Months passed, and slowly, we began to talk more.
Not the loud kind of conversations filled with laughter, but the quiet ones—the kind that reveal what truly matters. I learned how much she cherished her family. The way her voice softened whenever she spoke about them told me everything. Family was her anchor. Her strength. Her home.
But one day, that strength broke.
She cried in front of me and told me about her mother and father separating. I didn't know what words to say. I didn't know how to fix broken families or heal wounds I couldn't see. All I could do was stay silent and listen.
So I did.
I listened to every word. Every tear. Every shaky breath.
Inside, I felt helpless. I wanted to hold her pain for her. I wanted to protect her from sadness. But I was still young, still learning, still incapable of handling heavy emotions properly. That day taught me something important—sometimes love doesn't mean giving advice. Sometimes love simply means being there.
That night, I asked her a simple question.
"What's your favorite song?"
She answered softly, "Yellow."
She told me it was about loving someone so much that you would do anything for them.
At that time, I didn't fully understand the meaning. I just knew that from that day on, I played that song every single day. Not because of its lyrics—but because every note carried her name in my heart. Every melody reminded me of her smile, her tears, and the way she trusted me with her pain.
Months later, I finally gathered the courage to ask her out.
It wasn't fancy. No roses. No candles.
Just Jollibee.
She was waiting for her mother that day, and I offered to treat her while we waited. When I saw her from a distance, my steps slowed. She looked beautiful—effortlessly beautiful. Her smile shone so brightly it felt like diamonds reflecting sunlight.
When we sat at the same table, I suddenly forgot how to speak.
I couldn't look into her eyes.My heart was beating too fast.My feet felt weak.My hands trembled under the table.
We talked for only a short time because her mother arrived early. But even that small moment meant everything to me. I walked home that day smiling, replaying every second in my head like a treasured memory.
Then her birthday came.
I wanted to give her something special—but I didn't know what would be enough. So I asked a friend who was close to her. He suggested buying her a pair of shoes.
Even though my money was limited, I didn't hesitate.
Because when you love someone, effort becomes easy.
Days later, I stood there holding the gift, too shy to move. My courage failed me again. But her big sister noticed me, smiled, and encouraged me not to be afraid.
So I walked toward her.
With shaking hands and a nervous heart, I gave her the gift.
When she opened it and smiled…
Everything was worth it.
The money.The fear.The doubt.
Because in that moment, her happiness became my reward.
And without realizing it, I was no longer just falling in love.
I was already deep inside it.