- Ari's POV -
Coming back to Cebu felt like more than just landing in familiar air, the plane cutting through the thick, humid air that always felt like home. It was like a slow, heavy settling inside myself, a quiet that was both deeply familiar and strangely new after the raw honesty of what I'd said in Manila. The busy, loud energy of the capital, the constant honking of taxis and hurried people, had been a strange backdrop to the shaking in my voice, each passing noise a small break from the deep unease inside me. Now, back in the comforting feel of Cebu, the familiar sounds of home – the distant, steady crowing of roosters telling the slow passing of time, the soft, steady hum of the neighbor's old air conditioner fighting the hot weather, the occasional, almost musical chirping of geckos hiding in the shadows – felt quiet, almost as if the volume of my own thoughts had been turned way down.
Instead of automatically going to my studio, my usual safe place where the comforting smell of linseed oil mixed with the hopeful feeling of creating something new, usually calming my nerves and giving me a sense of purpose, my feet seemed to have their own sad idea, carrying me along the familiar, sunny streets towards our family home. The yellow gate, a little rusty at the hinges from years of salty sea air, the bright bougainvillea flowers spilling over the walls in a burst of pink, Elena's carefully tended garden with its bright splashes of color – these were the steady things in my life, the real signs of unchanging love and support. And then, the familiar, comforting smell coming from the open windows – Elena's sinigang cooking on the stove, that perfect, soul-satisfying mix of sour and savory that always felt like a warm, protective hug. Today, though, even that deeply familiar comfort couldn't quite reach the deep ache that had settled inside my chest, a dull, constant weight that didn't seem to want to be comforted.
Elena, her eyes always sharp and knowing, took one look at me as I walked through the familiar doorway – the dark circles under my eyes, the almost unnoticeable droop of my shoulders, the unnatural stillness in my usually lively movements – and her usual bright, welcoming greeting stopped in her throat, replaced by a silent wave of worry. She simply took my hand, her touch warm and firm, a steadying presence in my troubled inner world, and led me to the worn armchair in the living room, the one that had held me through countless childhood colds and teenage heartbreaks, a silent witness to the ups and downs of my life. She pressed a steaming mug of ginger tea, its familiar spicy scent a small, temporary comfort against the lingering cold of my emotional exhaustion, into my trembling hands.
"Ari," she said softly, her gaze filled with a sister's unchanging love, "what happened in Manila? You look… drained. Like you haven't slept in days."
It took a while, the words catching in my throat like stubborn thorns, the story of my meeting with Migs in that quiet Manila coffee shop spilling out in broken pieces, a raw and honest telling of years of unspoken longing, the way his casual, occasional affection had felt like both a weak lifeline and a slow, steady wearing away of my spirit. I didn't hide the image of his uncomprehending eyes, the almost cold finality in his voice as he walked away, the casual dismissal that had echoed the pattern of our entire relationship. Elena listened closely, her gaze steady, her hand occasionally reaching out to squeeze mine, a silent offering of empathy and unchanging support.
"Oh, Ari," she sighed softly when I finally stopped talking, the heavy weight of my long-overdue confession to Migs hanging noticeably in the quiet room, a shared understanding passing between us. "He doesn't know what he's lost. He simply doesn't."
The following days blurred together, a hazy, almost dreamlike time of quiet thinking and a deep lack of motivation. My beloved brushes lay untouched on the familiar studio table, the bright tubes of paint that usually seemed full of the promise of creation suddenly looking dull and lifeless, their colorful appeal inexplicably faded. The restless flow of creative energy that usually surged within me had simply… vanished, replaced by a tired emptiness that clung to me like the ever-present humid Cebu air. Sleep didn't offer much real escape, my dreams often going back to broken bits of my conversation with Migs, his handsome, unaware face a constant, unwelcome presence behind my closed eyelids, a stubborn ghost refusing to be fully gone.
Amidst this quiet inner storm, Vincent's messages were a steady, gentle lifeline, a small light in the surrounding darkness. He didn't push, didn't ask for reasons for my sudden, unannounced return or my silence afterwards. His texts were simple, thoughtful check-ins that acknowledged my unspoken struggle, his quiet understanding a comforting balm.
Vincent: "How are you doing today, Ari? Sending you some virtual sunshine."
Vincent: "Just wanted to let you know I'm thinking of you. Hope you're finding some small peace in the familiar comforts of home."
