CHAPTER 11.5: THE STAY
1248 Words
DREO'S POV
I don’t talk.
Not really.
I fix.
I build.
I carry.
That’s easier than explaining.
Lina talks enough for both of us.
That’s why I stayed.
---
She thinks I’m quiet because I’m strong.
I’m quiet because if I start, I won’t stop.
And if I don’t stop, I’ll say things I can’t take back.
Things like:
“I’m scared.”
“I don’t know how to stay.”
“I don’t want you to be the reason I leave.”
So I don’t say them.
I sand wood instead.
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The day she said “don’t leave” in the storm…
I heard it.
I didn’t answer.
Because answering would mean I meant it.
I did mean it.
I just didn’t trust myself yet.
Twelve years of leaving teaches you one thing:
If you stay, you will be hurt.
If you leave first, you only hurt them.
I’ve been hurting people for twelve years.
I’m tired of it.
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She doesn’t know I count.
Three feet.
That’s how far my mat is from hers now.
Inside the house.
I used to sleep on the porch.
Blanket. Tools. Rain.
Anything to keep a wall between me and inside.
She left the door open.
Night after night.
I didn’t come in.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because if I did, I couldn’t pretend I was just working.
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The garden.
She thinks I dug it for her.
I didn’t.
I dug it for me.
Soil doesn’t ask questions.
Seeds don’t leave.
If you water them, they grow.
If you don’t, they die.
Simple.
People aren’t.
When she picked up the other shovel,
I almost told her to stop.
Not because she’d slow me down.
Because if she helped, it meant this was ours.
And ‘ours’ is a word I don’t use.
But I didn’t stop her.
Because I wanted it to be ours.
---
Mimi said “mag-asawa na kayo.”
Lina choked.
I didn’t.
I just kept eating.
Because if I reacted, Mimi would be right.
And if she’s right, it means this is real.
And real things end.
But later, when Lina asked if I regret coming back…
I said no.
That was true.
The other truth is: I regret every day I almost left.
I almost left after the storm.
After she cried.
After she said my name.
I had my bag by the door.
I was standing there.
Hand on the frame.
Then I heard her breathing.
From the pink room.
Shallow. Like she was holding it in.
I put the bag down.
I didn’t tell her.
---
The dress.
She thinks I was cruel when I told her to bury it.
I wasn’t.
I was jealous.
She kept it for a year.
In a box.
Like she was waiting for him to come back for it.
I’ve been keeping things for twelve years too.
My dad’s hammer.
In my bag.
I use it once in every house.
Then I hide it again.
Because if I throw it away, it means I forgave him.
And I’m not ready.
When she buried her dress,
I wanted to bury the hammer with it.
I didn’t.
Because I’m not her.
I’m slower.
I’m worse.
So I watched her bury the past.
And I stayed.
That’s all I could give her.
---
“Do you still want to leave?” she asked.
I said sometimes.
That was honest.
I didn’t say: Every morning.
Every time she looks at me like I’m safe.
Every time she laughs at my terrible coffee.
I want to leave because staying means I could lose her.
And losing her would be worse than leaving her.
But I also said: Not today.
That was honest too.
Because today, she’s here.
Today, the garden is growing.
Today, the door is open.
Today is enough.
Even if tomorrow isn’t.
---
She said “I choose you. Just now.”
God.
Nobody’s ever said that.
Not “forever”.
Not “always”.
Just “now”.
“Now” I can do.
“Now” I can promise.
So I said it back.
Even though my throat closed.
Even though my hands shook.
Because she deserves someone who says it.
Even if he’s scared.
---
The lock.
Mimi left it on the table.
Brass. New. Heavy.
Lina stared at it like it was a gun.
She asked if I’d put it on.
I said I didn’t know.
Truth is: I wanted to.
Because if the door is locked, she can’t leave.
If the door is locked, I can’t leave.
But locks are what my father used.
To keep people out.
To keep me in.
He died on the other side of a locked door.
I found him too late.
So I didn’t put it on.
---
That night, she asked for a secret.
I gave her the hammer.
I never told anyone about it.
Not my brother.
Not a priest.
Not even the river when I threw the rest of the tools in.
I kept one.
Because part of me still wants my father to be proud.
Even though he wasn’t.
Even though he’s dead.
She gave me the text.
“I can’t.”
Two words that broke her.
We’re both carrying ghosts.
That’s why we fit.
---
On the threshold…
She sat with one foot inside, one foot outside.
Like she was waiting for me to choose.
I sat too.
Because if I stood, I’d have to be the one leaving.
If I sat, I could be the one staying.
She said “we leave the door open.”
I said that’s stupid.
Anyone can walk in.
She said “good.”
Because she wants me to.
Nobody’s ever wanted me to walk in.
They always wanted me to fix, then go.
She wants me to come back.
On my own.
Without a lock.
Without a chain.
That’s harder than any roof I’ve fixed.
---
When I put the lock on the shelf instead of the door…
She exhaled.
I heard it.
Like she’d been underwater since Week 1.
I didn’t tell her why.
Because if I did, I’d have to say:
“I’m scared that if I lock it, I’ll become him.”
“I’m scared that if I don’t, you’ll become him.”
So I said: “I’m staying because you’re here.”
That was true.
It was also easier.
---
She fell asleep on my shoulder.
I didn’t move for hours.
My arm went numb.
My heart didn’t.
I counted her breaths.
In. Out.
In. Out.
I used to count the minutes until I could leave.
Now I count the minutes I get to stay.
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In the morning, she made coffee.
Two mugs.
She didn’t say thank you for staying.
She didn’t ask if I was leaving.
She just slid the mug to the empty chair.
I sat.
We drank.
The door was open.
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People think I’m the strong one.
Because I carry wood.
Because I don’t cry.
Because I fix things.
I’m not strong.
I’m just terrified.
Terrified that one day she’ll look at me and see a man who runs.
Terrified that one day I’ll look at her and see a reason to stay.
But today…
Today I’m here.
Today I didn’t leave.
Today I chose the open door.
And if I’m being honest…
If I’m being really honest…
I think I’d choose it again tomorrow.
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*[End Chapter 11.5 ]*
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