Sandali // FayeYoko

Chapter 9

There was something about Yohana that made things feel lighter, like the world didn’t press down as hard when she was around. Parang kahit gaano kabigat dati, mas kaya ko na ngayong huminga. And it wasn’t just the garden that started to bloom—it was me. Slowly, piece by piece, I was finding myself again, rediscovering the parts I had tucked away because life had made me too tired to care.

The garden, once my quiet retreat, had become a place of laughter. And not just any laughter—Yohana’s laugh. The kind that felt like sunlight sneaking through clouds after a long storm. She’d sit next to me under the acacia tree, knees tucked to her chest, sharing stories that made the days blur together in the most beautiful way.

"Alam mo, Fay," Yohana said one afternoon, twirling a flower between her fingers, "I think you’re starting to come back to life."

I tilted my head at her. "What do you mean?"

She gave me a soft smile, the kind that made it impossible not to feel seen. "When we first met, you were like... a flower that forgot how to bloom."

I laughed, though there was truth in her words. "And ngayon?"

"Ngayon?" Yohana leaned in, her grin playful. "Now, you’re starting to bloom again."

I wanted to brush it off as one of her jokes, but deep down, I knew she was right. I hadn’t realized how lost I was until she came along. It wasn’t something I could explain, but Yohana made me feel things again—things I thought I’d forgotten.

Her words stayed with me long after she left that day. I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that had changed since she entered my life. I hadn’t realized how numb I had become—how much of myself I had buried just to survive. But with Yohana, the world didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

One day, she found me in the middle of a messy painting session in the garden, my hands stained with blues and greens. The old easel creaked under the weight of a new canvas, and the brush strokes were wild and imperfect, like I was trying to capture every feeling I hadn’t expressed in years.

"Wow," Yohana whispered as she stepped closer, tilting her head to study the painting.

"It’s a mess," I said, half-laughing, wiping my hands on a rag.

"Ang ganda kaya," she countered, her voice soft. "It doesn’t have to be perfect," she added with a shrug. "It’s beautiful because it’s yours."

I looked at her, surprised at the way those words settled in my chest. No one had ever seen me like that before—at least, not in a way that made me feel seen.

"You really think so?" I asked quietly.

Yohana nodded, meeting my gaze. "Of course. I think everything you do is a kind of art."

And just like that, the parts of me that had been dormant started to stir, as if her words had unlocked something I hadn’t dared touch in years.

Our afternoons in the garden became a ritual—an anchor in a world that often felt chaotic. Some days, we’d just sit in silence, letting the rustle of the leaves and the soft hum of the wind fill the spaces between us. Other times, Yohana would bring a speaker and blast music that made us laugh and dance.

"Tara na, Fay!" she’d say, pulling me to my feet, her laughter contagious. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to dance."

At first, I’d resist, my body stiff and unsure. But with her hands in mine, it became impossible not to move. The hesitation melted away, replaced by something that felt suspiciously like joy.