CHAPTER 8
1374 Words
Lexie Monteverdi’s POV
The air was colder that night—the kind that seeps through your skin no matter how tightly you cross your arms. The rain had stopped, but the scent of wet earth still lingered in the wind. Every breath I took tasted like grass and silence. I sat under the mango tree, watching droplets slide down its leaves and fall one by one, like tiny clocks counting seconds I didn’t know I was waiting for.
Hindi ko namamalayan na medyo matagal na rin pala kami rito sa Hacienda Cruz, pero parang kahapon lang nang gusto ko nang umuwi agad. I remember that first week—the chaos, the mud, the constant complaints I muttered under my breath. Now, it’s quieter. Familiar, even. Aira and Zyra already fit in; they laugh with the locals, help with chores, and move like they belong. Ako? I still talk to the moon like it owes me answers.
I pulled my journal closer, flipping to a blank page. Maybe tonight I’ll finally write something that makes sense. Maybe tonight, I’ll understand why my heart feels like it’s keeping a secret I can’t name.
Then—footsteps. Mabagal. Pamilyar.
“Hindi ka pa natutulog?” That voice. Elian.
I didn’t look up right away. “Hindi rin naman ikaw, ’di ba?”
He laughed softly, that deep, quiet laugh that somehow reached farther than it should. The sound warmed the air between us. He sat beside me, careful not to get too close—but close enough that I could feel the space shifting. Even the crickets seemed to hush a little, as if listening.
“For someone who hates this place,” he said, “you stay outside a lot.”
“Maybe I’m starting to tolerate it,” I answered, closing my notebook halfway. “Don’t get used to it, though.”
He smiled at that—barely, but I caught it. A flicker of amusement in his eyes before it disappeared.
We sat in silence. Not awkward—just full of things we didn’t need to say. The breeze moved softly, tugging at the hem of my shirt, carrying the smell of rain-soaked grass. I traced the cover of my journal absentmindedly while Elian leaned back against the trunk, his gaze fixed on the stars above.
Then he started talking—slow, like the words were afraid to break the quiet. He told me about his dad. How they used to come to this very spot when he was little, naming constellations they couldn’t even see clearly. How his father said stars were reminders of promises—ones you could only keep if you remembered to look up.
“Your dad sounds nice,” I said.
“He was,” he whispered. “He taught me everything about this hacienda. About patience. About how to wait for things to grow, even when it feels like nothing’s happening.”
“Wow,” I murmured, smiling faintly. “That sounds… poetic.”
He shrugged lightly. “He also taught me how to deal with people who don’t belong here.”
I blinked. “Wow. Was that a subtle insult?”
He chuckled. “Half compliment, half warning.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead, I smiled. It’s frustrating how he can throw words like that—calm but sharp, teasing but never cruel. Like he knows exactly how to push buttons I didn’t even know I had.
Then, without really thinking, I asked, “Do you still talk to her?”
He stilled. “Her?”
Regret instantly filled my chest, but it was too late. “Celine,” I said quietly. “I overheard your Tita earlier. She mentioned her name.”
Elian’s eyes flickered—something unreadable passing through them. “She’s… part of my past,” he said after a pause. “But she’ll always be someone who knows a version of me I’m not proud of.”
I tried to smile, but it felt tight. “Must be nice, though. Having someone who knows you that well.”
“Or terrible,” he murmured. “Because they also know exactly how to hurt you.”
His voice carried weight—something heavy and unspoken. The kind that doesn’t ask for pity, just understanding. I wanted to ask more, but I didn’t. Some silences aren’t meant to be filled.
We stayed like that for a while, listening to the rhythm of the night. The stars were braver now, scattered across the sky like tiny fireflies refusing to burn out. A faint mist rose from the grass, catching the moonlight in silver streaks. It felt like the world had paused just for us.
Then Elian turned to me, eyes reflecting the sky. “You ever get scared of… staying too long?”
I frowned. “Staying?”
“Yeah,” he said. “In one place. Around certain people.”
I wanted to say no, but the truth pressed against my chest like a confession. “Every day,” I admitted softly. “Because once you get used to it, you start to care. And once you care, it gets harder to leave.”
He looked at me, and in that look was something I couldn’t decode—recognition, maybe. Or realization. “You’re braver than you think,” he said after a moment.
“Or just more confused,” I countered, smiling faintly.
He stood up then, brushing the dirt from his jeans. “You should sleep. Tomorrow’s another long day.”
“Right,” I said, but my voice came out smaller than I meant it to. Neither of us moved.
For a few seconds, the world just… stilled. The only sound was the soft drip of water from the leaves and the hum of night insects. The air between us felt alive, like even the silence had something to say.
He tilted his head toward the sky. “Funny,” he said, “how we all look at the same sky, but it never looks the same to anyone.”
My throat tightened. “Maybe that’s the point.”
He smiled—a small, quiet thing that didn’t reach his lips but lived somewhere in his eyes. Then he turned and walked back toward the house. His figure blended into the soft light spilling from the veranda until it disappeared.
I sank back to the ground, hugging my knees to my chest. The grass was damp, the air cool enough to sting a little. I looked up, tracing constellations I didn’t know the names of. Maybe his dad was right—maybe stars are promises. But right now, all they felt like were reminders of distance.
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The moon was high now, pale and steady, its reflection caught in the puddles around me. The water shimmered whenever the wind touched it, scattering the image into a thousand trembling pieces. I stared at it and thought—maybe that’s what this is. Him and me. Same light, different reflections.
I brushed a strand of hair from my face, my fingers brushing the cool pages of my journal. Slowly, I opened it again and wrote:
> “Maybe we’re both staring at the same sky.
But he sees calm, while I see chaos.
He sees home, while I see something I’ll have to leave behind.”
I paused, my pen hovering over the page. Somewhere inside the hacienda, a door closed softly. Maybe it was him. Maybe not. But I felt it—the pull. That quiet, unexplainable thread tying me to a moment I wasn’t ready to end.
I tilted my head back, letting the moonlight spill over my face. “Even if we’re under the same sky,” I whispered, “maybe we’re not seeing the same stars.”
And somehow, that thought hurt more than it should.
Because deep down, I think I already knew—no matter how long I stayed, no matter how close we stood, some people will always belong to the light you can only look at from afar.
Still, I looked up anyway.
Because sometimes, it’s enough just to see the same sky—even if the stars don’t line up for you.
- Writer
