The ride home was quiet.
Elián didn't try to speak again. And I didn't offer anything. Not after Isla turned the backseat into a circus — singing bits of the karaoke songs, talking to herself, occasionally threatening to throw up out the window.
When we pulled up outside Isla's apartment, she was already half-asleep against the door. Elián helped her out, and walked her to the gate with me, like old times — that strange, tender teamwork we always seemed to fall into.
"Thanks for the ride," I said.
He nodded. But before I could go, he touched my wrist gently. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "You haven't changed… at least not the parts I remember."
I didn't know what to say. So, I didn't.
He left without another word. Just the hum of the engine and the hollow feeling of something unfinished.
That night, I collapsed on Isla's couch, too tired to even wash off the eyeliner smudged across my face. The quiet of her apartment wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I let it lull me, pull me down.
And then I dreamed.
It wasn't this life.
The air was heavy with candle smoke and jasmine. The room was dim, stone walls lit by flickering flames. And I was standing barefoot on ancient tiles, facing a mirror — but the reflection wasn't mine.
Not entirely.
My hair was longer. My skin was slightly darker, and sun-warmed. And I was wearing a dress — no, a gown. Ivory and gold thread, hand-stitched, laced with stories I didn't know but somehow remembered. The sleeves flowed like water. The bodice fit like memory.
Behind me, a veil. A crown of dried lavender and pearls.
I turned, and I knew — I was getting married.
Not in Quezon City. Not in this lifetime. But somewhere else. Sometime else. A past I never lived but always carried.
I looked toward the door — waiting for someone. I didn't know who.
But I felt it. The ache. The knowing.
He wasn't coming.
Not this time either.
And I woke up crying.
"What the hell," Isla groaned, lurching up from her bedroom, holding a mug like it might save her life. "Why are you sobbing at seven a.m.? Are you watching sad reels again? I swear to God—"
I wiped my face and shook my head.
"No," I croaked, "Just a dream."
She sat down next to me, eyes still half-shut. "What, he got married in your dream or something?"
"No. I did."
That woke her up a bit.
"Oh."
"But it wasn't me. Not really. And it wasn't now. The gown was… it was old. Like, centuries old."
She blinked. "Okay, spooky. You sure you didn't drink too much and watch Bridgerton before bed?"
I laughed through the last of my tears. "No. It felt real. Like it was… mine. But not from this life."
Isla leaned back. "Well, maybe your soul just wanted closure in a prettier dress."
I looked at her.
She shrugged. "What? I'm just saying — if you're gonna hurt yourself, at least do it in couture."
And just like that, I laughed again.
Even if something deep inside me was still unraveling.
But Isla wasn't done. After a beat, she added more quietly, "Hey… just promise me something?"
I turned to her, still half-lost in the haze of the dream.
"If he shows up again — really shows up, not just in your head — don't forget how long it took you to come back to yourself," she said, not unkindly. "Just because someone feels like home doesn't mean they won't burn the place down."
I swallowed. Her words settled in the room, soft but heavy.
"I know," I whispered.
And I meant it.
But knowing and remembering — that's a different thing entirely.