Synopsis: You, a broke college student, end up fake dating Ningning â a rich, conyo DLSU girl with a Porsche and a deadline to find a boyfriend. What starts as a deal turns into chaos, kilig, and class divide. Now sheâs living with you, eating â±5 coffee and fishballs, all for love
Word Count: 5,148
Ning Yizhou X Male Reader
Tags: Angst
A/n: part 2 out now!! Enjoy this yâall since i love you all sm hehe, if this fic does well Iâll make part 3 and even make this a series.
âDidnât expect to see you here, Ning.â
That voiceâsmooth, measured, and just loud enough to turn one or two headsâcarried the weight of old habits.
Ning froze. You followed her gaze.
Kai Yoon stood there like he owned the damn place. Perfectly pressed navy blazer. Pants that fell straight like steel. Watch gleaming under the lights. Hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. He looked like a billboard for control, wealth, and carefully constructed charm.
She gave him a slow blink, as if debating whether he was real or a ghost from a nightmare she forgot to lock away.
âKai,â she said finally. Her voice was even, but you caught the twitch in her hand. âDidnât know you dined around here.â
Kai Yoon looked around the restaurant like it offended him. âBusiness meeting,â he said. âDidnât expect you here either. I thought you didnât settle for anything under four stars.â
You felt Ning shrink by an inch, just for a second. Just long enough to hate him.
She smiled tightly. âPeople change.â
His eyes flicked to youâdissecting, measuring, judging.
âAnd whoâs this?â he asked. âYour⊠date?â
Ningâs hand slid under the table. Gripped your sleeve, light but firm.
âYeah,â she said. âThis is Y/N.â
Kai didnât offer his hand. He just nodded at you like you were the waiter who brought him the wrong wine.
âNice,â he said vaguely. âWell. You always did love charity cases.â
The silence that followed wasnât heavy. It was acidic.
Ning blinked, once. Her lips parted. Closed. You felt her breathing shiftâshallow, then sharp.
Kai leaned slightly closer, that familiar condescension dressed up in fake concern. âIâm not here to cause anything. Just⊠figured Iâd say hi. After all, if you never left me, we couldâve been in Paris right now. You know that, right?â
And there it was.
The guilt bomb.
The line you say when youâre sure the other person still wishes they were yours.
Ning didnât flinch this time. She looked down at her plate. Took a breath. Then raised her head.
âNo,â she said clearly.
Kai blinked.
âNo?â he repeated, confused by her lack of remorse.
âIf I hadnât left you,â she said slowly, voice steady, âIâd be miserable in Paris. Playing dress-up for your colleagues. Laughing at jokes I didnât find funny. Smiling through dinners where I was decoration.â
He opened his mouth. She didnât let him speak.
âYou always said you wanted a partner, Kai. But you wanted an accessory. Something polished. Quiet. A woman who could fit the lifestyle but never outshine you in it.â
The table between them shrank. The whole restaurant seemed to quiet.
âNow Iâm here. In a three-star restaurant. With someone who listens when I speak. Who doesnât measure me by my purse brand or last name.â
Kai tried to scoff, but it caught in his throat.
âYouâve changed,â he muttered.
She smiled. Not fake. Not proud. Free.
âNo,â she said. âI just stopped pretending for people like you.â
You looked at her thenâreally looked. The slight tremble in her hand, the fire behind her eyes, the girl who used to order â±700 cappuccinos now drinking house water and somehow tasting more alive than ever.
Kai stood there, hands clenched, lips parted like he wanted to say something cruelâbut couldnât. He left without another word.
Ning let go of your sleeve.
You didnât speak for a while. The waiter came and refilled her water. She thanked him in soft Tagalog.
When she finally turned to you, her eyes were glassyâbut not with sadness.
With release.
âIâm sorry you saw that,â she whispered.
You shook your head.
âIâm not,â you said.
And for the first time all evening, she smiled without hesitation
The air outside was cooler than expectedâalmost like the universe decided to reward you both for surviving dinner without throwing a wine glass.
Ning walked beside you in silence, her heels clicking softer than usual, like even her footsteps were tired of performing.
You didnât rush her.
