When Love Break Ties

Chapter 42: Abby's Letter

Nathan stared at the envelope in his hand, his name written in familiar handwriting. His heart gave a small, involuntary lurch as he ran his fingers over the delicate, cursive letters: Nathan Salvador. The return address was from Cebu. He hadn't heard from Abby in months, not since they parted ways in Tokyo and had gone on their separate journeys.

It wasn't unusual for him to think of her, but it was different now—softer, without the sting of longing or regret. Life had gone on for both of them, and he had made his peace with their parting. Or at least, that's what he told himself until her letter arrived. Now, holding the envelope in his hands, old emotions surfaced like a wave he hadn't been prepared for.

The quiet afternoon sun filtered through the curtains of his Manila apartment, casting a golden glow on everything. He sat down at his desk, staring at the unopened letter. He wasn't sure if he wanted to read it. What could Abby possibly have to say now? Did she want closure? An explanation? Or worse, was she still angry? Nathan had no idea what awaited him in those few handwritten pages.

With a sigh, he carefully tore open the envelope, unfolding the letter inside. The smell of paper—fresh ink and the faintest trace of Abby's familiar scent—hit him, a mix of perfume and the Cebu air she always carried with her. He began to read:

Dear Nathan,

It feels strange writing to you after all this time, but I guess I knew at some point I would reach out. I've been back in Cebu for a while now, and life here is... different. I can't say it's perfect or that I've figured everything out. But it's home, you know? And home has a way of making you confront things you'd rather not face.

I wanted to update you on what's been happening in my life. I'm finally working things out with my mom—well, trying to. You know how difficult that relationship has always been for me. We're not magically on good terms, but we're talking, and that's a start. There are still so many unresolved issues between us, but maybe that's the point of family. We try, even if we fail most of the time.

Being back in Cebu has given me a lot of time to think. About you, about us, about everything we went through. I want you to know that I don't regret any of it. Not the fights, not the goodbyes, not even the heartbreak. We both grew in ways I don't think we expected. Sometimes I wonder if we were meant to meet each other, not to stay together forever, but to learn something about ourselves.

Nathan paused, absorbing her words. There was a heaviness in his chest, but it wasn't painful—just... reflective. The Abby he had known back in Tokyo had been impulsive, fiery, always ready to push back. This Abby—the one writing him from Cebu—seemed softer, more contemplative. She was changing, just as he had been.

He continued reading:

I've been doing a lot of soul-searching, trying to figure out who I am without you in my life. It hasn't been easy. I think a part of me still clings to what we had because it felt like home, too. You were my safe place in the chaos, even when we fought, even when we were on opposite sides of everything. But I've realized something important—maybe we weren't supposed to be each other's forever.

That doesn't mean I don't miss you. I do, in ways I can't really explain. I miss our conversations, the way you used to make me laugh when I was feeling down. I miss your advice, even when I didn't want to hear it. I miss us, Nathan. But here's the thing: I've learned that missing someone doesn't mean you're meant to go back. Sometimes it just means you appreciate what you had.

Nathan found himself nodding as he read those words. He had gone through a similar process in the months since they had parted ways. He missed Abby, too—there were times when he would see something or hear a song that reminded him of her, and for a moment, he would feel the ache of her absence. But it wasn't the kind of longing that pulled him backward. It was simply a reminder that she had been an important part of his life, and that chapter had closed.

He continued reading:

I'm working on myself, Nathan, in ways I didn't even know I needed to. Being back in Cebu, being around my family again, has forced me to confront a lot of things I was running from. I don't know where this journey will take me, but I feel like I'm on the right path. And that's why I'm writing to you.

I don't know where you are right now—in your heart, in your life—but I wanted you to know that I'm here. Not the same Abby you knew in Tokyo, but someone who's growing, just like you are. And I don't know what that means for us. I'm not writing to ask for us to get back together, or to rehash everything we went through. I'm writing because you were important to me, and I want you to know that I still care.

Nathan felt his throat tighten as he read that last line. Abby had always had a way of cutting through the noise, of getting straight to the heart of things. It was one of the things he had loved most about her, even when it drove him crazy. She was direct, unafraid to say what needed to be said, and that honesty had always been refreshing.

Maybe our paths will cross again someday. Maybe we'll be different people by then, people who can love each other in ways we couldn't before. Or maybe we'll just look back on our time together as a beautiful, messy, imperfect chapter in our lives. I don't know. All I know is that I'm grateful for you, Nathan. And wherever you are, I hope you're happy.

Take care of yourself.

Abby

Nathan sat back in his chair, the letter resting on his lap. He stared out the window, watching the sky turn from a soft blue to the deep hues of dusk. Abby's words echoed in his mind—Maybe our paths will cross again someday—but he didn't dwell on the possibility. The ambiguity of her message left him with more questions than answers, but that was okay. Life didn't always offer closure wrapped up in neat little packages.

He folded the letter carefully and placed it back in the envelope, tucking it into the drawer of his desk. He wasn't sure what the future held, but he knew one thing for certain: both he and Abby were on their own paths now, and those paths might never intersect again. And that was okay. They had given each other what they needed at the time, and now, they were growing in different directions.

Nathan stood up and stretched, feeling a lightness in his chest that hadn't been there before. He felt a strange sense of closure—not the kind that came with finality, but the kind that came with acceptance. Abby had reached out, not to rekindle what was lost, but to acknowledge what they had shared. It was enough.

As he made his way to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, Nathan felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips. Life without Abby had been an adjustment, but it had also been an opportunity to rediscover himself. He wasn't the same man who had left for Tokyo months ago, and that was a good thing.

Maybe, someday, their paths would cross again. But for now, he was content to walk his own.