THE HOUSE WE KEPT

CHAPTER 11: THE DECISION

LINA'S POV

The house didn’t feel like a ruin anymore.

It felt like a home we were still learning how to live in.

The pink wall was dry. The roof didn’t leak. The door was open.

And Andreo was still here.

We didn’t talk about it.

We just… stayed.

---

Aling Teresing came early.

She didn’t knock. She never did.

“Bigas,” she said. She set a sack on the floor. “Tanim niyo sa likod. Para hindi na kayo bibili lagi.”

She looked around. At the counter we built. At the pink wall. At the two mugs on the table.

“Maganda na,” she said.

She looked at me. Then at Andreo.

“Maganda na kayong dalawa,” she added.

My face went hot.

Andreo didn’t blush. He just said, “Salamat, Aling.”

She left.

I stared at the rice. “We don’t have a garden.”

“We will,” he said.

I looked up. “What?”

He was already rolling up his sleeves. “You said you wanted vegetables. I said we’d plant them. Remember?”

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

He walked out. Grabbed the shovel from the yard.

I followed him. “Andreo, wait.”

He stopped. Turned. “What?”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “You don’t owe me a garden. You don’t owe me anything.”

He leaned on the shovel. Dirt on his boots. Sweat on his neck.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I want to,” he said. Simple. “Because you’re not a client anymore. And this isn’t a job.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I picked up the other shovel.

He didn’t stop me.

We dug.

Side by side.

The soil was hard. Full of stones. Old roots.

“This was Lola’s,” I said. “She grew kangkong here. Before…”

“Before what?”

“Before she died. Before everyone left.”

He stopped digging. “You don’t talk about her much.”

“Because it hurts,” I said. “She was the only one who stayed. Even when I was a mess. Even when I ran to Manila.”

He nodded. “My dad too.”

I looked at him. “You never said.”

“He didn’t talk,” Andreo said. “He worked. He drank. He died. That’s all I got.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t,” he said. “But this is.” He tapped the soil with his shovel. “This you can fix.”

I dug harder.

We worked in silence for a while.

Then I said, “Why did you stay?”

He didn’t look up. “You asked me to.”

“I said it once,” I said. “In the storm. You could’ve ignored it.”

“I could’ve,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“Why?”

He finally looked at me. “Because you were the first person who said it and meant it.”

My throat closed.

“I’ve had people say ‘stay’ before,” he kept going. “My brother. My foreman. A girl in Cebu. They meant ‘stay until I’m done with you.’”

He wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm.

“You meant ‘stay even if I’m broken.’”

I dropped my shovel.

“Andreo—”

He held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t make it bigger than it is.”

“It is big,” I said. “You’re here. You’re digging. You’re not on the porch.”

“I’m tired of the porch,” he said.

I laughed. It came out shaky. “Good. Because it’s cold out there.”

He smiled. Small. “It is.”

We went back to digging.

---

Mimi came at noon.

She brought lunch.

“Para sa mga nagtatrabaho,” she said. She set two plates on a flat stone. Rice. Fish. Talong.

She stared at us. Sweaty. Dirty. Smiling without meaning to.

“Mag-asawa na kayo,” she said.

I choked. “What? No. We’re not—”

She laughed. “Hindi pa. Pero malapit na.”

She left.

We sat on the ground. Eating.

“I’m not marrying anyone,” I said.

“I’m not asking,” he said.

I looked at him. “Then why did you say I meant it?”

“Because you did,” he said. “And I did too.”

We ate in silence.

After, he said, “Your turn.”

“What?”

“Ask me something,” he said. “Anything. No lying.”

I thought about it.

“Do you regret coming back?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“Even with the storm? The broken wall? Me?”

“Especially you,” he said.

I looked down at my plate. “Why?”

“Because you’re not easy,” he said. “You’re not quiet. You’re not grateful. You fight me on everything.”

I frowned. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It is,” he said. “Because you’re real. And I’m tired of pretending.”

I set my plate down. “My turn.”

