Chapter 8 The Quiet Flame
1041 Words
Exploring Malliah’s evolving relationship with Joshua, the emotional tension between love and independence, and the quiet strength she’s learning to carry into her future.
Unexpected moment with Malliah's unexpected person.
The days after their meeting in Quezon City passed like soft waves—gentle, rhythmic, and quietly stirring something deep inside Malliah. She hadn’t expected to see Joshua again, and she certainly hadn’t expected the calm that followed. There was no rush, no urgency, no declarations. Just presence. And that, she realized, was its own kind of intimacy. She reminisces. She just smiled with sweet bitterness.
They met again the following week, this time in San Rafael, where the mango tree still stood tall in her family’s garden. Joshua arrived with a small bouquet of wildflowers and a hesitant smile.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to meet here,” he said with a bit of hesitance.
“I do,” Malliah replied. “This is where it all began.” She took the small bouquet of wildflowers from Joshua and smiled.
They sat on the bamboo bench, the same one where they’d shared their first quiet moment thirty years ago. The tree had aged, its bark rougher, its branches heavier. But it still offered shade. It still offered memory. Joshua and Malliah hesitantly amile with each other. Both are remembering the sweet memories they shared thirty days ago.
Joshua looked around. “It hasn’t changed much.” He smiled bitterly the set his eyes on Malliah's beautiful face.
“Neither have you,” Malliah said, then laughed. “Well, maybe a little.” She stared at Joshua and smiled. How she wished she could turn back time to when they were thirty years ago.
He smiled. “You’ve changed. But in the best ways.” He was so fond of staring at Malliah. She had indeed changed to be a full-grown and strong woman compared to a shy young lady when she was only 14 years old.
She nodded, unsure how to respond. Compliments still made her uneasy. But with Joshua, they felt earned.
They began seeing each other more often—coffee in town, walks through the old plaza, quiet dinners at her home where Lianne, now in college, would join them and ask questions with the curiosity of someone watching a story unfold in real time.
“Were you in love back then?” Lianne asked one evening, her eyes darting between them.
Joshua chuckled. “I don’t know if I knew what love was at eighteen.”
Malliah smiled. “I don’t think I did either.”
“But you remembered each other,” Lianne said.
Joshua nodded. “Some people leave a mark. Even if they never say a word.”
Despite the warmth between them, Malliah felt a quiet tension growing inside her. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t a doubt. It was something more complex—a question she hadn’t yet answered.
What did she want now?
She had spent years building herself—her voice, her independence, her identity. She had raised a daughter, mentored students, and written a book. She had learned to stand alone. And now, with Joshua beside her, she wondered if she could stand with someone without losing the shape she’d fought so hard to form.
One evening, she brought it up.
They were sitting on the porch, the sky streaked with orange and lavender.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
Joshua turned to her, attentive.
“I don’t know how to be in love without disappearing.”
He didn’t speak right away. Then, gently, he said, “You don’t have to disappear. Not with me.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’ve spent so long being my own flame. I’m afraid of dimming.”
Joshua reached for her hand. “Then let’s be two flames. Side by side. No shadows. No smoke.”
She looked at him, eyes misty. “I don’t want to be rescued.”
“I don’t want to rescue you,” he said. “I just want to walk beside you.”
They didn’t label their relationship. They didn’t rush into promises. They simply continued—slow, steady, intentional.
Malliah kept writing. Her manuscript was picked up by a small publisher, and she spent her mornings editing, her afternoons mentoring, her evenings reflecting. Joshua supported her quietly—reading drafts, offering feedback, and making her tea when she forgot to eat.
One day, he handed her a note.
You are not a quiet flame. You are a lighthouse. And I will never ask you to dim.
She folded it and placed it in her journal.
As the book neared publication, Malliah was invited to speak at a national literary conference in Manila. The theme was Voice and Vulnerability, and she was asked to deliver the keynote.
She hesitated.
Joshua noticed.
“What’s holding you back?” he asked.
“I’m afraid of being seen too clearly,” she said. “Of being misunderstood.”
He nodded. “Then speak clearly. And trust that those who need your words will hear them.”
She accepted the invitation.
The conference was held in a grand hall, filled with writers, educators, and students from across the country. Malliah stood at the podium, her manuscript beside her, her heart steady.
She began:
“There’s a myth that quiet people have nothing to say. That silence is emptiness. But I’ve learned that silence is often full of thought, of feeling, of truth waiting to be spoken.”
She spoke about her journey. About mentorship. About Joshua. About the mango tree.
She ended with a line from her book:
“I am not a whisper. I am a quiet flame. And I burn with purpose.”
The room erupted in applause.
Joshua stood in the back, smiling.
After the conference, Malliah sat beneath the mango tree once more, notebook open, pen in hand.
She wrote:
December 12 Love doesn’t have to be loud. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be quiet. Steady. Like a flame that never flickers. I am that flame. And I am not alone.
She closed her notebook.
She looked at the stars.
And she whispered, “Thank you.”
- Writer
