Between The Lines Of What Was (BOOK 1)

CHAPTER FOUR: The Lines We Draw For Ourselves

I wake up the next morning with a headache — from the beer, from the crying, from the weight of truth that’s finally settled in my chest. But it’s a good headache, the kind that comes from letting go of something you’ve been holding onto for too long. I make myself a cup of barako coffee — not because Elias used to drink it, but because I like it now, because it’s strong and bitter and real. I sit down at the table with my new notebook and start writing about the day I decided to rewrite my past — not to fix it, but to see it clearly.

It was a Tuesday in October, three months after Elias left. I’d been cleaning out the closet in the spare room, the one he’d used for his guitar and his books, when I found a box of old letters — the ones I’d written to him but never sent. I’d spent hours reading them, and what I saw made me cry so hard I could barely breathe. The letters were full of apologies — for being too loud, for being too busy with my writing, for not being the kind of woman he wanted. I’d spent so much time blaming myself for his leaving that I’d forgotten he’d never asked me to be anyone other than myself. He’d just left because he couldn’t handle the person I was — and that was his loss, not mine.

I think about my neighbor, Kuya Manny, who runs a sari-sari store on the ground floor of my building. He told me once about his son, who’d dropped out of college to become a chef. “Everyone told him he was making a mistake,” Kuya Manny said, wiping down the counter with a wet cloth. “They said he’d never make money, that he’d end up poor and alone. But I saw the way his eyes lit up when he talked about food. I knew that was his story to write, not ours. Now he has his own restaurant in Quezon City, and every time I eat his adobo, I cry. Not because I’m sad — because I’m proud. I’m proud he had the courage to draw his own lines.”

I pick up my pen and wrote: “For three years, I’d drawn my lines around Elias — my worth was tied to his love, my happiness to his presence, my future to his dreams. But that day, when I read those letters, I realized I could draw my own lines. I could define my own worth. I could write my own future. It didn’t mean I didn’t love him anymore — it just meant I loved myself more. It didn’t mean the pain was gone — it just meant I was strong enough to carry it.” I stop and look at my hands — they’re not shaking anymore. They’re steady, like they know exactly what they’re doing.

That afternoon, I went to the poetry reading in Kapitolyo, where I met Elias. I haven’t been back since that rainy Saturday in July, and when I walk in, the smell of coffee and old books hits me like a wave. The same stage is there, the same mic, the same small crowd of people who come to listen to stories. I sign up to read, even though my hands are a little sweaty, even though I’m scared. When it’s my turn, I walk up to the stage and look out at the faces in the crowd. I don’t see Elias — he’s not there, and he never will be. But I see Leo, sitting in the back, giving me a thumbs up. I see Maya and Sofia, sitting in the front row, smiling. I see strangers, all waiting to hear a story — and I know mine is worth telling.

I pulled out my new notebook and read the words I wrote that morning: “We all tell stories. We write them in our heads, in our hearts, in our notebooks. We draw lines around the people we love, the days we’ve lost, the versions of ourselves we used to be. But the real story is not in the lines we draw — it’s in the space between them, where we learn to let go of the past and embrace the future. It’s where we learn that loving ourselves is not a destination — it’s the very act of writing the next page, even when the words are hard, even when the story is messy, even when we’re the only ones reading.” When I finish, the crowd applauds, and I feel tears streaming down my face. They’re not tears of sadness — they’re tears of pride. Tears of freedom.

After the reading, Leo comes up to me and hands me a beer. “That was amazing,” he says. “You know, when I first met you, you were writing about someone else. Now you’re writing about yourself. That’s the bravest thing a writer can do.” I thank him, and we stand there talking for a while, about our work, about our dreams, about the people we’ve lost along the way. I think about all the stories we’ve shared — his about leaving law to paint, mine about leaving Elias to find myself, Kuya Manny’s about his son’s restaurant, Tita Liza’s about her box of dreams. We’re all different, but we’re all the same — we’re all learning to draw our own lines, to write our own stories, to love ourselves fully.

I walk home that night, the city lights shining around me, the sound of jeepneys and street vendors filling the air. I think about the first time Elias held my hand there, about the story I thought we’d write together. It’s not the story we ended up with, but that’s okay. Because the story I’m writing now is better — it’s mine. It’s full of messy margins and loud silences and secrets that are no longer hidden. It’s full of love — not just for the man I used to be with, but for the woman I’ve become. It’s full of hope — for the next page, for the next chapter, for the rest of my life.

I get back to my apartment and flip to a new page in my notebook. I write: “The lines we draw for ourselves are not meant to be neat. They’re meant to be honest. They’re meant to change as we change, to grow as we grow, to show us who we are and who we’re meant to be. Elias left without a goodbye, but he gave me something more — he gave me the chance to write my own story. He gave me the chance to be my own hero. He gave me the chance to love myself, fully and completely, for the first time in my life.” I closed the notebook and looked at the stars through my window. They’re shining bright, and I know I’m one of them — burning bright, lighting my own way, writing my own next page.

As I get ready for bed, I think about all the people who’ve touched my life — Maya and Sofia, Leo and Kuya Manny, Tita Liza and Jake. They’ve all taught me something about love, about courage, about the power of telling your truth. They’ve all shown me that the story is never over — not until you stop writing. And I’m never going to stop writing. I’m never going to stop drawing my own lines. I’m never going to stop loving myself. Because that’s the only story that truly matters — the one you write for yourself.