He nodded.

“Do you still want to leave?”

He went still.

“Honest,” I said.

He stared at the sapling. Hope.

“Sometimes,” he said.

My heart dropped.

“But not today,” he added.

I breathed again.

“Not tomorrow either,” he said.

I didn’t speak.

“And not the day after that,” he said.

I looked up. “Stop.”

He stopped.

“Don’t promise me forever,” I said. “I can’t take it. Not yet.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m promising you today.”

That was worse.

Because today felt like everything.

---

We finished the garden bed.

It was crooked. Uneven. Full of rocks we missed.

“It’s ugly,” I said.

“It’s ours,” he said.

We planted.

Kamatis. Talong. Sili.

Aling Teresing’s seeds.

He showed me how to press the soil. Gentle. Not hard.

“Like this,” he said. His hand over mine again. “Don’t crush it.”

I didn’t.

We watered it.

From the same pail.

Passing it back and forth.

Our fingers touched every time.

Neither of us pulled away fast.

---

That night, I found the box.

In the kitchen.

By the counter.

I knew what it was before I opened it.

The dress.

I hadn’t looked at it in months.

I opened it.

White. Lace. Heavy.

It didn’t fit me anymore.

Not because of my body.

Because of me.

“Andreo,” I said.

He was behind me.

He didn’t ask. He just came.

“What is it?”

“This,” I said. I touched the lace. “I can’t keep it.”

“Then don’t,” he said.

“I don’t know how to let go,” I said. “If I throw it, it’s real. If I burn it, it’s gone. If I keep it, I’m still her.”

He knelt beside me. Not touching the box. Just me.

“Then bury it,” he said.

I looked at him. “What?”

“Bury it,” he said. “By Hope. Let it feed something that lives.”

I stared. “That’s… dark.”

“That’s honest,” he said.

I closed the box.

“Okay,” I said.

We went out.

Shovel. Box. Moonlight.

He dug.

I watched.

When the hole was deep enough, he looked at me.

“You do it,” he said.

I knelt.

I put the box in the ground.

My hands shook.

“It’s just a dress,” I whispered.

“It’s a life you didn’t live,” he said.

I covered it with dirt.

Slow.

When it was done, I sat back on my heels.

“I don’t feel different,” I said.

“You won’t,” he said. “Not yet. But the sapling will.”

We walked back to the house.

No one said anything.

Inside, he poured water.

Two glasses.

He handed me one.

“To new things,” he said.

“To buried things,” I said.

We drank.

---

Later, we were on the porch.

Blanket between us.

The stars were out.

The house was quiet behind us.

“I’m scared,” I said.

“Of what?”

“That this is temporary,” I said. “That when the garden grows, you’ll go.”

He was quiet.

Then he said, “I’m scared too.”

I turned. “Of what?”

“That when you’re done fixing the house, you’ll realize I’m part of the rot.”

I stared. “You’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because rot doesn’t stay,” I said. “Rot leaves. You’re still here.”

He didn’t answer.

“Andreo,” I said.

He looked at me.

“I choose this,” I said. “I choose the house. I choose the garden. I choose… you. Not forever. Just now.”

He exhaled.

“Good,” he said. “Because I choose you too. Just now.”

That was it.

No kiss.

No confession.

No ‘I love you’.

Just two people.

Choosing.

---

We went inside.

The door was open.

We didn’t close it.

He lay down on the floor.

Not the porch.

The floor.

Inside.

I lay down too.

Three feet between us.

“Goodnight, Lina,” he said.

“Goodnight, Andreo,” I said.

I didn’t sleep right away.

I listened to him breathe.

Steady.

Here.

In the morning, he was still there.

He was looking at the ceiling.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning,” he said.

He sat up.

“I’m making coffee,” he said.

“Two mugs?”

“Two mugs,” he said.

He walked to the kitchen.

I stayed on the floor.

And for the first time since I came to this house…

I wasn’t waiting for someone to leave.

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*[End Chapter 11 ]*

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