Months passed.
The semestral break came and went like a breeze—unnoticed by most, except those who were paying attention. Cean had settled back into her life at USM, head buried in debates, policy papers, and late-night conversations with Yesha about everything and nothing.
She smiled more now. Genuinely. There were still moments of pause—like when a classmate played a worship song Yuan used to like, or when someone offered her seafood and she almost warned them about his allergy—but those moments faded quicker now. Less ache, more acceptance.
She was healing.
Not completely.
But enough.
-
Yuan was doing better too.
He found himself thriving in engineering, a course that challenged him in ways Accountancy never did. He joined a study group. Made new friends. Wrote less in his journal and spoke more about his feelings—mostly with Sky, who never judged, only listened.
One evening, while reviewing for a thermodynamics exam, he glanced at the ring Cean gave him—now tucked inside his pencil case instead of worn around his neck.
Not forgotten.
Just… transformed.
-
It was Jer who suggested the trip.
"Lake Sebu," he declared dramatically. "We need a getaway! Real air! Real mountains! Real silence!"
Mak clapped. "And maybe, real closure."
Cean rolled her eyes but agreed. Yesha booked the van. Sky tagged along. Even Neo and Prudence said yes.
They didn't expect Yuan to join.
But he did.
"Just to breathe," he told Sky when she asked.
Cean found out only when he boarded the van.
They locked eyes for a moment—a flicker of the past in the present.
Then they sat on opposite ends again, just like before.
-
Lake Sebu was poetry—cool winds, water lilies, children laughing on the lakeside, and T'boli women weaving their stories into cloth.
Cean wandered toward the viewpoint, alone. Red-orange skies stretched above her, reflected in the still lake below.
She heard footsteps behind her.
She didn't need to turn to know.
Yuan stood beside her, quietly.
"Red sky," he said, eyes on the horizon. "Your blue's missing."
She smiled. "Not missing. Just... underneath."
He nodded. "That's fair."
A pause.
Then Yuan pulled something from his pocket—the ring.
He held it out, palm open.
"I don't expect anything," he said. "But I just wanted to say thank you. For giving me something I didn't know how to value back then."
Cean looked at it, then at him.
"I wasn't just a lesson, Yuan."
"You weren't," he said quickly. "You were a lot more. I just… wasn't ready to be what you needed."
She took the ring, not to keep it, but to hold it one last time.
"Do you think," she asked softly, "if we'd met in highschool—not carrying our heartbreaks, not waiting for someone else—we would've lasted?"
Yuan gave a sad smile. "Maybe. Or maybe we needed to fall apart to become who we are now."
Another pause.
Then Cean reached into her sling bag, pulled out a small envelope, and handed it to him.
"A letter I wrote back in September. I wasn't going to send it. But maybe you should read it anyway."
He took it. Didn't open it yet.
"I still care about you," she said. "But I also care about myself now. That's the difference."
Yuan looked down, then back at her.
"You've grown."
"So have you."
He reached for her hand, gently—not to hold, but to squeeze for a brief second.
And just like that, they let each other go.
Not in pain.
Not in regret.
But in peace.
-
Later that night, Yuan sat alone by the lake, opened the letter, and read:
"If we are meant to cross paths again,
let it be not because we are broken,
but because we've become whole—
separately, intentionally.
I'll always cheer for you. Even from afar."
Yuan folded the letter, pressed it to his chest, and whispered,
"Me too."
---