More Than The Marriage (English)

My arms were crossed as I looked out the window. Traffic was crawling across EDSA. The headlights looked like ribbons of red and white, stretching into the dark. Against the office glass, the city was just a blur of neon colors.

The lights flickered through the blinds, scattering fractured patterns across my desk. Christmas was fast approaching, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't feel a thing. Day bled into night, and night blurred into day. A routine that felt like a cage.

Wake, work, go home. Over and over. Relentless.

I couldn’t stop. Because if I did, the past might return... that feeling of being incomplete. Those days when I had to remind myself that I wasn't enough. Since then, every move I made became a silent scream: I can do this. One day, I’ll finally be enough.

But in the deepest corner of my mind, a whisper wouldn't go away: What if, even then... I'm still not?

The intercom snapped me out of it.

"Aya, it’s already 6:00 p.m. Would you like me to order dinner for you?" Lana’s tone was cautious.

I straightened my papers and closed my laptop. "No, I'll just eat at home. You can go ahead, Lana. Thanks."

As I left the building, I felt the heavy weight of exhaustion. The guard gave a slight nod as I passed. It was only when I sat in my car that I finally breathed deeply. My hands rested on the steering wheel, eyes lingering on the empty space ahead. I grabbed the envelope from the dashboard, tucked it into my laptop bag, and finally drove home.

When I arrived, I was immediately greeted by the scent of beef stew and Belen’s voice.

"Good evening, hija. We prepared dinner because Zed arrived."

I almost dropped my bag. "Zed... is here?"

"Yes. He’s been here since five o’clock. He said he needed to review something near the plant. He’s upstairs now."

I nodded, but my heart started drumming with a frantic nervousness. Zed never stayed here. He was always at his penthouse in Makati. Far from here... far from everything I fought to consider home.

Why now?

"I'll just go change," I forced a smile.

I walked quickly upstairs, but I stopped halfway. There you go again, Aya... longing. When I opened the door, he was the first thing I saw.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on his legs, sleeves of his white polo rolled up to his elbows. The blue glow of the screen carved sharp lines on his face. Work. Always work.

He looked up for a moment, barely for a second, before returning to his laptop.

"I see you’re home," I said lightly.

"Yes."

One word. But it was better than a simple nod.

I took a quick shower. When I came out, he was still there. Frozen in the same position, eyes locked on the glow.

"I’ll have my dinner. Do you want some coffee?"

He glanced at me quickly, then back to his laptop. "Yes, please. The usual."

"Okay." I smiled faintly before heading down.

While I ate, I opened my emails too. There wee campaign proposals, and client follow-ups, until I could barely taste my food. Afterward, I went straight to the cupboard to brew his drink.

I reached for a mug and put in two spoonfuls of ground coffee. I poured in the boiling water; the scent spread instantly—bitter, strong, but with a warmth like a hug. I stirred it slowly, watching the steam.

No milk, no sugar. Just black. Just like the things we never talk about.

I carefully placed the mug on the tray. I wiped the edges to make sure it was perfect. I climbed the stairs slowly, and when I reached the door, I took a deep breath before opening it.

But suddenly—

"Oh!"

The doorknob hit my hip. The tray tilted, and the hot coffee splashed straight onto my leg. I gasped in pain. The coffee spread across the rug, seeping dark like a wound.

I scrambled to the bathroom and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed down my skin, hissing against the burn. I was breathless, blowing on the scalded skin of my leg.

In the blurry reflection of the mirror, he appeared behind me. Silent. His jaw was clenched, his eyes sharp.

"Why—?" my voice cracked.

He didn't answer. In one swift motion, he swept me up. The world tilted, the scent of faint cologne mixing with bitter steam.

"I didn't mean to—"

"Hush." His tone was low and deliberate. "Don't bring my coffee again. Next time, I'll get it. Or I'll ask Manang."

He placed me back on the bed and returned with a med kit. He knelt in front of me, opened the ointment, and applied it with clinical precision. His touch was cold, but he wouldn't look at me. His attention was held only by the wound.

I bit my lip, gripping the sheets to stop my hands from trembling. When he finished, he closed the cap and walked back to his side of the bed. The warmth vanished with him.

Manang Belen came in, clearly worried. "Aya, that must sting! Are you alright?"

I shook my head and forced a smile. "I'm okay, Belen."

She helped me clean the mess before finally leaving. And then silence returned, heavier than before.

I turned my back to him and buried my face in the pillow. Only then did the tears I’d been holding back finally fall. Another night, another silence. I should have just followed my parents’ wishes. I shouldn't have insisted. It shouldn't have ended like this... a marriage without a name.

I woke up around four in the morning. I cooked his favorite American breakfast and asked Belen to serve it before I went back to bed.

When I opened my eyes again, it was 6:30. He was gone.

While I was getting ready, Belen met me. "Aya, he had quite an appetite earlier," she said, smiling.

I smiled faintly. "That's good to hear."

When I reached the office, Lana met me immediately. "After your lunch meeting, you have an interview for WMN Magazine, Ma’am."

"Okay."

I’m used to interviews: controlled smiles, rehearsed lines, never showing too much. Especially when it comes to my personal life.

No one has to know. Not even the press.

That I’m married to him.