Chapter 3

May mga bagay na hindi mo sinasabi—not because they aren’t real, and definitely not because they don’t matter, but because the moment you give them a voice, you lose the ability to control what comes after. Words have a way of making things permanent, of turning something you can still deny into something you’re forced to face.

And right now, standing just a few steps away from Adrian Del Rosario, I could feel every unsaid word pressing in on us, filling the space between us with a tension that was too heavy to ignore but too dangerous to acknowledge.

“You shouldn’t have said that.”

His voice was low, controlled in a way that almost sounded effortless, but there was something underneath it—something restrained, something dangerously close to slipping through the cracks of his composure. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even a disappointment. It was something far more complicated than that.

I folded my arms slowly, more as a way to ground myself than to put up any kind of defense. I needed something—anything—to keep me steady, because the way he was looking at me felt like it was pulling something out of me that I wasn’t ready to confront.

“Said what?” I asked, even though I already knew exactly what he meant.

“Last night.”

Of course.

There was no pretending we could move past that. Not after the way everything shifted in that single moment. The air between us grew heavier, quieter, like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see who would break first.

I held his gaze, forcing myself not to look away this time, even when every instinct in me told me to.

“That doesn’t change anything,” I said, my voice softer now, but still steady enough to sound like I believed it.

He didn’t respond right away. He just looked at me.

And there was something about the way he did it—too focused, too intent—that made it feel like he wasn’t just listening to what I said, but to everything I was trying not to say.

“No,” he said finally, his voice even, almost calm. “It complicates everything.”

Something in me tightened at that. Not because he was wrong—because he wasn’t.

But because it sounded like he was trying to reduce everything into something manageable, something logical, something that could still be controlled if we just… chose to stop.

“Then why are you here?” I asked, my voice quieter now, but sharper, more honest than I intended.

If this was something that shouldn’t exist—if this was something we both needed to avoid—then why did it feel like he was the one stepping closer to it instead of away?

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved. Just one step forward.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. But it was enough. Enough to close the distance just slightly, enough to make me aware of him in a way that felt impossible to ignore—the quiet presence, the subtle warmth, the way the space between us suddenly felt smaller than it should.

“Because you don’t look like someone who’s okay with this,” he said, his voice lower now, softer in a way that felt more dangerous than anything else he had said.

My chest tightened at that.

“And what if I’m not?” I asked, holding his gaze, refusing to let him be the only one in control of this moment.

Something flickered in his expression—quick, almost unnoticeable, but real.

“Then you should stop.” A quiet laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, soft and empty, the kind that carried more frustration than humor. “Hindi ganun kadali.”

“It should be.”

“It’s not.”

The words came out heavier this time, more honest than I planned, because the truth was—I didn’t know how to stop something I didn’t even realize had already started.

This wasn’t just about the engagement anymore.This wasn’t just about expectations, or family, or doing what was right.

There was something else now. Something unplanned. Unwanted.

And yet—undeniably there.

“You’re going to marry my brother,” he said again, his voice steadier now, like he was reminding both of us of something we couldn’t afford to forget.

“I know.”

“Then act like it.”

That hit harder than it should have. Not because it was harsh—but because it was true.

I lifted my gaze to meet him fully this time, letting whatever I had been holding back surface just enough to be seen.

“Maybe I would,” I said slowly, my voice quieter but more certain, “if you stopped looking at me like that.”

The moment the words left me, something shifted.

It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t dramatic. But I felt it.

That small, almost imperceptible crack in his control.

“Like what?” he asked, his voice softer now, but carrying more weight than before.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second.

Because answering that meant admitting something I wasn’t ready to admit—not to him, not even to myself. But I said it anyway.

“Like you already know how this ends.”

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Unavoidable.

He didn’t respond immediately. He just stood there, looking at me like he was weighing something, like he was deciding whether to step back and end it here—or step forward and make everything worse.

And then—he stepped closer.

Closer than before. Close enough that I could feel it—not just the physical distance disappearing, but the line between what was safe and what wasn’t beginning to blur.

“And how does it end?” he asked quietly.

My breath caught in my throat. Because I didn’t have an answer. Because I didn’t want one.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice softer now, more vulnerable than anything I had allowed him to hear before.

And that was the truth that scared me the most. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

I didn’t know what the right choice was. I didn’t know if I even wanted to choose the right one.

All I knew was—this felt wrong. And somehow it also felt like the only thing that was real.

He watched me for a long moment, his gaze steady, searching, like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have control over.

Then he exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, the movement subtle but telling—like he was trying to pull himself back from something he had already stepped too close to.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” he said, his voice tighter now, less controlled.

“Then explain it to me,” I replied, the words coming out before I could stop them, sharper than I intended.

Another step. Closer. Too close.

“Because if I do,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher, stripped of the control he had been holding onto since the beginning, “I won’t be able to stop.”

Everything in me stilled. The air. The noise. Even my own thoughts seemed to fall silent at that.

Because that wasn’t careful. That wasn’t controlled. That was honest. And honesty, right now, felt like the most dangerous thing in the world.

“This is wrong,” I whispered, even as I didn’t move away.

“I know.”

“Then why does it feel like—”

I stopped myself. The words sat at the edge of my lips, too real, too revealing, too much.

“Like what?” he pressed, his voice softer now, but more intense.

I shook my head, stepping back this time, creating distance before I lost it completely.

“Nothing.”

But we both knew—it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

And the more we refused to say it out loud—the more real it became.