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It should’ve been. That’s what your brain told you—there should’ve been thunder, an argument, shattered glass on the kitchen floor. Something dramatic. Something loud. But all you got was the soft click of her suitcase zipper and the way she stood by the door, hesitating.

“This doesn’t feel like home anymore,” she had said.

Not angry. Not hurt. Just… tired.

Tired in the way people get after trying too long to make someone notice them.

You didn’t say anything.

You should’ve.

But your throat had closed up, and your pride locked it shut. You stared at her—no, past her—as if looking directly might make it real. As if saying something would make it worse.

She didn’t slam the door.

She didn’t cry.

She just left.

You tell yourself it’s temporary.

You leave her mug in the dish rack. You still buy the kind of instant noodles she liked, even though you hated the flavor. Her shoes are still by the door, and you catch yourself talking to her in your head like she’ll walk out of the bathroom with wet hair and a sarcastic comment.

She’s not gone, you keep telling yourself. She’s just… not here right now.

But even you know that’s a lie

“Multo.”

The word loops in your head like an echo.

Ghost.

She once told you what it meant while the two of you were watching some horror movie on your old couch. Your head was on her lap, her fingers threading lazily through your hair.

“In Tagalog, it means ghost. Not the scary kind, not always,” she’d said softly.

“Sometimes it’s just… someone who’s gone. But you still feel them around.”

You laughed then. You didn’t get it.

You made some joke about The Sixth Sense. She smiled anyway. That was the kind of person she was—kind, even when you missed the point.

You get it now.

It’s been weeks, and Multo plays on shuffle again. Track seven.

The guitar comes in soft. Her voice—the real one, the one you’d memorized—whispers in your memory. Not the song, but her. That hum she always did when she folded laundry. You never commented on it. Not once.

Now you’d give anything to hear it in real life again.

You stare at the screen.

Now playing: “Multo – Cup of Joe.”

“minumulto na ‘ko-“

The lyrics feel like a dare.

You sit there, unmoving.

The walls feel thinner. Colder.

Everything smells faintly of dust and lemon and her favorite shampoo.

You try to recreate the smell of her hair with a candle you bought off a TikTok recommendation. It’s not even close.

Your phone lights up.

It’s not her.

Of course it’s not her.

You know why she left.

It wasn’t because of some big fight or betrayal.

It was the quiet forgetting. The passive neglect. The way you always said “Later” when she asked to talk.

The way you pulled away when she leaned in.

The way you left her alone in the room without ever really leaving.

It didn’t happen overnight.

It was slow. A dissolving, not a collapse.

You remember once she asked, “Do you even notice when I’m sad?”

You looked up from your laptop and gave her a half-smile.

“You? You’re too strong for sadness.”

That was the cruelest thing you ever said without meaning to be cruel.

Because she was sad.

She was lonely.

She was with you, and she was invisible.

Sometimes you think back to the first time you met her.

She was laughing at something someone else said. Her laugh stood out—not because it was loud, but because it was full. Like she wasn’t holding anything back.

You made her laugh like that once. Maybe twice.

Now, you wonder who’s making her laugh like that.

If anyone is.

Or worse—if no one is, and she’s forgotten how.

You don’t sleep in the bed anymore.

You crash on the couch with the TV humming something you’re not watching.

You think maybe this is what she felt—being beside someone who isn’t really there.

You think about texting her.

You draft a message. Backspace. Try again.

“Hope you’re okay.”

Too dry.

“I miss you.”

Too heavy.

“I’m sorry.”

Too late.

You delete it.

One afternoon, you pass by the ramen place she loved. You stand outside for a long time, watching the steam fog up the windows.

She once said it reminded her of home—“Not because it tastes the same. But because I feel warm here. Safe.”

You realize you never gave her that feeling. Not consistently.

You walk past it. You don’t go in. You can’t.

She lingers.

In the pillow that still smells like her.

In the playlist that still haunts your nights.

In the mirror, where you look at yourself and wonder who she fell out of love with.

You think about Multo again.

Not a ghost with chains and blood and screams.

A soft one.

The kind you carry around. The kind you beg to stay.

The kind you didn’t realize you had until they were already fading from your fingertips.

You thought ghosts were the ones who couldn’t move on.

But now you know—you’re the one stuck.

You’re the one rewinding moments that no longer belong to you.

You visit the beach where you once took her on a whim. She wore that oversized hoodie and cursed the sand for getting in her shoes. You teased her for being dramatic. She called you dense but cute.

Back then, her hand found yours automatically.

Now, your fingers just feel cold.

You sit on the same bench where she watched the sunset with you.

Your chest tightens as you realize you barely remember what she said that night.

All you remember is that she was there. And now, she isn’t.

You whisper into the wind.

“Come back.”

But the wind doesn’t carry prayers. It just keeps moving forward.

Only the music answers.

“Minumulto na ‘ko ng damdamin ko”

And you realize

She didn’t become the ghost.

You did.

You’re the one haunting her memory.

You’re the voice she’s trying to forget.

You’re the weight she had to let go of to breathe again.

You’re the presence that lingers in places she used to smile in.

You walk back to the apartment—empty, still, unchanged.

The light in the hallway flickers.

You stand by the door a little too long before unlocking it.

Inside, nothing’s moved.

Except you.

And even then, only just.

You used to think heartbreak was loud.

But no.

It’s quiet.

It’s in the seat across from you at breakfast.

It’s in the faint smell of mango shampoo on a hoodie you still haven’t washed.

It’s in a name you don’t say out loud anymore.

And it’s in a song—just one song—that plays when you’re too tired to skip it

“Multo,” she said, “is someone you feel even when they’re no longer there.”

Now you know exactly what she meant.