I Broke Up with Reality on a Tuesday

I don’t talk about her much anymore. Not because I’ve moved on, but because talking about her feels like stirring ashes and hoping it bubbles up. We met when life still had a pulse. Back when I thought “potential” was something you could actually build a future on, not just an excuse for being broke. She had that quiet kind of beauty, not the type that announces itself, but the one that slowly rewires your attention span. I remember she used to complain about my phone addiction when all I really ever did was look at our photos. We’d go to 7-Eleven at midnight, sit on the curb eating siopao, pretending we were above everyone else. I’d talk about my “plans”. My business ventures. My side hustles. And half-baked dreams. Then she’d listen like I was pitching her the next great religion. Sometimes she’d laugh mid-bite, choke a little, and then say, “You’re so dramatic,” like it was both an insult and a genuine compliment. She often made ordinary moments feel rehearsed, like the universe was trying its hardest to impress her. But then life happened. Joblessness stretched into years. My ambition started sounding like a broken VHS tape. She started working, and suddenly her texts became shorter, her replies delayed. I didn't blame her. Never did. I mean, I know it’s hard to love a man whose plans keep expiring. When I joined the Navy, she was proud and then said it suited me. “Discipline might fix your brain,” she joked. I laughed. Then she cried. We promised to call every week. That turned into once a month. Then “when there’s signal.” And then never. --- Two years later, her name still sits on my contacts like a landmine. Sometimes, after lights-out, I scroll through old photos: The blurry shots of beaches, her half-smile, me pretending not to pose. I think about messaging her. “Hey.” Just “Hey.” But I never do. You know, pride’s a funny thing. It convinces you silence is dignity when it’s really just fear in uniform. --- Then last week, out of nowhere, she suddenly texted. Her: “Do you still eat pancit canton with eggs?” I stared at it for a full minute, heart doing cardio it hasn’t done in months. What does that mean? Is it just small talk? A breadcrumb? An emotional recall grenade? I wanted to reply instantly. Like, “Yeah. Still my favorite.” But my brain went full analysis mode: assess, interpret, overthink, self-destruct. Does she really miss me? Or. Is she just bored? Did she mean “pancit canton” as in just literal noodles or was it the nostalgia that comes with it? Then I realized, I didn’t actually care. Next thing I know, I was already smiling. Kinikilig parin ako, tangina. That same stupid flutter in the chest that makes no sense but feels like oxygen. I caught myself grinning like an idiot in the galley. The guys beside me asked what happened. I said, “Nothing. Just indigestion.” But really, it was her. That one message, that one sliver of attention after years of silence, and suddenly the ship didn’t feel so heavy. I didn’t reply that night. I just let it sit there, glowing faintly on my screen. Proof that the universe remembered me for a second.