Years had passed since Ellie and Ady last spoke. They never blocked each other.
Ady stood at the entrance of his music store in Cebu, watching the rain fall over the busy street. The sign above him read "Chord & Soul." He smiled faintly, remembering how Ellie once asked him, "Do you think one day you'll have your own music place?" It had been a dream, blurry and unreachable back then. Now, it was real—but not without struggle.
His store had gone through three rough months of barely making enough to cover rent. He spent sleepless nights designing the layout, posting online, teaching guitar lessons, handling accounting alone. He even performed at small cafes and bars to fund the shop. The first time someone walked in to buy a keyboard, he felt a lump in his throat. It was working. Slowly.
In Palawan, Ellie stood in the middle of her hotel kitchen, the smell of fresh bread and native coffee filling the air. Her hotel and restaurant were side by side, built with every inch of savings she had. She remembered the nights she would stare at her ceiling wondering if she made the biggest mistake of her life. There had been weeks when only two guests checked in. A rainy season nearly washed out her launch event. Her supplier flaked multiple times. But she didn't stop.
Ashley had once told her, "You remind me of someone who never gives up, even when you're crying." Ellie remembered laughing, brushing it off. But when her loan almost defaulted and she nearly sold her small scooter just to pay staff salaries, those words came back. So did the image of Ady.
She didn't tell anyone, but every now and then, she would scroll through his old photos, the ones he posted after a school event, the ones where he was holding his guitar with that familiar quiet smile. It wasn't about wanting to reach out. It was about remembering that someone once believed she could do anything.
In Cebu, Ady sometimes sat by the window of his shop during lunch breaks, eating cup noodles and watching people walk by. He had started journaling. He didn't write about the music store. He wrote about the days he felt like quitting, and the girl who used to remind him to drink water and take naps. He wrote about how she said, "Even if you fail, you'll still be proud because you tried."
His shop had grown. He partnered with local musicians, launched workshops, and had even started a YouTube channel for beginner guitarists. His subscribers were still under 2k, but he smiled at every comment.
One day, Ken dropped by the store. "Man, I still remember you back in college talking about this. You did it."
"Still doing it," Ady replied, tuning a guitar. "Still trying."
In Palawan, Ellie was sitting with a tourist family, laughing over a shared meal. Her staff had grown from two people to ten. She had hired locals, trained a young high school graduate who was now her head waitress, and introduced weekly cultural nights at the restaurant. She had critics visit. Bloggers wrote reviews. Her hotel was now on the top list in their area.
But some nights, she sat alone in the garden and wondered what would have happened if she had just waited. If she hadn't let him go.
She would never forget the way he said, "Someday, when the time is right for both of us, I'll find you again."
Ady had never dated since. People came, conversations happened, but no one reached his heart. He wasn't bitter. Just...not ready. Or maybe still waiting.
Ellie, too, had met people. One even tried courting her seriously, but she always ended up comparing the feeling to something deeper, something past. Something that made her laugh at 2 a.m. and cry at 4 a.m.
Despite all the success, the business growth, the public smiles, they still carried a soft sadness that never quite healed.
One night, Ady closed his shop late. He looked at his phone, scrolled mindlessly, and paused on a video shared by a travel vlogger. The vlogger was reviewing a restaurant in Palawan.
He froze.
It was Ellie's.
She wasn't in the frame, but the camera panned past a sign that had her name etched into it: "Ellie's Hotel and Restaurant"
He smiled.
"You did it," he whispered.
Ellie, that same night, was organizing her phone and stumbled across an old screen shot.She opened it and read:
"To the girl who changed me without even realizing, thank you."
She didn't cry. Not this time.
Because they had both become what they were meant to be.
They had survived, grown, and succeeded—not despite the pain, but because of it.
And though their paths were still far from crossing, something had changed.
They were no longer hurting.
They were ready.
Not for love. Not for reunion.
But for what comes next.