The suitcase sat open on the bed—a silent witness to the wreckage.
I stood at the edge of it, unmoving, like my body was waiting for something to hold on to before it crumbled entirely.
The silk scarf my mother gave me for my birthday lay half-folded on top.
Beneath it, the sweaters i used to wear around him.
I remembered laughing in those sleeves, tucking my cold fingers into their cuffs when we walked in the Grand circuit.
I remembered him pulling me close, saying i looked like trouble wrapped in cashmere.
I picked one up.
Held it to my chest.
It smelled like time and endings.
The chambray shirt was next, too small now. I hadn't worn it in years.
But for some reason, I'd kept it.
Maybe because he once said it brought out the storm in my eyes.
Maybe because that night, he kissed my forehead and said, "You feel like home."
Maybe because i wanted to believe him.
I folded it anyway.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like i was trying to preserve the memory in each crease, even as i buried it.
My mother's voice came behind me, soft and hesitant.
"Are you sure you want to go?"
I didn't answer right away.
I didn't trust my voice.
I stared at the suitcase.
At the things i could pack and the things i never could.
"I have to," I whispered. My throat felt raw. "If I stay… I'll just keep watching myself fall apart."
The silence that followed was more loving than anything else she could have said.
When i finally zipped the bag shut, it made a sound i didn't expect to sting.
But it did.
Like something final.
Like a heart closing.
In the foyer, Yaya Minda hugged me.
I didn't want to let go.
She smelled like sleep and warm milk and the soft pillows of my childhood.
"I'll take care of you," she murmured into my hair.
And that was when i cried, not the sharp sobs i gave in the shower or the angry ones that clawed their way out in silence, but the kind that made my body shake.
I didn't even remember walking onto the plane.
Didn't remember what i wore or what gate we boarded.
Just remembered sitting by the window, forehead pressed to glass, watching Manila shrink until it was just light and smoke and maybe a version of me i was never going to meet again.
Yaya slept beside me, and i was glad.
I needed her close, but i couldn't handle her gaze.
I counted the lights below until they disappeared.
Until it was just clouds and cold air and the ache of being unwanted.
I thought he was my place to land.
I thought he was the one person who chose me not because it was convenient or expected, but because it was me.
But i was wrong.
Maybe i was never a choice.
Maybe i was the placeholder until someone shinier walked in.
-
When we arrived in Paris, the air hit me like a truth i wasn't ready to hear.
Cold, unfamiliar, and too clean.
I breathed it in anyway.
Rain threatened.
The clouds looked swollen and low, like they understood.
The apartment we moved into was small and quiet.
Yaya handed me tea.
I held it but didn't drink.
I sat on the couch until my legs went numb.
My hands rested on my lap like they didn't belong to me.
And when she wasn't looking, I let the tears come again.
Quietly.
Bitterly.
I cried for everything i lost.
And everything i thought i had.
He was supposed to love me.
He was supposed to fight for me.
Instead, he said he was getting married.
And he didn't even flinch when i ask him about that damn and fucking engagement.
-
The next morning, my stomach churned so violently i thought i was sick from the travel or from too much crying.
But it didn't stop
.
It came again.
And again.
I barely touched my food.
Yaya noticed.
She always did.
She made ginger tea.
Rubbed my back.
Didn't ask questions.
I tried to brush it off.
Jet lag. Stress. A broken heart.
But a part of me—some deep, knowing part—kept whispering.
Kept warning.
When the walls felt too tight and the air too still, I walked into the bathroom with a plastic bag from the pharmacy.
My fingers were cold around the test.
I stared at the strip like it was a weapon.
Like it could end what little peace i had left.
Two lines.
I blinked.
They didn't fade.
Two lines.
The floor met me hard, but i didn't feel it.
My knees folded, back hit the wall, and everything in me sank.
I pressed my hand to my stomach.
Nothing.
But everything.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't speak.
Yaya found me on the tiles.
She didn't say anything.
Just sank beside me, held me while i shattered again—this time with new fear.
I didn't say it out loud at first.
Didn't name it.
Didn't want to.
But later, when i could finally whisper, I said the one thing that would change everything:
"No one can know."
Yaya nodded.
Not even my parents.
Not even him.
Especially not him.
I wasn't going to be someone's shame.
Not again.
Especially not to parents like mine—people whose names echoed in boardrooms across continents. Whose smiles graced magazine covers and luxury galas. Who built empires brick by ruthless brick.
People who only acknowledged success when it sparkled, when it looked good on paper, when it could be paraded.
What would the world say if they found out their only daughter, twenty-three and unmarried, was pregnant?
-
The days blurred.
I moved like a ghost.
Ate when i could.
Slept when my body gave up.
But one night, I felt it.
A flutter.
So small i thought i imagined it.
But it was real.
It wasn't just grief inside me anymore.
There was life.
A tiny heartbeat wrapped in sorrow.
And for the first time, I pressed my palm to my stomach and whispered something back:
"You're mine."
No matter who didn't want me.
No matter who left.
No matter how broken i felt, this child would never feel that.