It started with a message. One I didn't expect. One that made time fold a little.
I was making noodles — the cheap, soupy kind that somehow always tastes like heartbreak or healing, depending on the day. The pot was just starting to boil when my phone buzzed. I glanced over lazily. Shopee? Group chat? Probably something I'd ignore until later.
But it wasn't that.
Hi Mara, this is Ms. Vargas — not sure if you still have my number! I'm returning to Lumina next week and resuming my old post as Department Head. We're reopening your previous role, and I immediately thought of you. Would love to talk if you're interested. Let me know.
My hand froze, wooden spoon still resting inside the pot. The steam curled up and blurred my vision, and for a second, it felt like someone had cracked open a part of my life I'd carefully sealed off. Tucked away. Labelled: Do Not Revisit.
I hadn't heard that name in years. Ms. Vargas — composed, sharp, always three steps ahead of everyone in the room. She left without fanfare, around the same time I did. Maybe that's why her message felt more like a time capsule than a text.
I sat down at the edge of my bed, phone still in hand, broth forgotten, and stared at the message for a long time.
I didn't reply. Not yet. I needed to sit with it. Feel all the angles. And to be honest, I didn't know what I felt.
It wasn't excitement. Not quite.
More like… disorientation. A crack in the rhythm I'd built. A quiet knock on a door I thought I'd locked for good.
The day went on, but the message didn't leave me.
It followed me as I watered the dusty plant by the window I kept forgetting to throw out.
It echoed through my errands — groceries, bills, laundry — as if asking, is this the life you chose? Or just the one you settled into when you got tired of starting over?
By 3 p.m., I was pacing.
By 5, I was making a list of reasons to say no.
Reason #1: I was finally okay. Not thriving, maybe, but okay. Stable.
Reason #2: Going back would mean opening old doors, and old feelings. I didn't know what still lived behind them.
Reason #3: What if the version of me they remembered no longer existed?
But by 7 p.m., I'd stopped writing.
Because a louder voice — steadier, deeper — had started whispering back:
What if this is for you now? The version you've become. The one who's quieter but braver. The one who isn't trying to prove anything anymore — just trying to come home to herself.
I sat with that voice for a while. Made a real meal. Took a slow shower. Watched the city lights through the window like I used to, back when I dreamed of becoming someone stronger.
And sometime around 9:30 p.m., I opened the message again.
Read it one last time.
And replied.
Hi Ms. Vargas — wow, it's so good to hear from you. Thank you for thinking of me. I've had to sit with this today, but yes — I'm interested. I'd love to hear more. Let me know the next steps. Hope you've been well, and welcome back.
I hit send and stared at the screen as the message slid into the thread like a quiet promise. I didn't know what waited for me at Lumina. Who was still there, what had changed, or what ghosts I'd run into?
But I wasn't the same girl who left.
This time, I was walking back on my own terms. No love stories attached. No unfinished business — just me, ready to see what still fit, and what didn't.
What I didn't know — couldn't have known — was that a certain chapter I thought was long closed was already standing on the other side of that door.
Waiting.