Under The Same Umbrella

The Song That Wasn’t Meant for Anyone Else

Chapter 12

It was almost midnight when Mia’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. She was curled up under a thin blanket, trying to focus on the last few pages of a book she wasn’t really reading.

The screen lit up.

Unknown number.

She almost ignored it, thinking it was another spam ad, but then another notification came through not a message, but an audio file. No name, no subject line, no explanation.

Her curiosity won. She pressed play.

A soft strum of a guitar spilled out, warm and a little uneven, as if the player had been sitting alone for hours, not caring about mistakes. Then came the voice low, steady, and achingly familiar.

Leo.

Mia froze, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. She leaned forward, pressing the phone closer to her ear as if it would make the sound clearer.

The song wasn’t perfect. Some chords were slightly off, and his breathing was audible between lines. But the words the words were too honest to be just another song in his playlist.

Lines about wanting to take the long way home just to walk beside her. About remembering the shape of her laugh more than the sound. About the way some things aren’t really lost just waiting for the right moment to be found again.

Her heart tightened with each verse. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the lyrics or because it felt like he was singing straight to her, even though he hadn’t said her name.

When the last chord faded, Mia sat still, staring at nothing. She replayed the audio once. Then twice.

Finally, she typed a reply:

Who is this for?

The response came faster than she expected.

Kung sasabihin ko na ikaw maniniwala ka ba?

Her breath caught. She read the line over and over, as if the meaning would change after the fifth time. She was still deciding what to type when a soft knock startled her.

Her apartment door.

She stood slowly, phone still in hand. When she opened it, Leo was there wearing a hoodie, a guitar case slung over his shoulder, his hair a little messy like he’d been walking without caring about the wind.

“I figured,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you were going to hear it, you might as well hear it in person.”

Mia stepped aside wordlessly.

Leo entered with a careful sort of presence, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome but was hoping he was. He placed the guitar case on the table and unzipped it slowly, almost ceremoniously.

“I didn’t write this for anyone else,” he said, his voice quieter now. He glanced at her before pulling the guitar out. “And I’m not playing it for anyone else.”

He sat down, adjusting the strap, and began to strum the same opening chords she had just heard through her phone. But this time, he was in front of her his gaze shifting between the strings and her face, his voice more grounded, more certain.

Mia stayed by the doorway at first, arms crossed not to guard herself, but to keep her hands from fidgeting.

Halfway through the song, something in her chest softened. She walked over, slowly, until she was standing beside the table.

Leo didn’t stop playing. He just looked up at her between verses, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

When the song ended, the silence between them felt thick and alive.

He didn’t ask her what she thought. Instead, he set the guitar aside, stood up, and moved toward the door.

“Mia...” he paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Hindi ako umaasa na sagutin mo ako ngayon. Pero sana… hindi mo na itago kung ano ‘yung nararamdaman mo.”

Before she could say anything, he slipped out, the door closing softly behind him.

For a long time, Mia stood in the same spot. Then she sat on the couch, phone still in hand, replaying the recorded version of the song until the guitar strings felt like they were wrapped tightly around her heart.

And somewhere between the third and fourth replay, she realized she didn’t want to untangle them.