It had been four years.
Four years since I erased him from every corner of my life.
Four years since I left the city that carried his name in every streetlight, every hallway, every calendar square.
I had stopped counting the days — until I realized I had survived 1,460 of them.
And still… he found me in my dreams.
Not every night. Not with the same clarity.
But often enough that I never truly forgot what it felt like to love him.
And be unloved in return.
The city I lived in now was small. Quiet. No skyscrapers, no rushed office elevators, no chance encounters that could rip open old wounds.
I worked remotely. I took long walks. I taught myself how to make sinigang without calling my mom in the middle of the night. My hair was longer now. My eyes are softer, maybe even a little tired — but no longer hollow.
I had built a life from the dust.
And most days, I was okay.
Until one Tuesday evening, in the middle of the grocery store, I looked up from the produce aisle and saw him.
Not him.
Not Elián.
But Jace.
And it was like the past cracked open just a little — but without pain.
He was standing near the checkout, holding a small carton of milk and staring at a row of canned tuna as it had offended him.
He hadn't changed much. Still looked boyish in a grown-man way. His hair was longer, pulled back. There was stubble now. And something in his expression — a patience that had always been there, even when I didn't deserve it.
I must've stared too long. He turned, caught my eyes — and froze.
"…Mara?"
His voice was smaller than I remembered. Careful. Like saying my name too loudly might shatter the moment.
I blinked and smiled.
"Hi, Jace."
We didn't try to pretend we weren't surprised.
We sat outside the grocery store on a bench under the yellow streetlight, bags of vegetables and instant coffee between us. The breeze was cool. Somewhere, someone was singing karaoke off-key.
"You disappeared," he said finally.
"I had to."
He nodded, staring at the ground. "You blocked me."
"I blocked everyone."
A beat.
"I know. I just… I worried about you."
That did something to me. A soft ache in a place I thought had healed.
"You were always kind," I said. "Even when I didn't see it."
He looked up. "I was in love with you."
I inhaled, slow and careful.
"I know," I whispered.
He told me he'd transferred jobs a year after I left. That the office never felt the same. That people eventually stopped talking about me, but he never really did.
"I saw you in my dreams once," he said casually.
That caught me off guard.
"Really?"
"You were painting. On a rooftop. Laughing at something I said."
A pause.
"I woke up happy that day," he added, eyes on the horizon.
I didn't know what to say. So, I didn't.
We kept walking.
And for the first time in years, I didn't feel like I had to apologize for who I became after the heartbreak. I didn't feel broken or small or ashamed.
I just felt… seen.
Back at my apartment building, we stood outside my gate.
"Can I see you again?" he asked softly.
It wasn't a demand. Not a plea. Just a question.
One I didn't have to run from.
I smiled.
"Yeah. I think I'd like that."
He grinned — wide and warm — then handed me something from his bag.
A chocolate bar.
"I remembered you liked this."
I laughed. "Still do."
That night, the dream was different.
It wasn't Elián.
It wasn't Jace either.
It was no one I knew.
Just me.
On a boat in the middle of a still lake.
No wind. No voices. Just the sound of water against the wood.
And then, a whisper — soft and sure.
"You're almost home."
I woke up with tears on my cheeks.
But for once, they didn't hurt.
They healed.