When We Almost Loved

Chapter 3.3: The Things We Carry Home

3.3: The Things We Carry Home

By the time Mia reached her neighborhood, the sun had already dipped behind the fields, casting long shadows over the winding roads. Her sneakers tapped softly against the uneven pavement as she made her way past familiar sights—the sari-sari store with its dusty glass jars, the family-run bakeshop still selling day-old pandesal at half price, and the auto repair shop that always smelled of grease and iron.

It was the kind of place where life didn’t move too fast, but it never quite stood still, either.

Mothers sat on plastic chairs outside their gates, voices rising in playful gossip.

A few uncles had gathered near a corner table, bottles of gin sweating in the humidity, one of them already singing off-key into a battered karaoke machine that echoed down the narrow street.

Children chased each other between parked tricycles, and the neighborhood dog barked like clockwork at anything with wheels.

Mia’s steps slowed as she reached the familiar two-story house tucked behind a row of overgrown Santan bushes. It stood a little crooked, as if it had settled tiredly into the earth over time. The place was two barangays away from the university—far enough for anonymity.

She stood outside for a moment, staring up at the balcony light that flickered every few seconds.

Her hand hovered near the gate, unmoving.

It wasn’t dread that made her pause. It was a habit. That second of silence before stepping back into the reality no one at school knew about.

Below, she could see Aling Nida through the half-open screen door, and her silhouette bent over a pot in the small kitchen. The woman lived alone; her children were all overseas—engineers and nurses now, with photos of their foreign lives lovingly taped to the refrigerator.

Mia gently pushed open the gate, its rusty hinges squeaking. She knocked softly on the screen.

“Aling Nida, I’m home po.”

“Ah, anak,” the old woman called, her voice warm. There’s leftover tinola if you’re hungry. I left it on the stove. Tell me if you need more rice, ha?”

“Thank you, po. I’m okay.”

“Don’t stay up too late again, ha? You’re getting thinner. Your mama wouldn’t like that.”

Mia offered a tired smile before heading up the narrow stairs that wrapped around the side of the house.

She hadn’t always climbed them alone.

There was a time when another set of footsteps trailed behind her—her sister’s, always steady, always pretending not to be tired. And before that, a mother was humming from the kitchen window, before the silence set in. Now, the house remembered more than it offered. That wrapped around the side of the house.

The second floor was her space now—just hers. Small, plain, and quiet.

She fished the key from her bag and paused again with her hand on the doorknob.

One last breath before the stillness swallowed her whole.

Then she turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room upstairs greeted her like it always did—not with warmth, but with stillness.

Not peace.

Just the absence of noise.

A single desk sat against the window, its chipped surface cluttered with cords, notebooks, and a mic stand wrapped with electrical tape. Her ring light leaned against the wall, flickering sometimes but still usable. The bed was a simple mattress on the floor, folded neatly earlier that morning. It hadn’t been touched since she left.

She dropped her bag near the door and let her weight fall onto the mattress, her spine hitting the floor like the truth she never had time to face. Just as she allowed herself that second of breath, her phone buzzed on the desk.

“St. Agnes Mental Care Facility”

Her stomach clenched, but she picked up immediately.

“Ms. Santos?” the nurse said on the other end, her voice polite but rehearsed. “We’re calling regarding your mother again. She had another mild episode this afternoon. No harm, but she’s been agitated. Keep repeating your sister’s name—Andrea. It’s been a few hours now. We administered something to calm her down. We just thought you should know.”

Andrea.

That name always hits like glass under the skin.

“Thank you,” Mia said softly. “Is she resting now?”

“She’s lying down. But not quite asleep yet. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

The call ended, as they always did—with that unbearable silence that came after someone handed you pain and expected you to carry it alone. Mia didn’t cry. She just stood up, walked over to the desk, and reached into the blazer she still hadn’t taken off.

Her fingers closed around something small and cool-the pink lighter. The same one she’d handed to Jake on the rooftop. The same one that sparked between them in silence, too full of what they didn’t say. She turned it over in her hand. Once. Twice. She remembered the weight of the moment it passed between them. The way her fingers had brushed his—brief, unspoken, too much and not enough. She thought of the rooftop wind, of Jake’s guarded eyes, of the way the flame had caught so easily despite everything being wet. Then she threw the lighter into the trash bin beside her desk. Not gently. Not symbolically.

Just heavily.

A quiet surrender.

It wasn’t about quitting smoking. She didn’t even smoke that often. It wasn’t about Jake either—not really. It was about weight. Of connection. Of memory. Of everything she carried, that didn’t fit into words. She needed less fire in her life. Not more. And tonight, her life didn’t need kindling. It needed discipline. Focus. Survival.

She clicked the power button on her laptop, and the familiar hum of the fan filled the space. A few seconds later, her dashboard loaded.

"Welcome back, HeldByBranches." The name blinked softly on the corner of her screen—hers, but not quite.

She remembered choosing it on a night not so different from this—rain tapping on the window, wind slipping through the cracks in the roof, her older sister asleep beside her, wrapped in a blanket too thin for the cold. Outside, the mango trees had swayed wildly, but a few leaves remained perfectly still. She had stared at them and thought:" Maybe I don’t have to be strong all the time. Maybe it’s okay to be held.

Held by memories.

Held by kindness.

Held by whatever doesn’t give way when everything else does.

Her sister had been her first branch.

Now, all she had were strangers online—voices who didn’t know her name but trusted her heart.

She slipped on her headset, adjusted the mic, and let her voice bloom softly into the night. She never showed her face. Only her corrected voice—slightly softened, filtered just enough to make it sound like confidence instead of survival. She sang. Sometimes, acoustic covers. Sometimes, it's original songs. And in between, she talked about hope, holding on and love-things that she do not fully understand.

On-screen, her scheduled livestream flashed a countdown:

"Going live in 5 minutes."

She straightened her back and opened her cue cards. Tonight’s topic:

"You Don’t Have to Be Whole to Be Worth Loving."

And yet, here she was—half alive, half lost, fully pretending.

She glanced once more at the trash bin. The lighter lay there upside down, the metal end catching the last slice of light from the window. Maybe someone else would’ve kept it. Perhaps someone else would have called it a memory worth holding. But Mia had learned to let go of things that burned too long.

She clicked "Go Live."

And her voice—sweet, warm, unrecognizable—filled the room.

"Hey, everyone. I don’t know who needs this tonight, but…

you’re not broken just because life hurts.

You’re still here. And that’s something beautiful."

When the livestream ended and the screen dimmed, Mia exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire time. She slowly took off her headset, placing it gently on the desk.

The room felt even quieter now, as if the silence had been waiting behind the words. She stood and walked toward the cabinet in the corner—an old wooden thing with creaky hinges and one missing handle. Clothes were folded with precise effort, except for one side, where garments had been shoved in too forcefully, too resentfully. She yanked open the right door, grabbed a shirt from the pile of her mother’s old clothes, and threw it inside without care. Her chest tightened.

If only she had been stronger... maybe Ate wouldn’t have had to carry it all.

Her eyes stung, but she blinked away. Then her hand moved to the top shelf—slow, careful. She pulled out an old hoodie, frayed at the sleeves, the fabric soft from use.

Andrea’s.

She held it for a moment, pressing it to her chest before pulling it over her head.

It still smelled faintly of fabric softener and something warm—something safe. In it, Mia wasn’t a girl pretending to be okay. She was just a sister trying to survive the weight of love. She returned to her mattress, curled up in that familiar cloth, and stared at the ceiling. Some nights were for crying. Tonight was just for holding.