Ten Years of Autumn

Chapter 12: The Circle Complete

A year later, the humid afternoon air of Batangas was filled with the scent of roasted lechon, blooming jasmine, and the laughter of our closest family and friends.

We didn't want a grand, opulent cathedral wedding in Manila. We chose to say our vows right under the shade of the massive, century-old mango tree behind my ancestral house—the exact spot where two ten-year-old kids had once sat with dirty knees, eating melted ice candy and promising the world to each other.

The ground was scattered with white petals. I walked down the makeshift wooden aisle in a simple, flowing white lace dress, holding a bouquet of fresh orchids.

At the end of the aisle stood Anton.

He wore a traditional, perfectly fitted Barong Tagalog, his dark hair neatly styled. Beside him, dressed in a tiny matching white dress, stood our fifteen-month-old daughter, Maya, wobbling on her feet, holding onto her father’s hand. When Anton looked up and saw me, his hazel eyes shone with unshed tears, a brilliant, breathtaking smile spreading across his face—the same smile that had stolen my heart decades ago.

When I reached him, he took my hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he intertwined them with mine.

"Olivia," Anton said, his voice deep, clear, and rich with emotion as he held my gaze. "I spent ten years running from the truth, thinking I had to conquer the world to be worthy of you. I was wrong. My world was always right here. I promise to love you, to protect our family, and to never let go of your hand again. You are my home, my past, and my entire future."

Tears streamed down my cheeks, bright and warm.

"Anthony," I whispered, tightening my grip on his hand. "We spent years as best friends, strangers, colleagues, and enemies. But through every role we played, my heart was always yours. I choose you today, tomorrow, and for the rest of my life."

We exchanged simple gold rings, sealed with our signatures on the registry. When the pastor pronounced us husband and wife, Anton pulled me into his arms, dipping me slightly as he brought his lips to mine. The crowd erupted into loud cheers, showering us with petals, but as Anton kissed me, the noise of the world faded away entirely.

We had built our home not on easy promises, but on the unyielding strength of a love that had survived storms, ocean distances, and the darkest nights.

Later that evening, after the music died down and Maya was fast asleep inside, Anton and I walked out to the edge of the property, sitting together on the wooden bench under the moonlight. He pulled me close against his side, draping his jacket over my shoulders just like he used to.

I pulled out a small, framed photo from my bag and rested it on his knee. It was the original, faded polaroid of us at ten years old—and right beside it, a fresh polaroid taken earlier that day: Anton, Maya, and me, laughing under the mango tree.

Anton looked at the two photos, then looked at me, a soft, eternal warmth burning in his eyes. He kissed the top of my head, wrapping his hand over mine.

"We made it, Olly," he whispered into the quiet night.

"We made it home," I replied, resting my head against his chest, finally, completely at peace.