before the city changes
What I’ve learned recently is that love is quiet and obscure. It rarely arrives looking like love—it isn’t loud, it isn’t familiar, and it’s almost never obvious. Sometimes, you’re already drowning in it before you even realize you’ve stepped into the water.
Love doesn’t obey rules. But then again, what are rules anyway? Love isn’t neat or typical. That’s what these past three years have taught me.
There’s this guy at work. Three years in the same office, three years of him. On my very first week, I looked at him, smirked, and joked, “Crush mo ’ko, ’no?” (You have a crush on me, don't you?) I’m a bit crazy, I know.
And just like that, we became a package deal.
Every break time, we were together. Wherever I went, he was right there behind me. Everyday, he’d wander over to my desk just to kill time—or maybe, just maybe, because he wanted to see me. Whenever one of us was spotted alone, people would tease, “Asan na asawa mo?” (Where's your spouse?) We were this unspoken, unofficial pair that everyone just accepted. Every time they teased us, we’d just look at each other and laugh it off.
But here’s the catch. He’s married, with a young kid.
So I kept my distance. I kept him strictly in the box of a close coworker, maybe a very close friend. Because I knew—I knew—that’s the only place we could ever safely exist. Maybe I’m a romantic deep down, but above all else, I am a realist.
Days bled into months, and months turned into years. Still just friends. He’d tag along every time I went down for a quick smoke break. We’d laugh at the stupidest things, whisper about office drama, and share whatever random snacks I brought from home. If I asked him for a favor, he’d do it without a second thought—loyal, gentle, and eager, like a golden retriever I somehow managed to tame.
Then, the cracks in his life started to show. Things with his wife grew shaky, until they eventually separated. But legally? They’re still bound.
He never directly told me at first, but the subtle hints were there, heavy in the air. Being as intuitive as I am, I caught every single one. Yet, even as his world was falling apart, my mind stayed resolute: Even if they aren’t together anymore, there is no “us.” There never will be.
So I played it cool. I acted normal. No pushing, no reaching, no asking for more. Just ordinary days passing by.
Until the day we finally broke. We had a fight—an ugly one. He said things that hurt, and I made sure to throw my own sharp words right back.
Silence followed for days.
When we’d cross paths in the hallway, one of us would take a sudden detour or stare intently at the floor, pretending the other didn’t exist. People started asking why the inseparable pair was suddenly walking alone. We ate lunch at different tables, with different crowds. I’ll admit it—I can be cold. I held onto my pride. But mutual friends told me he was taking it hard. He was skipping meals. He stopped smiling when people greeted him. He buried himself in his work, using deadlines as a shield. And whenever my name came up? He’d just shrug and stare into space, as if he hadn't heard a word.
On a random, quiet night, my pride finally cracked. I let go of my ego, picked up my phone, and typed two simple words:
“Sorry na.” (I'm sorry)
The next morning, his reply came:
“I miss you.”
And slowly, painfully, the world tilted back on its axis. Things went back to the way they were.
...But what he doesn't know is that I’m resigning this month.
I’m packing up my life and moving to a different city.
So, to my... whatever you were. My favorite complication. My nameless totga in another universe.
Thank you for the three years.
Ingat ka palagi, bro
(Take care always, bro)