The streets were mostly empty, save for the soft glow of tricycles in the distance and the flickering â24 HRSâ sign of a nearby sari-sari store. You passed a taho vendor packing up, the metal containers clinking softly in the cart. It was late. And yet, you both kept walking.
No destination. Just away.
After a while, Ning spoke.
âThat was Kai Yoon.â
You looked at her sideways. âYeah. I figured.â
She laughed under her breath, like it was absurd that he still had that effect on her. Or maybe she just hated that he didnât.
âHe runs a tech company now,â she said. âBased in Singapore. I think itâs calledâuhâSynterra? Something very⊠artificial intelligence-y. Also opened a modeling agency in Paris. Probably so he could fly in and out without looking suspicious.â
âOf cheating?â
âOf collecting women like theyâre NFTs.â
You huffed through your nose. âClassy.â
âAlways,â she said. âEverything about him was curated. Even the way he picked pasta. Had to say it in Italian. âTagliatelle al tartufo,â not âtruffle pasta.â Said it made him feel like he was there.â
You glance down. Her fingers were fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.
âYou loved him?â you asked.
She took a breath that said yesâbut when she answered, it was more complicated than that.
âI loved⊠the idea of him. What he symbolized. Freedom. Sophistication. Someone who could stand up to my family without blinking.â
She paused. âBut then I realized he wasnât standing up with me. He was standing on me. Showing them he could take their daughter and make her perfect.â
You nodded slowly. The footsteps filled the silence again.
âI didnât leave him because I stopped loving him,â she added. âI left because I started loving myself just enough to ask: what if this isnât all Iâm meant for?â
The wind rustled her hair. You watched her tuck a strand behind her ear. Her eyes stayed forward, but you saw the truth swimming in them. Not pain anymore. Not even regret. Just⊠growing pains. The kind you never talk about during Sunday brunches or DLSU org meetings.
âMustâve been hard,â you said gently.
âIt was.â
âYou did it anyway.â
She looked at you.
For a moment, you thought she might say something back. Something vulnerable. Maybe even something terrifying like thank you for being here or you make this easier.
But instead, she chuckled.
âYou know whatâs funny?â she said. âBack then, if someone told me Iâd end up living in a small apartment, eating at three-star restaurants, and walking home with someone who wears â±100 shirtsâŠâ
You grinned. âYouâd block them.â
âImmediately,â she said, smirking. âBut now?â
She stopped.
You turned to her.
She met your eyes. No armor. No lashes fluttering. Just her.
âNow I think I needed to lose everything I thought mattered just to realize what actually does.â
The streetlamp buzzed faintly above you both. In the distance, a jeepney honked. Someoneâs dog barked twice.
But right here?
It was just the two of you.
âIâm glad you did,â you said.
She blinked slowly.
Then started walking again.
A little closer this time.
Your hands didnât touch. Not yet. But your shadows didâfaint outlines stretched across the concrete, quietly brushing shoulders the way your hearts almost did.
And for once, that was enough.
You bolted upright to the smell of something⊠burning?
Panicked, you swung open your bedroom doorâonly to be met with the sight of Ning Yizhuo standing in the middle of your kitchen, holding a rice spatula like a sword.
âWhy is the sinangag⊠black?â you asked, rubbing your eyes.
âItâs not black,â she said, flipping whatever remained in the pan with blind optimism. âItâs just⊠toasted.â
You peeked over her shoulder. The rice looked like it had been resurrected from the underworld.
âWere you trying to cook without oil?â
âI thought you said we were out of olive oil,â she huffed.
âYeah,â you said, pointing to the bottle of Mantika Gold behind the stove. âBut we still have cooking oil. Thatâs different.â
She squinted at it like it was in another language. âI thought that was for, like⊠tricycle maintenance or something.â
You sighed. She smiled sheepishly.
âI wanted to make breakfast,â she said, quieter now. âTo say thanks.â
You looked at her. Hair slightly frizzy, wearing your oversized t-shirt with a cartoon mango on it. Dark circles under her eyes, but standing in your kitchen like it was her battlefield.
You couldnât help it. You smiled.
âWell,â you said. âThank you for trying to kill me first thing in the morning.â
She tossed a sinangag chunk at you. You dodged. It hit the wall with a soft thwack.
âEmergency food,â you deadpanned. âDoubles as a weapon.â
She broke into laughter, finally relaxing.
