The semester had started to blur—long lectures, fresh faces, and the quiet exhaustion that came with adapting to a new rhythm of life. Cean found herself in the heart of USM's PolSci department, surrounded by passionate debaters, theory-chasers, and activists in the making. It was stimulating… but also isolating.
She sat at a bench near the school chapel, a worn-out book of Philippine constitutional in her lap. The campus was alive with chatter, the scent of kakanin from nearby vendors lingering in the air. Her classmates passed by in groups, planning org meetings, talking about protests, career paths, and policy—yet Cean felt miles away, like a ghost watching someone else's life unfold.
She checked her phone.
Still nothing.
It had been months since Yuan last messaged.
She could still see his name in her inbox. No reply under her last message: "Good luck on your exam! I know you've got this." Sent three weeks ago. Delivered. Never opened.
Her heart tugged—not in anger, but in that quiet ache that comes with unspoken rejection. Cean had always told herself not to expect anything. Not from someone with a past like Yuan's. Not from someone who didn't even call it love.
Still, she missed him. Desperately.
Cean stood, slipping her book into her tote bag. She wandered toward the university's open grounds, past the students practicing speeches and the couples tucked under trees. She used to imagine herself here with Yuan—hand in hand, teasing him for being too serious, watching the sunset together.
But that was before. Before no contact. Before she learned what distance did to something that was never official to begin with.
-
Yuan's life had changed too.
The shift of course was difficult, but necessary. Engineering gave him the structure and challenge he craved, something Accountancy hadn't. His new schedule was brutal, but manageable. He liked his blockmates, especially Neo and Raphael, who shared his dark humor and caffeine addiction. Prudence, kind and sharp, often helped him with reports, teasing him about being "the mysterious type who never dates."
But no one really knew about Cean.
No one knew he still wore the silver ring under his shirt, hidden beneath his shirt.
No one knew that he still scrolled back to old conversations late at night, hovering over the "typing..." bubble before locking his phone again.
Sometimes he blamed himself. Other times, he told himself that this was the mature thing to do—to focus, to build his future, to avoid giving false hope. Cean deserved someone consistent, someone whole. And he… he wasn't sure he was ready.
But ready or not, she still filled his thoughts. Especially when he passed red and blue flags on campus—reminders of their favorite colors. Hers, soft and deep like the sea. His, bold and loud, like the courage he never quite found when it came to her.
-
Their birthdays came and went in silence. Cean posted a poem on her private story, the kind that spoke of longing without names. Yuan didn't see it. He was tagged in a group photo by Prudence that day—smiling, surrounded by friends. But Cean didn't open the post. She just sent a quiet, unposted "happy birthday" to her drafts and let it rot there.
Sky tried, of course. Being Yuan's cousin and Cean's friend made her the unintentional bridge, and sometimes the unwilling witness.
"He's just… busy, Cean. He talks about you sometimes, but you know him—he overthinks everything."
Cean gave a sad smile. "He could've just said that himself."
"You're not easy either," Sky added gently. "You shut down when you're hurt."
"I know."
They were both flawed—broken in their own ways. Cean, with her disorganized attachment, always testing the waters between needing and pushing away. Yuan, with his avoidant tendencies, mistaking silence for safety.
-
One night, Cean dreamt of him.
They were in high school again—walking under the acacia trees near the MSU oval. She was wearing her blue hoodie, he was in red. They weren't saying much, just walking, close enough for their fingers to almost touch.
She reached out.
He pulled away.
She woke up with tears she didn't understand, clutching the ring box she never returned after buying his gift. It still had his name, etched in silver ink.
-
At UM, Yuan stared at his phone.
The group chat was buzzing—Neo and Raphael debating over an engineering joke he barely followed. But all Yuan could think about was Cean's birthday, just a few days ago. He remembered it without checking. He always would.
He opened her profile. Typed.
"Happy birthday, Cean. I hope you're doing well."
He stared at the message. Then deleted it.
His thumb hovered again.
"Sorry I've been distant."
Deleted again.
Eventually, he turned off the screen and whispered a prayer under his breath.
But even prayers sometimes felt too quiet for a heart that didn't know how to speak.
Somewhere between red and blue, they were losing each other.
Not in a dramatic, stormy way. But in the quietest, most painful way possible.
By doing nothing at all.
'_'