Kabanata 2

Kabanata 2

The next morning, I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in hand, staring at the flight booking page that I had opened hours ago. My eyes stung from lack of sleep. I barely got a wink last night my mind was restless, replaying Mama’s message over and over like a broken record.

“Critical condition…”

I inhaled deeply, fingers trembling as they hovered over the screen. One click, and everything would change. One click, and I’d be going back to the very place I swore I’d never return to.

Spain had become my sanctuary, the place where I built myself from scratch. But now, I felt like a child again scared, uncertain, torn between pride and love.

Finally, I pressed confirm.

The confirmation email arrived instantly. My heart pounded as if I had signed away not just a ticket but my own freedom. Tomorrow, I would be on a flight back to the Philippines. Back to Manila. Back to them.

I set my phone down on the nightstand and rubbed my face with both hands. A shaky laugh escaped my lips. So this is it, huh? After five years of running away… I’m going back.

My gaze swept across my room, sketches pinned on the walls, rolls of fabric stacked in the corner, a few awards I had earned in the fashion industry. Everything here screamed of the life I fought for. And now, I had to leave it behind, even for a while.

“Martina will manage the studio,” I whispered to myself, as if trying to reassure the gnawing fear inside me.

I picked up my phone again and scrolled to her number. A few moments later, she answered groggily.

“Hola, Thaliya? It’s too early… is everything okay?”

I took a breath. “Martina… I need to leave for a while. I’m flying back to the Philippines tomorrow. My dad… he’s in the hospital.”

There was silence on the other end, then a soft, “Oh, cariño… I’m so sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll handle things here. Just… take care of yourself.”

“Thank you.” My voice cracked a little, but I quickly composed myself. “I’ll send you instructions later. For now… I just need to pack.”

When the call ended, I sat there for a moment, hugging my pillow tight. The truth was, it wasn’t just packing clothes that scared me. It was packing the courage to face the family I abandoned.

With a deep sigh, I stood and opened my closet. One by one, I began folding pieces of myself into a suitcase, jackets, dresses, the few comforts of my Spanish life. Every zipper, every fold, felt like a countdown.

Tomorrow, I’d be home again.

But would it still feel like home?

The day passed in a blur. Before I knew it, I was already standing in Madrid-Barajas Airport, my suitcase rolling quietly beside me. The noise of hurried travelers, the beeping of boarding announcements, the faint smell of coffee from nearby kiosks and all of it felt oddly distant, as though I was moving in slow motion.

I had traveled before, fashion events, business meetings, trade shows but this trip was different. This wasn’t about building my career. This was about confronting the very thing I had been running away from.

As I handed over my passport and ticket to the airline staff, a strange heaviness settled in my chest. She smiled politely, stamped my boarding pass, and said, “Buen viaje.” Safe travels.

I nodded, whispering, “Gracias,” though my throat felt tight.

The moment I stepped inside the plane, the scent of recycled air and faint perfume filled my senses. I found my seat by the window, stowed my bag in the overhead compartment, and sat down slowly. My hands gripped the armrest, not because I feared flying, I had done this countless times, but because of where this flight was taking me.

As the plane taxied down the runway, I stared out the window. The city lights of Madrid glimmered in the distance, a city that had become my home, my safe place. My chest tightened as the plane began to accelerate.

This is it.

With a powerful lift, the ground slipped away. Spain grew smaller and smaller beneath me, until all I could see was darkness and scattered lights like stars below.

I leaned my head against the window, closing my eyes.

And then the memories came.

Papa at the dinner table, telling me with that stern voice: “Anak, walang saysay ang fashion. Hindi ka mabubuhay d’yan.”

Me, storming out of the room, Mama quietly following, whispering, “Give him time, anak. He’ll understand someday.”

But he never did. At least, not before I left.

Tears pricked my eyes, and I quickly blinked them away. I hated crying in public, even here in the dim cabin where strangers slept around me.

Hours passed, but sleep wouldn’t come. My thoughts kept me awake. What if I was too late? What if I came back only to stand beside his hospital bed, regretting every year I wasted in silence?

I hugged the thin airline blanket around me, curling closer to the window as the plane hummed through the night. The sky outside was endless, a deep abyss of stars and clouds. For the first time in years, I felt small, so small compared to the weight of what awaited me.

I whispered to myself, almost like a prayer, “Please, Papa… please hold on.”

And as the plane carried me across oceans back to the Philippines, I realized… it wasn’t just the distance I had to cross. It was the wall I had built between me and the man who raised me.

The long hours in the air dragged on, and when the captain’s voice finally announced our descent into Manila, my stomach clenched.

I pressed my forehead against the small oval window, staring at the clusters of lights below. Manila. My home. Or at least, it used to be.

As soon as the plane touched down, the familiar jolt made my heart race. Everyone hurried to unbuckle seatbelts, reaching for luggage. I stayed still for a moment, gripping the armrest. This is real now, I told myself. No turning back.

The moment I stepped out of the airport doors, a wave of hot, humid air hit me. The heavy Manila scent part city smog, part sea breeze wrapped around me, so different from Spain’s cool evenings. My skin instantly grew sticky, and I had to pull my jacket off.

“Ma’am, taxi?”

“Grab po, dito lang.”

The noise was overwhelming voices overlapping, car horns blaring, families calling out greetings as balikbayans came out of arrivals. For five years, I had forgotten how loud Manila could be.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I tried weaving through the crowd. That’s when it happened.

Thud!

I stumbled back, my suitcase nearly toppling over as I bumped into someone. Papers scattered onto the ground.

“Ay, sorry!” sabay naming dalawa.

I looked up and froze.

He was tall, wearing a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, his dark eyes sharp but startled at the same time. His brows furrowed as he crouched down to pick up the documents he dropped. I quickly bent down to help, our hands brushing against the same folder.

His eyes flicked to mine, and for a split second, something in my chest stirred, a strange familiarity I couldn’t quite place.

“No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t looking,” I said softly, handing him a paper.

He gave a small smile, polite but distant. “No harm done.” Then, as quickly as he appeared, he straightened up, tucked the papers under his arm, and disappeared into the crowd.

I stood there for a moment, my pulse oddly quickened. Who was that?

But I shook my head, pulling my suitcase upright. I had no time for distractions. Not now. Not when Papa was waiting… or worse, maybe not waiting at all.

With a deep breath, I stepped into the swarm of Manila traffic, my heart pounding as the driver loaded my bag into the trunk. Every meter we moved away from the airport felt like stepping closer to a past I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.