Later That Morning
She sat at the dining table (aka the folding table you bought from Shopee), poking at the bread you toasted to redeem breakfast. You handed her a mug of instant coffee. She sniffed it like it was a science experiment.
âIâve never had 3-in-1 before.â
You nearly choked. âYouâre kidding.â
She shook her head. âI thought it was like, a brand. Not⊠literally sugar, cream, and coffee in one packet.â
You leaned back. âYou ever been to a karinderya?â
âNo.â
âRode a jeep?â
âNo.â
âTricycle?â
She hesitated. ââŠOnly when my driver was sick.â
You nodded slowly, sipping your coffee. âSo you really are fresh out the private school bubble.â
She rolled her eyes. âItâs not my fault. I didnât ask to be born with a house that had a water heater in the maidâs bathroom.â
You laughed. âItâs okay. Youâre adjusting.â
She looked at youâthis time, not annoyed, not teasing.
âI want to,â she said, quiet. âI donât want to go back. Not yet.â
You raised an eyebrow. âEven if it means burnt sinangag and bucket baths?â
She grinned. âEven if I have to shout âPara po!â on a jeep tomorrow.â
You smirked. âDo you even know how?â
She turned pale. ââŠDo I have to yell it?â
âYeah,â you said. âLoud enough for the driver to hear. Or knock the ceiling. Youâll see.â
She covered her face with both hands. âGod. Iâm going to die.â
You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your chin on your palm.
âMaybe,â you said. âBut Iâll be there.â
She peeked at you from between her fingers.
âPromise?â
You didnât blink.
âPromise.
Early Morning, Public Wet Market
You and Ning, out to buy ingredients after her sinangag disaster.
âNing,â you whisper as the palengkeâs chaos swells around you. âYou donât need to say âHi po!â to every tindera.â
âBut theyâre smiling,â she whispers back. âWhat if they think Iâm rude?â
âTheyâre smiling because they know youâre rich.â
She gasps. âHow?! Iâm wearing slippers!â
You point to her giant tote bag that says Dior: Limited Edition â Tokyo Collection.
She looks down. âOh.â
You sigh, gently pulling her closer as a manang with a basket of tilapia barrels past her. âJust stay near me. Donât look too excited.â
Too late.
Ningâs eyes are already wide at the tower of tomatoes stacked like red marbles, the piles of eggplants glistening with morning dew, the giant hanging scales that look older than Makati. You havenât even made it to the meat section and sheâs already taken four mental photos.
âThis is soâŠâ she breathes in the scent of calamansi, fish guts, and tsinelas. ââŠraw.â
You laugh. âThatâs one way to put it.â
You approach a vegetable stall. The manang behind the counter eyes Ning up and down. You know that look. The internal calculator: 1 foreign-branded bag = 300% markup.
Ning, unaware, leans down and gestures at a bundle of pechay.
âHow much po?â
ââ±100 na lang, hija,â the vendor says with a smile that hides evil.
Your eyebrows shoot up. âAte, thatâs â±35 everywhere else.â
But Ning already takes out a crumpled â±100 bill.
âKeep the change po,â she says sweetly.
The vendor nearly bursts into song.
You wait until youâre walking away before turning to her. âYou just bought â±35 pechay for â±100.â
âWhat?! But she saidââ
âShe saw your bag.â
âThatâs discrimination,â Ning gasps.
âThatâs business,â you grin. âWelcome to capitalism, but stinkier.â
At the fish section, Ning nearly gags.
You watch her lean far, far back as a fishmonger slaps a bangus on the chopping board with a wet thwack.
âOh my god, itâs staring at me.â
âItâs dead.â
âItâs judging me for eating salmon sashimi.â
She hides behind you as you order galunggong.
âI used to think fish just came in frozen packs,â she mumbles, holding her breath.
âYou think those were just born in rectangular trays?â
âI didnât think at all,â she confesses. âI just ate what the chef plated.â
You glance back at her. Her Dior tote has a bit of fish scale on it now. She doesnât even notice.
Sheâs trying.
You hold the plastic bag out to her. âHere. Carry this.â
She takes it hesitantly. It drips slightly. Her face contorts.
