We didn't shout. Andre and I never exploded—we eroded.
Our arguments started quiet. Cold. Surgical. Almost academic. Like: "You're projecting."
"That's a story you're telling yourself."
"I think you're dysregulated, let's pause this."
Words meant to soothe, but they cut. And I knew how to cut back. "You intellectualize every emotion like it's a case file."
"You're not calm—you're disconnected."
"I don't need a therapist, I need a partner."
Fire and ice. That's what we were. One of us would light the match, and the other would freeze. Neither of us wanted to hurt the other. But neither of us knew how to not hurt, either.
It was a Tuesday when it got really bad. We were supposed to meet for dinner after my panel talk—a big one. I'd just spoken in front of 600 people. I'd gotten a standing ovation. They called me "a force," again.
But I wasn't glowing when I arrived at the restaurant—I was unraveling. I needed him to say, You were brilliant, I'm proud, you're not too much. Instead, he looked at me and said, "You seemed… tense up there."
That was it. That was the thing that cracked me open. "Tense?" I repeated. "That's your takeaway?"
He leaned back. Calm. Detached. "I'm just being honest."
And that's when it started. The unraveling. I accused him of being unsupportive. Emotionally passive. Afraid of women with power. He accused me of being reactive. Demanding. Needing applause like oxygen.
The worst part? We were both right. But we didn't admit it. We just traded truths like grenades. Pulled the pin, handed it over.
That night, we lay in bed—backs to each other. Not touching. Not speaking. Two people who knew all the terms. All the frameworks. All the roots of our pain.
But knowledge doesn't make you kind. Insight doesn't make you safe. Andre and I were trying so hard to be conscious that we forgot to be human. And underneath all the strategies and mindfulness and journaling… We were just two scared kids still hoping someone would stay through the storm.
The next morning, we went through the motions. Coffee, brushing teeth, small talk like nothing had shattered. I told him I had a meeting. He said, "Good luck today," but didn't look up from his phone.
When I walked out the door, I realized I wasn't just leaving for work—I was testing if he'd follow. If he'd call. If he'd notice the shift. He didn't.
Later that week, we had a check-in, like we always did. Sat across from each other with journals open, like it was therapy. He said, "We're both trying, right?" I nodded. I meant it. But I didn't feel it.
Trying had started to feel like pretending. Like we were maintaining a relationship that looked great on paper but felt hollow in practice.
"We have all the tools," he said, almost desperate. "Why isn't it working?"
I didn't have the heart to say it out loud: Because love isn't a system to be optimized. Because some wounds don't want to be analyzed—they want to be held.
We had built a fortress of understanding and then forgot how to let each other in.
I remember the last time he held me—it was after another fight. I had apologized too fast, and he had forgiven too easily. We were both exhausted. He wrapped his arms around me and whispered, "I just want peace."
And I did too. But peace had begun to feel like distance.
Sometimes you realize that not every good man is your man. That just because someone speaks your language doesn't mean they know how to hear your heart.
Andre and I didn't break up in a blaze. We just stopped reaching.
Stopped asking each other, "Are you okay?" and started assuming the answer was fine.
Stopped sending voice notes and replaced them with emojis. Stopped kissing good morning. Stopped saying good night.
One day I looked around and realized—I was lonely in the most well-structured relationship I'd ever been in.
And that kind of loneliness… It's a quiet grief.
I finally said it. "I think we're done." He looked down. Exhaled. "I think we are too."
No screaming. No slamming doors. Just the sound of two people surrendering.
He hugged me tightly, like someone who truly wanted the best for me. And maybe he did.
We didn't fail. We just outgrew the version of ourselves that thought healing alone was enough.
I walked home under another Manila rain. And this time, I didn't cry.
Because fire and ice are beautiful in poems. But they can't build a home.
Later that evening, I lit a candle and sat on my living room floor. I opened the notebook Andre had once gifted me—a soft leather-bound one I'd never dared to write in. For the first time, I picked up my pen.
"What does it mean to be held without freezing? Loved without burning?"
I didn't answer it. Not yet. But writing it felt like planting something.
The rain tapped against the window like fingers keeping time.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt a calm that wasn't silent. It was alive.
There would be more loves. Maybe messier ones. Maybe quieter ones. But for now, I let the candle burn.
Not to mourn. But to honor what we tried to build. And to light the way back to myself.