Sandali

It Ends Here

[MALOI]

The morning sun streamed through the blinds as I stretched out of bed, my phone buzzing with an incoming message. It was from Colet, her usual early-morning text that never failed to make me smile. But today, her message held a twist.

"Let's do a 24-hour no-communication challenge! Whoever breaks it first owes the other dinner."

I chuckled, picturing her mischievous grin. We loved our little games, our playful competitions that kept our relationship vibrant and alive. "Challenge accepted," I texted back, feeling a rush of excitement. Colet was at her mom's house, or so she said, which made the challenge even more interesting.

I spent the first few hours of the challenge busily enough. Work kept me occupied, and I managed to push thoughts of Colet to the back of my mind. But as the day wore on, the silence began to weigh on me. I realized just how much I relied on her texts, her calls, her presence to brighten my day. I missed her laugh, her voice, the way she always knew just what to say.

By the afternoon, I was feeling restless. I decided to channel my energy into something productive, something meaningful. Our anniversary was coming up, and I wanted to do something special for her. I grabbed my notepad and sat down at the kitchen table, the blank pages staring back at me.

I started writing an anniversary letter, pouring my heart into every word. I wrote about the first time we met, the way her smile had lit up the room. I wrote about our adventures, our dreams, the quiet moments that meant the most. I wrote about how much I loved her, how grateful I was to have her in my life. The words flowed easily, each one a reflection of the deep, abiding love I felt for her.

Time slipped away unnoticed as I lost myself in the memories. The sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the room. I could almost hear her voice, feel her presence beside me. The letter became a tribute to our journey, a testament to the love we shared.

When the 24 hours were finally up, I felt a mix of excitement and relief. I couldn't wait to hear her voice again, to tell her about the letter and how much I had missed her. I grabbed my phone and opened Messenger, eager to reconnect with her.

But as I read her message, my heart stopped.

"Happy Anniversary, Maloii! Happy Anniversary to my amazing and beautiful girlfriend! Thank you sa lahat ng ginawa mo para sa akin. Di ko makakalimutan yung mga 'yun. Unfortunately, by the time you're reading this — I'm already dead. I had brain cancer these previous months, I was scared to tell you personally, and I felt like this was the right time. Consider this a sign para makapag-move on ka na, para masanay ka na wala ako. I will always love you, for eternity and beyond! 💋 💗"

I stared at the screen, disbelief washing over me. This had to be a mistake, a cruel joke. I reread the message over and over, hoping for a different outcome. But the words remained the same, an unchanging nightmare.

Trembling, I rushed to the hospital, my mind racing with fear and denial. Each step felt heavier than the last as I navigated the sterile hallways, the beeping of machines and murmurs of voices echoing around me. I asked the nurses frantically for her room number, my heart pounding in my chest. Finally, I reached her room, my breath catching in my throat.

There she was, lying in the hospital bed, looking frail and peaceful. The reality hit me like a tidal wave, and I collapsed beside her, tears streaming down my face. She had been so strong, so brave, and I had been oblivious.

I took her hand in mine, feeling the coldness of her skin. "Colet," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The silence was my only answer. As I sat there, holding her hand, I realized the depth of her love and sacrifice. She had wanted to protect me, to shield me from the pain. And in doing so, she had carried the burden alone.