âYouâre making me holdâewâraw fish?!â
You smirk. âCongrats. Youâre halfway to sainthood.â
Walking Back Home
Sheâs carrying two plastic bags now. One with the galunggong. One with overpriced pechay and two calamansi she got bullied into buying for â±25 each.
Her back aches. Her arms are sore.
But her face?
Sun-kissed, flushed, smiling.
âI think I have tendonitis,â she says dramatically. âThis is what the masa experience feels like?â
You snort. âYouâve been here a week.â
She stops walking for a moment, looks at the streetâdusty, uneven, vendors on both sides yelling âISDAAAA!â and âPALENGKE PRESYO!â She looks down at her slippers, a far cry from her Jimmy Choos. Then at her tote bag with fish slime. Then at you.
âI donât hate it,â she says.
You raise an eyebrow. âReally?â
She looks up at you with a weird kind of wonder. Like she just surprised herself.
âI feel like Iâm doing something real. Like Iâm⊠living. Not just existing between air-conditioned places.â
You hold her gaze for a second longer than you mean to.
She breaks it first, laughing lightly. âPlus, Iâll have a great story when I go back to school.â
You chuckle. âYouâre going to open with âI once overpaid for pechayâ?â
She grins. âNo. Iâll open with, âI once held a bag of raw fish and survived.ââ
And for the first time, you donât see the rich girl from DLSU.
You just see Ning.
And sheâs starting to feel like yours
Your Apartment Kitchen, 2:14 PM
You place the ingredients on the counter. Fish, pechay, calamansi, some leftover onion, a tomato Ning insisted was âtoo wrinkly to live.â Youâre planning something simpleâjust fried galunggong and ginisang gulay.
Ning stares at the fish.
âI feel like theyâre⊠fighting for their lives.â
âTheyâre already dead, Ning.â
âI mean spiritually.â
You roll your eyes and grab a chopping board. âCome on. Weâll cook together.â
Her face lights up. âLike those couples on YouTube?â
You freeze mid-chop. âWeâre notââ
âShh,â she says, putting on your spare apron. It hangs off her like a child playing house. âDonât ruin the aesthetic.â
You hand her a tomato. âSlice this.â
She holds it like itâs alien technology.
ââŠHow do I hold it again?â
You step behind her, gently placing your hands over hers.
âLike this,â you say, guiding her fingers.
Your hands linger. Her hair smells like coconut shampoo. Sheâs not speaking.
Neither are you.
Just the sound of your breaths syncing, your hands on hers, the tomato slowly surrendering under the blade.
She exhales, shaky. âThis feels like a scene in a teleserye.â
âExcept thereâs no background music,â you mumble.
She glances over her shoulder, smirking. âSays who?â
You roll your eyesâbut your heartâs beating a little faster.
Eventually, the stove hisses to life.
You heat oil in the pan. Ning steps back cautiously, eyes squinting like it might explode.
âYouâre scared of the oil,â you tease.
âIâm scared of trauma,â she says, backing against the counter. âIt pops like gunshots!â
You drop the fish into the pan. It sizzles loudlyâNing screams. You barely catch her wrist as she jumps behind you, peeking like sheâs watching a horror film.
âItâs frying, not fighting you.â
She peeks again. âItâs bubblingâŠâ
âYou bubble too when youâre angry.â
âExactly. See how scary I am?â
You laugh. âYeah. Terrifying.â
She shoves your arm lightly. You donât move.
You just smile.
30 minutes later.
You both sit at the table, staring at the final product: a semi-burnt but edible galunggong, slightly overcooked pechay, and rice Ning almost remembered to fluff.
She takes a bite.
Chews.
Then raises both arms in the air dramatically. âI have achieved domesticity!â
You snort. âItâs not MasterChef, Ning.â
âBut itâs mine,â she says softly. âOur mess. Our rice. Our fish.â
You glance at her. Her smile is smaller now. Warmer.
No designer lipstick. No filters.
Just Ning Yizhuo, sweaty from cooking, proud of her â±100 pechay, and looking at you like maybeâjust maybeâthis is what home could feel like.
You grab your fork. âNext time, you do the frying.â
She gasps. âThatâs a death sentence.â
You smirk. âThen I guess we better cook together again.â
She blinks.
Then smiles.
