Chapter 10

- Migs' POV - 

My phone buzzed on the bedside table, that annoying, insistent little vibration that always managed to cut through the fragile quiet of the early morning, dragging me from the hazy edges of sleep.

I fumbled for it blindly, expecting a curt text from my demanding agent or perhaps a last-minute reminder for some ridiculously early call time on set.

Instead, the stark white screen showed a message from Ari. Just his name. And then: "Can we talk? I'm in BGC."

A weird, almost electric jolt went through me, snapping me fully awake. Manila? He hadn't mentioned anything about coming back to the city. A knot of something tight and unfamiliar, a strange blend of unease and a flicker of something akin to… alarm, twisted in my stomach. What was this about? His texts were usually so easygoing, so casually friendly.

This felt different, almost… serious. And why the weeks of radio silence after my last, admittedly perfunctory, message?

I stared at the screen for a long beat, a sense of not quite dread, but definitely a profound unease, settling in like a cold weight. This wasn't just a casual "hey, let's grab coffee." This felt like something else entirely.

Finally, I forced myself to type back a reply, trying to keep my tone light and nonchalant but feeling distinctly off-balance: "Yeah, sure. Where are you?"

His reply came back almost instantaneously, quick and direct, almost too quick: "Near your condo. Can we meet at that coffee place we used to go to."

Used to.

The way he phrased it hung there in the digital space between us, a subtle but undeniable shift in the familiar dynamic, even just in text. That specific coffee shop in BGC… it held a shared history, a collection of quiet mornings, hushed conversations over steaming cups, a comfortable, unspoken kind of… understanding.

Why that particular place? Why now, after all this silence?

A nervous, almost agitated energy started buzzing under my skin as I threw on some clothes, the simple act of getting dressed feeling rushed and clumsy. The usual, automatic morning routine felt strangely disrupted. Something felt undeniably significant about this unexpected request.

The familiar coffee shop in BGC was practically deserted when I finally arrived, the soft, early morning light casting long, skeletal shadows across the empty tables. I spotted him almost immediately, not in our usual corner booth, but at a smaller table near the window. As I approached, he subtly shifted, moving to a different, more secluded table in the back, his back now facing the rest of the store. It was a deliberate move, an unspoken request for privacy I understood immediately, a silent shield against any curious onlookers.

He was holding a steaming coffee mug with both hands, as if trying to absorb its fragile warmth. He looked… still. Too still, an uncharacteristic lack of the usual vibrant energy that always seemed to radiate from him. There was a new set to his shoulders, a quiet tension in the way he held himself.

"Hey," I said, my voice a little too loud in the quiet of the coffee shop, trying to sound normal, like I was just surprised to see him. "Didn't know you were back in town. And uh… everything okay? Why didn't you text back?"

Internally, a knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. His stillness, the deliberate choice of table, the unreturned messages – it all pointed to something significant, something I wasn't sure I was ready to face.

He turned slowly. His eyes looked different, more direct than before, but there was a new weight in them, a quiet strength I hadn't seen before. There was a subtle tremor in his lower lip, a fleeting vulnerability that belied the determined set of his jaw. 

"I… I came back to talk to you, Miguel." His voice was steady, but using my full name, which he rarely did, felt like a small warning, making me even more uneasy. It made the hairs on my neck stand up a little.

He paused as the barista called out, "Order for Ari?"

He nodded, a small, formal movement. He carefully placed his mug on the worn wooden table and walked to the counter, picking up a wrapped ensaymada before coming back to our table. He unwrapped it slowly, deliberately, the sweet, cheesy smell filling the small space between us. He picked up a small fork from the table and began to gently poke at the pastry, a repetitive, almost unconscious motion.

I knew he sometimes did this when he was nervous or scared, fiddling with food but never actually eating it while trying to have a difficult conversation. His gaze was fixed on the ensaymada, avoiding mine, a clear sign of his internal struggle.

"About what?" I asked, a tight feeling of worry in my chest. This wasn't going to be the easy, casual chat I'd hoped for. My mind raced, trying to anticipate what this could be about.

He took a slow, deep breath, finally looking straight at me. His eyes held a complex mix of emotions – a lingering sadness, a hint of resolve, and something else, something akin to… closure? The silence between us felt thick with all the things we hadn't said, all the feelings we hadn't acknowledged for so long. My own heart started to pound a little faster, a sense of impending confrontation settling in.

"About… about us, Migs," he finally said, the words feeling like they were being pulled out of him, each one carrying a weight I hadn't expected.

