CHAPTER 1 PROMISES ARE MEANT TO BE BROKEN

Hannah’s Point of View

The apartment is a disaster. It looks so neglected and empty you would think nobody lives here. Honestly, I am rarely around anyway. I only ever come home to sleep, waking up just early enough to escape the quiet walls and leave again.

My unit is nestled in the heart of Makati, where I’ve lived for almost three years since graduating with a degree in Business Management. I work hard in the clothing manufacturing industry. At twenty, I worked myself to the bone, desperate for financial independence just so I could pack my bags and escape my parents. At first, they fought me on it, completely against the idea, but they quickly realized they couldn't control me.

It is utterly exhausting to be around them. They place the heaviest, most suffocating expectations on my shoulders, compounded by the fact that I am an only child. They want me to take over the family business, find a respectable husband on a strict timeline, and give them grandchildren.

Unfortunately for them, I can never give them that life. I am a lesbian, and I am still buried deep in the closet. Even when I was a little girl, I knew something about me was different. I always felt entirely more comfortable around girls than boys; in fact, talking to boys usually just ended in a fight.

I successfully ignored that hidden side of myself until I met Billy in high school. For me, it was love at first sight. The exact moment she stepped into the classroom, her beauty completely took my breath away. She was the absolute talk of the campus. Because we were assigned as seatmates, we grew close quickly, mostly because I always helped her finish her schoolwork.

Before long, we were hanging out constantly. Billy was reckless and wild, always skipping classes to sneak off with her boyfriend, which constantly got her caught and summoned to the principal's office. One afternoon, I walked into the old school stockroom and caught them in the act. Billy was completely naked, moaning and grinding on top of him. That was the moment my true struggles began. It was my very first heartbreak—a sharp, one-sided love that I was forced to suffer through entirely on my own.

Yet, out of everyone in the world, she remains the only person who truly knows me. When I am with her, I feel entirely free.

I still remember the rain-soaked afternoon we spent in her bedroom after finishing our homework. Out of nowhere, she leaned over and kissed me. That was my first kiss. After that day, she grew more aggressive. My true desires were unleashed by an intoxicating mix of uncontrolled lust and playful flirting, though for her, I knew it was only ever about having fun. Billy is always ready to try anything—experimenting with new thrills, and even with people's emotions. I’ve honestly lost count of how many times we’ve slept together.

I am always the one left behind to pick up her broken pieces. Whenever she is upset or overwhelmed by the crushing pressure of her grades, we escape reality together. We take spontaneous, late-night road trips out of town just so she can outrun her problems. Billy was raised by her wealthy grandfather, and because their family business is highly successful, she enjoys a very comfortable, privileged lifestyle.

We are much more than friends, but we aren't in a proper relationship. There is no commitment, none of the security a normal couple shares. My entire world revolves around her; I feel completely numb when she isn't by my side. Billy feels entitled to do whatever she wants with me without a second thought. But the moment her life spins out of control, she runs straight back to my condo. She gets drunk, cries into my shoulder all night, and then, inevitably, the lines blur and something happens between us in the dark.

I accept this toxic arrangement despite how much it tears me apart, simply because I love her—even if she can never love me back the same way. Our physical encounters are completely random, usually triggered when she has just broken up with a boyfriend and is hurting. Sex became her escape, too. It is a unique, agonizing kind of torture for me, because these fleeting, desperate moments are the only times I truly get to hold her.

Ally’s Point of View

The sky today is heavy and gloomy, matching my mood perfectly. Dad and I are arguing again. Ever since Mom died, we haven't gotten along, and the tension in the house only worsened after my older brother passed away.

Just because he is my father doesn't mean he gets to dictate the entire script of my future. How am I supposed to marry a person I don't even know? Ever since my brother died, it feels like the entire weight and responsibility of the company has been dumped squarely onto my shoulders, whether I want it or not.

"That is my final decision, Ally," Dad says, his voice flat and completely unyielding.

Furious, I snatch my bag and car keys off the counter. I storm out of the house and head straight toward the city, desperate to find a loud bar and numb the ringing in my ears. I am wearing my usual casual outfit—a fitted shirt, well-worn jeans, and sneakers, with my hair falling free past my shoulders.

Hannah’s Point of View

My condo isn't huge, but it's beautiful, especially when I actually bother to clean it. It has a cozy living room, a small kitchen, a dining area, and a balcony that offers an alluring, glittering view of the Makati skyline. I sit out there alone or with Billy to drink, smoke, and sometimes, that is where we end up sleeping together under the stars. The condo has basically become her second home. She rarely stays at her own place anymore, spending most of her time here whenever her life is falling apart.

In my free time, I prefer staying indoors rather than going out into the crowded city. I watch vlogs, sketch and design new dresses, and test out complicated new recipes I find on the internet.

I’ve never had a boyfriend in my life. Plenty of men have tried to court me over the years, but they are rejected immediately—I shut them down cold before they can even make a move. I can find men aesthetically attractive, sure; I am just not capable of being attracted to them. I have a few male friends, but they are almost always gay.

I’m not ugly, nor am I supermodel pretty, but I have a distinct, effortless appeal. I’m witty, I have a sharp sense of humor, and I carry myself with confidence. Even though I am a lesbian, I love fashion—wearing short skirts, shorts, and daring, revealing clothes. And for the record—I am still a virgin when it comes to men, just definitely not with women.

I try calling Billy, but the line just rings. She isn't answering. We had solid plans for tonight.

Finally, a text message lights up my screen: "Hannah, I'm so sorry, but I can't make it tonight. I promise I will make it up to you next time. An emergency came up suddenly."

Deep down, I knew she wouldn't show. She should have just told the truth—that she was off somewhere with her boyfriend—instead of manufacturing a cheap, recycled excuse. It would honestly hurt less than sitting here expecting her to actually value my time. At least I hadn't started cooking yet. Otherwise, the food would just spoil and end up in the garbage, which is exactly how she treats my heart.

Anger boils up hot inside my chest, flushing my cheeks a bright red. I type back furiously: "You should have told me earlier, Billy. You are so irresponsible. You always pull this shirt whenever it suits you. You shouldn't make promises you have no intention of keeping." I hurl my phone onto the bed.

A moment later, it buzzes. "Hannah, try to be considerate. I told you something important came up," she replies.

Tears well up hot in my eyes, my lips trembling in a pout. My entire day is ruined, and I feel completely devastated, cast aside yet again.

"You are always like this. Better not to promise anything at all," I text back, biting my lip as I slap an angry emoji at the end.

"Whatever you say, Hannah. Grow up," she shoots back, ending the conversation with a crying emoji.

We had promised to celebrate our anniversary as friends tonight, and this is how it ends. It makes me feel utterly worthless.

Instead of staying inside to sulk and cry in the quiet apartment, I decide to go out and drown my sorrows in a drink. I march over to my closet and change into one of my own custom designs—a graphic t-shirt with the words Crazy Love printed boldly across the chest—paired with a maroon skirt and black doll shoes. I apply a flawless layer of makeup to hide how upset I am and tie my hair up tightly into a high ponytail to give myself a fierce, confident look.

Slamming the apartment door loudly behind me, I walk out into the neon-lit night.