His consistent understanding was a quiet but powerful comfort, a strong and welcome contrast to the echoing silence that had come from Manila after my heartfelt confession.
Then, one evening, a message from Vincent arrived that felt different, a subtle but undeniable hint of something beyond the immediate pain of loss.
Vincent: "Ari, I wanted to share something with you that I think you might find interesting. Remember how we talked about wanting to broaden your reach, to explore new artistic horizons? A very well-respected gallery in Seoul, Gallery Han, is looking to commission several international artists for a large exhibition they're planning for next year. It's a big project, and they're thinking of a year-long partnership, with the chosen artists traveling to Korea to create their commissioned pieces there, fully immersed in the rich culture, ending with a grand opening event. It's a significant opportunity, Ari. A real chance to take your career to a whole new global level."
My first reaction was a numb lack of interest, the idea feeling distant and unreal. Korea felt like another planet, a world away from the familiar ache in my chest and the comforting familiarity of Cebu. But Vincent, with his quiet persistence and unwavering belief in my talent, followed up with more convincing details.
Vincent: "They're very selective, of course, but your portfolio really impressed them. They're specifically looking for artists with a unique and powerful voice, and yours definitely stood out among a very competitive group."
Over the next few days, almost against my own lack of energy, I found myself idly looking up Gallery Han, the sleek, modern spaces shown on their website displaying powerful, moving art that stirred something deep within me, a faint echo of the creative spark I had feared had gone out. The idea of completely uprooting myself, of immersing myself in a vibrant, unfamiliar culture where Migs' name meant nothing, where our shared past had no importance, began to tentatively take root in the empty space of my grief, a fragile seedling of unexpected hope. I finally confided in Bea and Marco, needing their familiar, unwavering support.
Ari: "Hey guys, Vincent told me about this… kind of crazy opportunity in Korea. A year-long commission with a gallery in Seoul."
Bea: "Korea?! Ari, that's absolutely amazing! You have to go for it! This is huge!"
Marco: "Imagine the artistic inspiration! New sights, new sounds, new smells… maybe even some incredibly handsome Korean art enthusiasts with discerning taste?"
Ari: "I don't know… it feels so far away. So… drastic."
Bea: "But think about it, Ari. A whole year completely focused on your art, a true fresh start in a completely new environment. Isn't that exactly what you need right now? A clean break?" Her usual playful tone held a note of real, heartfelt concern.
Marco: "Exactly! A clean slate! A chance to reinvent, to rediscover. Plus, think of the incredible stories you'll come back with. And who knows who you might meet along the way?"
I also talked to Elena, her initial excitement mixed with a sister's natural worry and protectiveness.
Elena: "Korea… that's so far, Ari. Are you sure you'll be alright all on your own, so far from home?"
Ari: "I think… I need this, Ate. To really… truly move on. To create a space where… where he isn't the first and last thought in my mind."
Elena: "As long as you're sure, dong. Your happiness, your well-being, is what matters most to us. We'll miss you terribly, of course, but we'll always be here for you, no matter where you are."
The realization dawned slowly, but with a growing, undeniable certainty: this wasn't just a significant career opportunity; it was a profound chance at a different kind of life, a life where I could finally prioritize my own healing and growth. A chance to physically distance myself from the persistent ghost of Migs, to rebuild myself in a new environment where his memory might finally begin to fade into a manageable background hum. The thought of a full year dedicated solely to my art, free from the constant, underlying yearning that had become a suffocating presence, felt like a tangible lifeline, a clear path towards a future where genuine healing might finally be possible. That evening, with a newfound sense of tentative resolve, I finally replied to Vincent's message.
Ari: "Vincent, thank you. Thank you for seeing this potential in me, and for understanding… everything I haven't explicitly said. I want to do it. I want to accept the commission. When would be a good time to talk about the next steps?"
Vincent: "Ari, that's wonderful news! I'm so incredibly happy for you. How about we schedule a call for tomorrow evening your time? We can discuss all the details, and I can connect you directly with the gallery director in Seoul."
The simple act of typing those words felt like the first, hesitant step on a long and uncertain journey, a journey away from a love that was never truly meant to be, towards a future where genuine healing, and perhaps even a different, more reciprocal kind of connection, might finally be within reach. The hurt was still there, a dull, constant ache beneath the surface of my days, but for the first time since leaving Manila, it was accompanied by a fragile but persistent sense of hope, a quiet whisper of possibility echoing in the vast, unknown landscape of the future.