TORN BETWEEN TWO LOVERS

(Cecy’s POV) I don’t remember the exact day I learned what love was… but I remember how it felt. It felt like warmth on a quiet evening. Like my mother’s voice calling my name from the kitchen. Like small hands held tightly so I wouldn’t get lost in a world that already felt too big for me. My name is Cecilia. But everyone who knew me before I became her the girl torn between love and confusion called me Cecy. I was a quiet child. Not the kind that caused trouble or demanded attention. I watched more than I spoke. I listened more than I was heard. And maybe that’s where it all started… learning to feel everything deeply, even the things no one else noticed. Growing up, love looked simple. It was in the way my mother woke up early every morning, even when she was tired. It was in the way she smiled, even when life didn’t give her many reasons to. I used to think love meant sacrifice… that to love someone was to give parts of yourself away without asking for anything back. And I believed that. Maybe too much. As a little girl, I dreamed like every other girl. I dreamed of a love that would find me, hold me, choose me. A love that would feel like home. I didn’t know then that love could also confuse you… break you… make you question who you are. Back then, my world was small. School, home, laughter with friends, and silent moments where I would sit by myself and imagine the kind of life I wanted. I wanted something soft. Something real. Something that wouldn’t hurt. But life doesn’t ask what you want. It gives you what you need to become who you are. And somehow… my story didn’t begin with love. It began with learning how to survive it. As I grew older, I started to notice things I didn’t understand before. The silence in the house when my mother thought I was asleep. The way her smile sometimes didn’t reach her eyes. The way she carried so much without ever saying a word. I didn’t ask questions. I just… watched. Children don’t always need explanations to understand that something isn’t right. We feel it. In the air. In the pauses between words. In the way love is given… and sometimes withheld. That’s how I learned my first lesson about love. That it isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it hides. Sometimes, it hurts quietly. And sometimes… you give it even when you’re empty. I think that’s when I started becoming careful with my heart without even knowing what that meant. I told myself I would never love the way my mother did. Never lose myself. Never give so much that I forgot who I was. But life has a way of testing the promises we make when we are too young to understand them. Back then, I found comfort in the little things. The laughter of friends after school. The feeling of running freely without thinking about tomorrow. The simple joy of being seen, even if just for a moment. Those were the days I felt light. Untouched. Like nothing in the world could ever change me. But deep down… something was already growing inside me. A longing I couldn’t explain. A curiosity about love, about connection… about being chosen. I didn’t know it yet, but my heart was already preparing itself. Preparing to feel everything. The good… The confusing… And the kind of love that doesn’t come with answers. If I could go back to that little girl Cecy, sitting quietly and watching the world with soft eyes I think I would tell her one thing: Be careful what you believe love is… because one day, it will ask everything from you. I was raised in a home where love was quiet, but strong. It was just my mother… and my grandmother. There was no father in my life not in my memories, not in my daily moments. I grew up watching other children run to their fathers, laughing, being lifted high into the air. But that was not my story. My mother was everything she could be. My grandmother was different. She was my comfort. She told me stories, prayed for me, and taught me how to be strong and respectful. Her love was steady unlike anything else I knew. With her, I felt seen. But even with all that love, there was still something missing. I didn’t have a father. And that absence grew quietly inside me. I learned to be independent early. To not ask for too much. But inside, I was still a little girl longing for something I couldn’t name. Love. Not just any love but the kind that stays. The kind that chooses you. Maybe that’s why, as I grew older, my heart became so sensitive. I didn’t just fall in love. Because I had learned early that love doesn’t always come easily… and when it does come, you have to hold onto it before it disappears. And that is how my story began…