Prologue
The water here carries a mood I still can’t decode. It’s almost smug in its quiet, a kind of chill confidence I never saw back home. It doesn’t roar or complain or slap the shore like it did in Bicol. It doesn’t carry the gritty breath of Manila Bay, where the waves felt like they were elbowing each other for space. Montreal water just rests, like it has nothing to prove. It reflects the sky with a straight face, pretending it never learned the art of chaos. Honestly, kind of iconic.
I sit on the edge of the dock, legs swinging like a kid trying to convince herself she’s fine. The wood mutters under me, old and wise and maybe a little judgmental, which is fair. I’ve been floating through this country pretending I know what I’m doing. Staring at the water, I keep waiting for it to blink back a sign or some cosmic meme of encouragement. Nothing. Just the same cool, glassy stare.
And I can’t help it. The question keeps circling me like a mosquito with commitment issues. How did I get here? How did the girl who spent her childhood trying to be small enough not to disappoint anyone end up on the opposite side of the world, wrapped in a cold that hugs sharper than any memory? I used to think being the overlooked one made me invincible. I thought being the extra in my own family’s story meant I had no heart left to break.
Plot twist. Turns out the heart was just hiding.
I used to clown on love so hard. I said it was for people with bedroom Pinterest boards and curated playlists. I thought romance was a hobby for girls who practiced their angles in bathroom mirrors. And then love came for me like it had something to prove. No warning. No helmet. No emotional airbags. I fell like someone who thought gravity was a rumor.
And when it ended, it didn’t feel like sadness. Sadness is soft. This was the kind of empty that echoes when you breathe. The kind that makes every street feel like it has too much sky. I walk around like a house that survived a fire. The structure is all there but open the door and it’s smoke, ashes, ghosts.
I tell myself I should be used to emptiness. Growing up invisible, overshadowed, forgotten except by my grandmother who slipped away before I learned how to say thank you, I thought I’d built immunity. Turns out heartbreak is a whole different species of sorrow. It digs in. It rearranges the furniture in your soul without asking.
The dock creaks, nudging me like a friend who wants me to stop sulking. It almost feels alive, reminding me that life keeps happening even when I don’t feel ready to participate. I pull my knees close, press my cheek to the denim, and breathe in the river’s cold honesty.
I whisper toward the water, the sky, maybe the ghost of who I used to be. I say the words out loud because silence has been eating them for weeks.
I don’t know how to be me without you.
The water listens, patient. And even though it doesn’t answer, it stays.