âYeah,â she says. âWe better
The mealâs done. Sort of.
Youâre drying plates while Ning stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair clipped messily. Dish soap bubbles spill from her hands like foam parties gone wrong.
âAre you sure Iâm doing this right?â she mutters, squinting at a fork.
âItâs not neurosurgery, Ning.â
âI wouldnât know,â she says. âIâve never washed a dish in my life.â
You blink. âNever?â
She shakes her head, sheepish. âNot once. I always just⊠left it on the counter. And poof. It disappeared.â
You whistle low. âWow. Must be nice.â
She doesnât laugh. Just looks down at her hands. Sudsy. Pale. Dripping.
âI think thatâs why I stayed with Kai for so long,â she says softly. âBecause I thought love was⊠being taken care of. Being served.â
You glance at her, waiting.
âBut thisââ she gestures at the sponge, the heat, the water. âThis feels weirdly better.â
You bump her hip lightly with yours. âItâs because you earned it.â
She smiles at the sink. âItâs because Iâm with you.â
Your hand stops mid-dry.
But she doesnât push it. She just continues washing, humming quietly to herself.
You donât say anything.
You just keep drying the plates like your heart didnât just hiccup inside your chest.
Rooftop, 11:34 PM
The night air is cool. You both sit on the rooftopâher in your hoodie now, legs tucked into her chest, your shoulder nearly touching hers.
Below, the world murmurs. Jeepneys. Radios. Barking dogs. But up here, itâs calm.
She sips from a cheap plastic cup of Milo.
âI used to think I knew who I was,â she says suddenly. âYizhuo. Daughter of the Yoons. Fluent in French. Studied abroad. Always clean. Always polite. Always⊠perfect.â
You say nothing. Let her speak.
âBut the more I stayed in that life, the more I felt like I was shrinking. Like every time I said âyes poâ or smiled at a dinner I hated, I lost a version of myself.â
She rests her head on her knees.
âIâm scared,â she admits.
You turn slightly. âOf what?â
âThat I donât belong here either. That Iâm just playing pretend in reverse now. Like a rich girl trying to cosplay being normal. And that the moment I get one thing wrong⊠people will laugh.â
You take a beat. Then: âThen let them.â
She looks at you.
âYouâre trying,â you say. âYouâre failing sometimes, yeah. But failing isnât fake. Itâs proof youâre in it. It means more than all the perfect smiles you gave for free before.â
She stares at you. Long. Quiet. Like sheâs memorizing the words.
Then, softly: âYou make me feel real.â
You smile. âYou are real.â
A pause.
She sets her cup down. âY/N?â
âYeah?â
âIf I asked you to hold my hand right now, would it be weird?â
You look at herâreally look at herâand for the first time, sheâs not playing at anything. Not pretending. Not flirting.
You reach out. She takes your hand.
And together, you just sit there. Holding onto silence like itâs the only thing keeping your hearts from spilling over.
The Next Day
The next morning, youâre frying eggs when thereâs a knock at the door.
Ning, hair still wet from her bucket bath, peeks out the window.
And freezes.
âWhat?â you ask, stepping beside her.
Outside, standing crisp in a dark grey long-sleeved polo, holding a takeout bag from some overpriced cafĂ© in BGCâŠ
âŠis Kai Yoon.
You and Ning stare at him. He meets both your gazes. Eyes unreadable.
He lifts the bag slightly. Almost like a peace offering.
âCan we talk?â he asks, eyes on Ning.
She doesnât answer right away. Just clutches her towel tighter, like sheâs not sure what sheâs shieldingâher skin or her peace.
You look at her. âYou donât have to.â
But she steps back, exhales, and saysâ
âGive me five minutes.â
Your jaw tightens, but you nod.
As she closes the door behind her, your knuckles whiten around the frying pan handle.
Youâre not worried about him hurting her.
Youâre worried about her forgetting what sheâs learned to love.
The door clicks shut.
Ning steps out barefoot onto the sun-warmed tiles of your apartment landing. Her hair is still dripping, towel slung over her shoulder. She looks like she just stepped out of something pureâlike peaceâand into something that smells like old perfume and pretense.
Kai holds the café bag awkwardly.
