My Mr. Delulu

The soft hum of the coffee machine fills the kitchen as morning light spills through the sheer curtains. Mira Lyra Solis-Levi wipes her hands on a towel, her thoughts momentarily lost in the rhythmic drip of espresso into a porcelain mug. It’s the little things that make her mornings peaceful — the way sunlight kisses the marble countertops, the faint laughter of kids from the nearby school, the lingering scent of vanilla from yesterday’s baking. It’s a quiet, comfortable life. A life she built. A life she chose. “Baby, did you see my laptop bag?” Eitan’s voice calls from the hallway. “In the study, under your desk!” she replies, her tone soft but firm. Mira moves with a kind of calm authority — measured, graceful, and unbothered. She’s dressed in a crisp ivory blouse and soft linen trousers. No rush, no chaos. Just another work-from-home day in the heart of BGC. After handing Eitan his thermal coffee cup and stealing a quick forehead kiss, she watches him leave. The front door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is not empty — it’s hers. Her sanctuary. She places her own coffee beside the laptop in the breakfast nook. Her emails are already buzzing. Conference call at 10. Content audit at 11:30. A supplier follows-up by 1. Mira breathes out a smile. “Let’s do this.” And just as she opens her browser, a notification pings on her phone. [1 Message - Zander Cruz] The name flashes briefly on the screen, as if trying to reclaim its place in her world. She doesn’t open it. She doesn’t even blink. She simply swipes it away and keeps typing. 2015, Laguna Techno Park. That’s the last time she saw Zander Cruz in person — both of them hopeful, fresh-eyed applicants in a crowded job fair, filling out forms and making small talk under the sweltering afternoon sun. She remembered his quiet confidence, his sharp jawline, the way he joked about how every job post asked for "5 years' experience in a 21-year-old body." They’d walked to the jeepney terminal together after the event. Nothing grand, nothing dramatic. Just a shared moment in time. And then... life happened. Mira shakes the memory away and dives into her deliverables. Her home office, perched beside their condo’s wide balcony, overlooks the bustling city below. Skyscrapers and traffic blend into the background hum of her routine. She adjusts her headset just in time for her 10 a.m. meeting. As her team discusses metrics and campaigns, Mira remains composed, professional, and decisive. She leads with grace — the kind of woman who earns respect not with noise, but with quiet power. When the meeting ends, she glances at her phone again. Still unread. [Zander Cruz: Hey, Mira. I know it's been a long time...]  No. Not today. Later in the afternoon, she walks to the kitchen to grab a snack. Their condo is spacious — a blessing for city living — with warm wood tones, framed photos on the walls, and toys tucked neatly in a basket by the couch. It’s a homemade not of extravagance, but of intention. Love lives here. So does peace. The Batangas house still exists — a family getaway with enough space for their future kids, a place where silence is broken only by waves and the occasional chirp of cicadas. But Eitan prefers the city. And Mira? She learned to bloom where she’s planted. They make it work. They make everything work. By evening, Mira is wrapping up her reports when Eitan comes home, his energy lighting up the room like always. He scoops her into a quick hug and murmurs, “Missed you, Mommy.” She rolls her eyes with a smile. “We’ve only been apart for nine hours.” “Nine long hours,” he teases, placing a kiss on her temple. They talk over dinner — about a friend’s engagement, a project pitch that went well, and whether they should plan another trip to Tel Aviv to visit his mom. Mira nods, already calculating the logistics in her head. She knows his mother can be... a lot. Protective. Sharp-eyed. The kind who once thought Mira was just another Bea Montgomery in disguise. But Mira had proven herself. Slowly, steadily. She didn’t beg for approval — she earned it. The same way, she earned every inch of her career, her peace, and her right to sit at any table. Especially this one. When the dishes are done and the city outside begins to settle into its night rhythm, Mira finally slips into bed. Her phone glows beside her. Zander’s message still waits, untouched. And for a moment — a fleeting, stolen second — she wonders what kind of person he expects her to be now. But that thought fades, like old perfume in the air. She leans into her husband’s embrace, feeling the solid warmth of the life she chose. The life she fought for. Because of the past? It’s a memory. But this — this present — is hers. And it’s beautiful.