, really looked at him. That face I knew better than my own. The eyes that always made me feel safe. “As long as I’m with you,” I whispered.

And it was true. The trip, the destination—it didn’t matter. What mattered was him, and the quiet knowing in my heart that wherever we were going, we’d go there together.