Entangled

The train hums beneath me, steady like a heartbeat that never quite matches my own. The whole carriage feels wrapped in that early morning hush, the kind that pretends to be peaceful while everyone inside is already bracing for the day. Pressed suits breathe in. Polished shoes shuffle. Screens glow in pale blue light, turning every face into a tiny moon. I stand among them, trying to blend in, my hand hooked on the strap above me, my tote tucked tight against my hip like it holds whatever is left of me.

My reflection stares back from the glass panel. Ponytail pulled neat enough to look intentional. Navy blouse that never wrinkles no matter how much the train sways. Beige skirt I bought on sale during a lunch break when I told myself I needed to start looking like someone who belonged. Lifestyle Editor of Echelon Singapore. Twenty-five and freshly relocated. A one bedroom on Tomson Road, gleaming and quiet, handed to me as part of the transfer. Anyone else would call it a jackpot. My parents still brag about it to their friends. But every time I turn the key, it feels less like achievement and more like a soft place to hide.

I tell colleagues I moved for growth. Better role. Better pay. The whole grown up glow up. All of it true but trimmed down, safe for small talk at the pantry. The deeper truth sits heavy in my throat. I left Manila because staying there felt like trying to breathe inside a sealed jar. I needed the ocean. I needed the sky. I needed to be somewhere he had no claim over.

Two years ago, twenty-three and wide eyed, I stepped into Echelon Philippines like it was a temple. I played the part for real. Careful. Polite. Hyper aware of how lucky I was to even sit at the table. Then suddenly everything flipped. My name dragged across gossip sites, my face plastered beside his like some kind of punchline. I kept thinking the story would die if I stayed silent, but silence only made it spread. And even now, with all these clean Singapore mornings, his ghost walks beside me whenever the world gets too quiet.

But Singapore has its gentle ways. It gives me a job that fills my hours and lets me pretend I am fine. It gives me quiet, even when I do not want it. It gives me weekends with my brother’s girls who scream my name and cling to my legs and make me feel like I am still part of something soft and real. For a few hours I am just Tita Sofie, the one who brings them tiny pastries and paints their nails. But when I go home to that silent apartment, the memories I ran from settle on my shoulders again. Distance gives room to breathe, sure, but it also gives space for pain to echo.

The truth is silence does not heal on its own. It sharpens the edges. It makes the ache louder, clearer, impossible to ignore.

The train slows as we near Raffles Place. The skyline bursts upward, glass slicing the morning sun. I smooth my blouse though it already sits perfectly. Nervous habit. Old instinct. My chest tightens with that familiar mix of dread and determination. Then comes the sigh, soft and stretched, carrying all the words I keep tucked behind my teeth.

The doors open. The crowd moves. I step out, heels tapping the polished floors with a rhythm that feels almost brave.

Sofia Reyes does not fall apart. She shows up. She keeps moving. She holds herself steady.

And if she breaks, she does it where the world cannot see.