The Mirror Before Her

Chapter Two: The Echo of Her

They say the heart recognizes before the eyes do.

That’s how it felt when I met Selene.

It started simply. A shared glance in a café where I usually kept to myself. She asked if she could borrow the charger plugged into the outlet beside my table. I nodded without looking up. She crouched, unplugged hers, and plugged in mine when she was done. Thoughtful. Gentle. A presence that asked nothing but gave without effort.

“Do you always work with that face?” she asked, smirking.

“What face?” I replied.

“The one that looks like you’re arguing with the computer.”

I looked at her then—really looked. And for a moment, my body went still. Her face. Her voice. Her scent. It all felt like a déjà vu I couldn’t unfeel. Like someone had plucked her straight from the dreams I’d been having since I moved to Makati.

Selene.

She introduced herself without hesitation, as if we were just resuming something unfinished. There was something about her I couldn’t explain. She carried herself like sunlight on a day you forgot needed saving. I didn’t mean to see her again. But I did. Over and over. Like the universe kept handing her back to me and whispering: “Here. Look closer this time.”

We started talking more. Meeting intentionally. At first, it was casual—coffee breaks, shared playlists, laughing over misheard lyrics, arguing over book endings. Then it wasn’t. Her laugh became my favorite sound. Her hands found their way into mine like they’d always belonged there.

Selene made space in my life without ever asking for it.

She didn’t just feel familiar—she felt like a continuation.

I told her things I hadn’t even said out loud to myself. About my past. About my guilt. About the dreams. I told her I wasn’t good at staying. That I ruined things I loved. She looked at me like she didn’t believe me, like she saw a version of me I hadn’t earned yet.

“You talk like you’ve already written your ending,” she said once, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my wrist. “But I think you’re still on the first page.”

I wanted to believe her.

So when I fell, I didn’t fight it.

And for a while… it was real.

We weren’t perfect. We argued. I shut down when she asked too many questions. She got frustrated when I didn’t share enough. But we always came back. We always chose each other again. The kind of love that felt like memory and future all at once.

I asked her to move in. She said yes.

I asked her to marry me.

She cried.

The wedding was small. Just close friends, a few relatives, a white barong I never thought I’d wear, and jasmine in her bouquet—because she said the scent reminded her of something soft and eternal.

I didn’t tell her that was the scent in my dreams.

Not yet.

We set the date for November.

We were almost there.

Almost.