His voice was low and even, but there was a quiet shaking underneath, a strong feeling that spoke volumes about the internal battle he was waging.

"About… about what's been happening… and what… what needs to stop."

A wave of defensiveness went through me, an automatic reaction to the serious tone in his voice. In my mind, everything was… fine. We were friends. Good friends. My palms felt suddenly sweaty.

"What about us? We're friends." The words felt flimsy, a weak shield against the intensity of his gaze.

The word sounded weak and unconvincing even as it left my lips, a poor attempt to hide from the truth in his eyes, a truth I had always conveniently ignored.

"No, Migs," he said, his voice firm but still a little hesitant, like each word he chose was a small act of bravery, stepping into unfamiliar territory. His fingers tightened slightly on the ensaymada. "We're… we're not just friends. Not… not for me. And… and you know that, deep down, you've always known that."

His directness was like a punch to the gut, shattering the carefully constructed wall of denial I had lived behind for so long. Internally, a storm of conflicting emotions – guilt, a flicker of regret, and a confusing sense of loss – began to brew.

The directness of what he said caught me off guard, stripping away the comfortable lies I'd built up. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, my back still turned slightly away from the other people in the coffee shop, a basic instinct to avoid any unwanted attention, a lifetime habit of shielding my personal life from the public eye.

"Look, I… I care about you, man. You know that." The words felt inadequate, hollow, a pathetic attempt to deflect the weight of his confession, to minimize the depth of his feelings.

The words sounded hollow, weak, a pathetic attempt to avoid the weight of his confession. My mind was racing, searching for a way to diffuse this, to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping for a quick, painful second before looking back at me with a new, determined strength, a visible effort in his usually expressive face.

"Caring… caring isn't this," he said, his voice filled with a quiet pain that finally, undeniably broke through my self-absorption, a pain that mirrored the unsettling ache that had begun to surface within me in recent weeks. "Caring isn't… isn't showing up late at night, hiding your face like some secret meeting, for a quick moment of physical comfort, and then… and then disappearing again into the easy anonymity of your own life. Caring isn't… isn't offering little bits of affection, a casual text now and then, and then… leaving me waiting, always waiting, for more. And… and to finally answer your question, Migs, I didn't reply to your messages because… because I needed space. Real space. Space… to finally see things clearly, without… without the constant, deafening noise of my own persistent hope." 

His words were like a physical blow, each syllable landing with the weight of unspoken truths. A cold dread washed over me as I began to truly grasp the depth of his hurt, the years of unspoken longing I had so carelessly ignored.

The carefully chosen words hit me harder than I expected, shattering the comfortable lie of our unbalanced relationship. The casualness I'd always used as a shield suddenly felt weak and useless against the raw honesty in his eyes. I could see the effort it took for him to say these long-held feelings, the vulnerability clear in his hesitant delivery, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. My own internal defenses began to crumble.

"I… I didn't realize…" I started, the smooth words of the practiced Miguel Montemayor stumbling and failing me, the carefully constructed façade of effortless charm cracking under the weight of his pain.

"Of course… of course you didn't," he interrupted gently, a sad, almost resigned smile touching the corners of his lips. He continued to gently poke at the ensaymada with the fork, the tines now creating small indentations in the soft pastry. His eyes held a weariness that tugged at something unfamiliar within me. "Because… because you never had to realize. I was always there. Always… understanding. Always willing to accept… whatever small offering you were willing to give."

The weight of his quiet acceptance, the unwavering support I had so often carelessly taken for granted, suddenly felt heavy, an uncomfortable truth. The image of him at his successful art show, his face full of genuine joy, flashed through my mind, a painful reminder of my own self-absorbed absence. A wave of guilt washed over me, sharp and unexpected.

"I never meant to hurt you, Ari," I mumbled, the words sounding empty and inadequate in the face of his quiet pain, a pathetic attempt to absolve myself.

"Maybe… maybe not intentionally," he conceded softly, his voice barely a whisper. "But… but the effect is the same, Migs. Your casualness… your consistent lack of real commitment… it's been hurtful. It's… it's made me feel invisible. Like… like my feelings, my very being, didn't truly matter." 

The quiet resignation in his voice sent a chill down my spine. Was this really the Ari I knew? The one who always forgave, always understood?

The raw, honest emotion in his voice was deeply unsettling, forcing me to face a reality I had always conveniently ignored, a truth reflected in the steady intensity of his gaze. The quick image of him with another man in the Photogram photo flickered in my mind, a sharp, unfamiliar pang of something I couldn't quite name – a sense of… loss?

