THE UNTAMED

A SOUL MATE

When I woke the next morning, the dream was already slipping through my fingers.

It clung to me only in fragments, a silver light, a familiar warmth, the echo of a heartbeat that did not belong to me.

I lay still in my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to chase the images before they vanished completely. But the harder I reached for them, the faster they dissolved, leaving behind only a strange ache in my chest, as though I had lost something important.

The room felt… off.

I couldn’t explain it properly. The air was heavier, the silence too loud. My senses were sharp, uncomfortably so, as if my body had woken before my mind did. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, steadying myself. Whatever has followed me out of that dream, I have to let it go.

The smell of breakfast met me halfway downstairs, the warmth of toasted bread, brewed coffee, something sweet simmering faintly in the background. My parents were already seated at the table, their heads inclined toward one another, deep in a quiet, easy conversation. They looked… normal. Happy. As if the world had not tilted on its axis while I slept.

They looked up when they noticed me.

“Good morning,” Mom said with a smile that reached her eyes.

Dad lifted his mug in greeting. “You look tired.”

I shrugged it off and moved toward the table, grabbing a cup and fixing my coffee out of habit. The warmth of it seeped into my hands, grounding me just enough. I laid out a few sandwiches mom had prepared earlier, the familiar routine soothing my restless nerves.

“Do we have any plans today?” I asked casually, though my chest tightened as soon as the words left my mouth.

Dad leaned back in his chair. “Me? I was hoping you could cook lunch. I still have a lot of unfinished tasks from school. I need to prepare materials for tomorrow’s class.” He hesitated, then added, “Is that alright?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad,” I said quickly. “I’ll cook biko—especially for you.”

His brows lifted. “Biko?”

I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest. “It’s a dessert Auntie Linda makes. A chewy rice cake.. sticky rice, coconut milk, dark sugar. She serves it in a round bamboo tray lined with banana leaves, a bilao. It’s part of our traditional sweets, kakanin. She taught me how to make it before. I want to try cooking it myself for you.”

I didn’t say the rest out loud, that I wanted to do something tangible, something loving. Something that said you matter, you belong here, we need you. But Dad seemed to understand anyway. He nodded, his smile softening.

Then Mom cleared her throat.

“Honey,” she said carefully, “Jolina would like us to come over later. She said there are some important things she needs to talk to us about.”

The air shifted.

No one spoke for a moment. Even the clink of utensils seemed too loud.

“We should leave in about an hour,” Mom added.

Dad glanced between us. “Would you prefer that the two of you go alone?”

Mom shook her head. “No. I want you to be there.”

He hesitated, then reached for her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want a little privacy? I don’t want either of you to feel uncomfortable discussing… things… in front of me.”

Something in his tone made my throat tighten.

Before either of them could say more, I picked up my coffee and sandwich. “I’ll just finish breakfast in my room,” I said lightly. “You two can talk.”

Mom watched me go, then followed a few minutes later, knocking softly before stepping inside.

“Your dad just wants us to have the freedom to talk about your biological father,” she said gently. “Without worrying that we’re hurting his feelings. Is that okay with you?”

I nodded. “I just don’t want him to think we don’t want him with us.”

“He doesn’t,” she assured me. “He loves us. And he wants what’s best for you.”

I accepted that, even though something twisted uncomfortably in my stomach.

“Can you be ready in an hour?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied.

An hour later, we were on the road to Jolina’s house.

I didn’t realize I was wringing my hands until Mom placed hers over mine.

“Sweetheart,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry I never told you more about your father. I couldn’t talk about him without falling apart. That was unfair to you. He was so happy when I told him I was pregnant. He was strong, so strong... but he cried. You were always wanted. Always loved.”

My throat burned. “Thank you for telling me,” I said. “I hope it’s okay that I want to see pictures of him.”

She smiled sadly. “Of course. I wish I had some myself. You deserved to know him. To know his name.”

Jolina’s house came into view, larger than I remembered. Familiar, yet not. As if I had been here before… in another life.

When Jolina opened the door, she pulled my mother into a tight embrace. I smiled at the sight, hoping that whatever wounds lay between them were finally beginning to heal.

Then I smelled him.

Marvin.

The scent hit me before I saw him... warm, familiar, grounding. My gaze snapped to the doorway where he stood behind Jolina. The world narrowed. A memory surged forward, me in his arms, pressed against his chest, safe.

My breath caught.

Was that part of the dream?

I followed them inside, my pulse hammering.

We sat around the table. Coffee was poured. Rice cupcakes were laid out neatly. The normalcy of it all felt surreal, like a thin veil stretched over something dangerous and alive beneath.

Jolina folded her hands. “We asked you here to explain some things about your father, Abby Jezz. What we’re about to say may sound confusing. But please… keep an open mind.”

Mom squeezed my hand.

“Solidad,” Jolina said softly, “do you remember how you felt about Robert when you first met him?”

Mom nodded slowly.

“You were drawn to him. Completely. You couldn’t stay away. You felt ill when you were apart.”

“Yes,” Mom said. “It consumed me. When we were together, everything made sense.”

The words echoed inside me.

“Do you remember when he had to leave for a weekend?” Jolina asked. “You stayed here with me and Marvin. Do you remember how sick you got?”

“I thought I was dying,” Mom said quietly. “I assumed it was the flu.”

“And the winter break?” Jolina pressed. “When you went home?”

Mom exhaled. “I ended up in the hospital. I couldn’t eat or sleep.”

“How did you feel when Robert met you at the airport?”

Mom smiled faintly. “I ran into his arms.”

Jolina’s gaze hardened, not unkindly, but with purpose.

“You felt that way because you and Robert shared a bond,” she said. “A bond that goes beyond logic. You were meant to be together. He was your soulmate.”

The word settled in the room, heavy and alive. I wanted to laugh it off, to brush it aside like something that only belonged in movies or teleserye dramas. But my heart was already racing, because deep inside of me, it didn’t sound impossible at all.

Mom said nothing. She just stared at Jolina.

And for the first time, I realized, this wasn’t the truth yet.

"Think about it, Solidad. How many times did he call you that? I know he told you just how important you were to him. He was adamant about it. He made it clear that you were the only one for him."

Mom nods her head. Still thinking about what she is hearing. Deciding if it was true. But Jolina goes on to explain.

"My husband was the one who completed me, my perfect match. It's an extraordinary connection, unlike any other. When you discover your soul mate, there's an irresistible pull towards them. It's impossible to resist. You crave their presence, needing to be close to them. The more moments you share, the deeper the bond grows. Can you still recall the first time Robert's hand touched yours?"

I noticed that Mom was crying.