âI didnât know what you eat now,â he says, offering it. âThey had truffle croissants.â
She stares at it. âYou think this is a peace offering?â
Kai smiles faintly. âItâs a start.â
She doesnât take the bag.
âYou always did that,â she says. âUse money to fix things.â
âItâs what I have,â he replies. âAnd you liked it, remember?â
She blinks. âI liked you. Not your Black Card.â
Kai shifts, uncomfortable for the first time. His voice drops.
âI miss you.â
Inside the apartment hallway, behind the door:
You didnât mean to eavesdrop.
You were just⊠worried.
You press your ear to the door, trying not to breathe too loudly.
Then you hear it:
âI miss you.â
Your chest tightens. You grip the edge of the counter like itâll steady your heart.
Back outside:
Ning crosses her arms. âYou miss the version of me that didnât talk back. That wore what your mom liked. That went to meetings just to smile and pour wine.â
Kaiâs jaw clenches. âThatâs not true.â
âIsnât it?â she asks. âDo you even know who I am now?â
âIâm trying,â he says quietly. âThatâs why Iâm here.â
Thereâs a long pause.
Then Kai says the thing that you hear through the door:
âYou were better with me, Ning.â
The words hit like cold water.
Inside, you flinch.
Your throat dries.
Outside, Ning stays very still.
Kai softens. âYou had structure. Discipline. A path. You werenât flailing around in slippers at wet markets with some random guy whoââ
âDonât,â she cuts sharply. âDonât talk about him like that.â
Kaiâs eyes flash. âYou really think he understands you more than I did?â
She doesnât answer.
And silence, this time, screams.
Thenâ
He steps forward.
And wraps his arms around her.
She freezes.
Then slowlyâreluctantlyâlets herself rest her chin on his shoulder.
Not tightly.
Not long.
But enough.
Inside:
You see it.
Through the open window.
That hug.
Your world stills.
The eggs on the stove begin to burn.
You donât notice.
You just⊠quietly step back.
Like something in you cracked open and didnât know how to close again.
Ning steps back into the apartment.
She looks shaken, but not sad. Just thoughtful. Her towel still slung over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed.
Youâre already wiping the pan clean. Face unreadable. Voice even.
âBreakfastâs cold,â you say.
She pauses.
âIâKaiâhe just wanted toââ
âYou donât have to explain,â you say too quickly.
She hesitates again. âYou sure?â
You nod. âYeah.â
But you donât meet her eyes.
You just turn your back and start reboiling water you donât really need.
And Ning, for the first time since staying with you, feels a distance that wasnât there yesterday.
You used to cook together.
Now, you eat in silence.
The only sound at lunch is the scrape of a fork against your â±10 plate and the ticking fan that wobbles like it might fall any day now.
She sits across from you, legs crossed, hair perfect again. Even her nails are painted nowâlight pink with tiny gold accents. Thereâs a glint of pearl earrings that werenât there last week.
You donât ask.
She doesnât tell.
But between every spoonful, thereâs that thick quiet. The kind you only hear between people who used to laugh.
Market Morning
You grab the bayong and head out. The sun is high, the air thick with rain that hasnât fallen yet.
She stays in bed, scrolling. You glance once before leaving.
âNeed anything?â
She shakes her head without looking up. âKaiâs picking me up in an hour.â
You nod once.
You donât say goodbye.
Rooftop Steakhouse â Night
A rooftop in BGC. Golden light. Jazz music. Wine in glasses with stems longer than her fingers.
Ning sits across from Kai, eating steak she didnât order. He talks about expansionâtech, models, Singapore, Paris.
âParis?â she asks softly, staring out at the skyline.
âYeah,â Kai says. âWe could go. For New Year. You and me again.â
She chews slowly.
The steak tastes like money. Like comfort. Like the life her father wanted her to return to.
Her phone buzzes once.
She doesnât check.
But her fingers twitch.
Back home, the rain finally comes.
Not in drizzles.
In sheets.
You scramble as water rushes in through the back door, frantically stacking up chairs, unplugging sockets, grabbing the rice container before it floats away.
The water is ankle-deep.
Youâve got no rain boots. Just tsinelas. Just yourself.
You think of Ning.
Of how she used to squeal when she saw a cockroach, how she held fish like it was cursed, how she once tried to sweep a leak away with a face towel.