"I… I don't know what to say," I admitted, the carefully constructed Miguel Montemayor image breaking down a little, revealing a raw, uncomfortable vulnerability underneath. The practiced charm, the easy words, all seemed to have deserted me.

"Say nothing," he said, his voice softening slightly, though his gaze remained firm, despite the almost unnoticeable shaking in his hands. "Just listen. I came here to tell you… to finally say how I feel. How your actions have consistently made me feel. Not because… not because I expect anything to magically change. Not anymore."

There was a profound sadness in his eyes, but also a newfound strength, a quiet determination to reclaim his own narrative.

He paused, taking another slow, deep breath, his gaze flicking away for a moment, as if gathering strength, before looking back at me, a clear effort to keep his composure. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"I… I loved you, Migs. For a long time. In a way… in a way that you were never truly able to return. And… and I've finally, finally accepted that painful truth. This… this is me saying it. Laying it all out in the open. Not as a desperate plea for your affection, but as a simple, undeniable truth. My truth. And maybe… just maybe… finally speaking these words aloud will allow me to truly begin to move on, to create space for someone who can see me, truly see me, in the way I've always longed to be seen."

The finality in his voice was like a closing door, a clear indication that this chapter was ending. A cold wave of something akin to panic washed over me. Was I really losing him?

The weight of his heartfelt confession hung heavy in the air between us, thick with unspoken years of longing and quiet resignation. The casual ease I had always shown now felt like a cheap, poor imitation of real human connection. A profound sense of unease settled deep within me.

"I… Ari…" I stammered, still struggling to find the right words, the appropriate response, a way to smooth over this raw, uncomfortable truth, to somehow make things go back to the comfortable, though deeply unbalanced, way they had always been. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion and a dawning, unwelcome realization.

He held up a hand, stopping my clumsy attempt to reply, a small, almost tired smile touching his lips. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"It's okay, Migs. You don't need to say anything. I just needed you to hear it. To finally understand the depth of what… what was there, on my side. And what wasn't, on yours." He managed another small, sad smile, a poignant farewell on his face. "Now, I really do need to go. I have a flight to catch."

He stood up, his movements showing a newfound purpose, a quiet dignity I hadn't seen before. He picked up his empty coffee mug.

"Thank you for meeting me," he said, his gaze holding mine for a final, lingering moment.

There was a deep sadness in his expressive eyes, tears seeming to loom just beneath the surface, a clear sign of lingering hurt, but also a quiet, undeniable strength, a sense of resolute finality that sent a shiver of unexpected unease down my spine. A cold dread settled in my stomach.

Then, he turned and walked away, heading towards the exit of the quiet coffee shop. 

Just as Ari reached the door, a woman at one of the other tables gasped, her eyes widening in recognition. "Wait… Miguel Montemayor? Oh my gosh, it is you!"

My initial instinct was to follow Ari, to call his name, to somehow stop the undeniable finality of his departure. But the practiced reflex of a public figure kicked in, a lifetime of managing my image taking over. I plastered on my most charming public smile, the practiced ease clicking back into place like a well-oiled machine. 

"Good morning," I said smoothly, turning to face the enthusiastic fan.

She rushed over, phone already in hand, her excitement obvious. "Can I… can I possibly get a picture? I'm such a huge fan! My sister will absolutely die!"

At the doorway, Ari paused, a faint, almost unnoticeable sigh escaping his lips. He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine for one last, lingering moment across the small space. There was a profound sadness in his gaze, a quiet farewell that resonated deep within me, before he finally stepped out onto the busy street, disappearing into the morning bustle.

"Of course," I said, my smile widening for the obligatory selfie, my eyes still fixed on the empty doorway where Ari had just stood.

As I posed, arm casually around the beaming fan, my mind was a chaotic mess of confusion and a dawning, unsettling realization. His heartfelt words, his quiet pain, the clear effort it took for him to finally say his truth, the undeniable finality in his eyes… it all swirled within me, a stark and jarring contrast to the practiced ease of my public persona. The camera flashed, capturing a moment of manufactured charm.

"Thank you so much!" the woman gushed, hurrying back to her table, clutching her phone like a precious treasure. I watched her go, my smile still firmly in place, but the hollowness behind it felt more profound, more unsettling than ever before.

What just happened in that quiet corner table, just a few blocks from my comfortable life?

And why did it suddenly feel like the credits were starting to roll on a long-running movie I hadn't even fully realized I was starring in, and I was no longer the unquestioned lead?