In the beginning, loving Luna felt natural—like breathing, like something Ethan didn't have to think about. It simply happened.
She texted him first. She called when she missed him. She showed up outside his apartment with plastic bags of street food and stories she told with her whole body—hands moving, eyes bright, laughter spilling out before the punchline landed. With Luna, silence was never uncomfortable. She filled it with life.
They spent their nights wandering through Manila, chasing nothing in particular. Sometimes it was just them walking under dim streetlights, sharing fish balls from a paper cup. Other times, it was music spilling from bars, Luna pulling him by the hand into places he would never have entered on his own.
"You're too serious," she teased one night, tugging at his arm as they crossed the street.
"And you're too reckless," he replied.
She smiled. "That's why we balance each other."
Ethan believed her.
She began staying over more often—at first because it was late, then because it was raining, then because leaving felt unnecessary. Soon, she had a drawer in his room. Then a toothbrush by the sink. Then clothes folded beside his.
Ethan noticed every detail.
The way Luna slept curled on her side. The way she hated cold floors. The way she hummed softly when she was happy, without realizing it. He learned her favorite coffee, her favorite songs, the exact look she made when she was pretending not to care.
Luna noticed things too—just different ones.
She noticed how he waited for her messages. How he always walked closer to the street. How he listened without interrupting, even when she spoke in fragments.
"You make me feel safe," she told him one night, her head resting on his chest.
Ethan held his breath, afraid the moment would break if he moved.
That night, they made love for the first time. It wasn't perfect or rushed. It was slow, careful, filled with whispered reassurances. Afterward, Luna didn't pull away. She stayed, tracing idle patterns on his chest as if she belonged there.
From then on, time moved differently.
Days blurred into weeks. Weeks into months. They argued sometimes—but never cruelly. They apologized. They talked things through. They chose each other again and again.
When Luna suggested they move in together, Ethan tried to hide his excitement.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes. "Ethan, I practically live here already."
Their apartment in Quezon City was small, with thin walls and unreliable water pressure, but it was theirs. They built a life in small ways—midnight cooking, grocery shopping arguments, falling asleep on the couch halfway through movies.
Luna still went out sometimes. She liked parties, noise, freedom. But she always came home to him. Always curled into his arms and whispered, "I'm here."
Back then, Ethan never doubted her love.
He didn't know how quietly happiness could fade.
Didn't know that love doesn't always end with shouting or betrayal.
Sometimes, it ends with distance—
slow, silent, and unnoticed—
until one day, you wake up and realize you're the only one still holding on.