Sheâs not here now.
Youâre soaked to the bone.
The electric fan you bought last month sparks onceâthen dies.
So you sit.
In the flood.
Alone.
You, in the dark, watching raindrops plink into your pot.
Ning, on a rooftop, watching city lights flicker like stars you can almost touch.
Kaiâs voice fades into the background. Something about investment. About her father calling him âfinally someone respectable.â
Ning cuts her steak.
But her heart?
Itâs not chewing.
Itâs remembering.
The burnt sinangag. The way you looked at her during that rooftop talk. How your hand fit perfectly in hers without needing to squeeze too tight.
She blinks.
Her wine glass reflects the city.
But in it, she sees you.
And her smile fades.
Back at Your Place â Midnight
The floodwaterâs receded.
You mop in silence.
You place the fan outside, unsure if itâll ever work again.
You donât text her.
You donât check her socials.
But when you sit back on the wooden chair by the window and close your eyesâ
You think of her.
And wonder if she still thinks of you
The house smells like wet cement and bleach.
Your jeans are still damp. You havenât changed out of them. Havenât eaten dinner either.
Instead, you sit on the monoblock chair just outside your door, elbows on your knees, a bottle of Ginebra at your side, half-empty. A box of Fortune Reds lies unopened beside it.
You stare at the box.
You told yourself never again. Not after your dad. Not after what it did to your voice.
But itâs quiet tonight. Too quiet. The kind that makes you want to cough out every feeling like smoke just to fill the space.
Rain drips from the rusted awning overhead. A faint scent of galunggong still lingers in the air, like itâs haunting you.
And then you hear it.
That low, smooth hum.
Tires on wet gravel.
A sleek, polished black sports carâalmost foreign against the warped concrete and half-flooded gutterâpulls up right in front of your gate.
You donât move.
The driver door opens.
And there she is.
Ning Yizhuo.
Hair smooth. Blazer expensive. Heels tapping lightly against the wet pavement.
The door doesnât close. The engine keeps running behind her like itâs waiting. Like sheâs just pausing.
She steps forward.
You still donât move.
Only your fingers twitch toward the cigarette box.
She looks at you like sheâs not sure what sheâs expectingâanger? forgiveness? one last smile?
You look at her like youâre not sure what sheâs offering.
Her lips part.
Then, softly:
âY/N⊠Iâm flying to Paris.â
You exhale through your nose. Not shocked. Not anymore.
Of course she is.
Paris. The place they promised her. The symbol of who she used to be. Or who she was always meant to become again.
You nod slowly.
Not because you agree.
Just because itâs the only thing you know how to do without crumbling.
She waits. Maybe for you to say something. Stop her. Ask her not to go.
But you donât.
You finally pick up the cigarette box. Open it. Pull one out with shaking fingers.
She watches, eyes widening. âYou donât smoke.â
âI do now,â you say.
Your voice is hoarse. Not cruel. Just⊠tired.
She looks at the car.
Then back at you.
âItâs not forever,â she says, almost desperate. âJust⊠for now. Just a little while.â
You light the cigarette. It sputters against the rain-heavy air, but you breathe in anyway.
The taste burns.
So does everything else.
You look up at her.
Eyes red. But not from smoke.
From the flood youâre trying to pretend isnât inside you.
âThen go,â you say quietly.
She flinches.
âI waited,â you add. âYou said you wanted something real. I thought you meant me.â
Her lip trembles. âI did.â
You scoff, bitter. âThen why does it feel like I was just⊠part of your transition? A layover between lives.â
She blinks rapidly.
You flick ash onto the pavement. The ember glows faintly in the dark.
âYouâre gonna forget me in first class, Yizhuo.â
She shakes her head. âNo. I wonât.â
But the carâs still running.
The lights still on.
You donât believe her.
You just look at her one last time.
Soaking her inâevery detail. The old you wouldâve reached for her hand. Tucked her hair back. Told her to stay.
But now?
Now you just say:
âParis is beautiful this time of year.â
She swallows hard.
âGoodbye, Y/N.â
She turns.
The car door closes.
The taillights disappear.
And you sit back down, alone again, rainwater at your feet.
The cigaretteâs ash falls off quietly into the gutter
















