Sandali // FayeYoko

Chapter 11

Some things are too good to question. Kahit alam mong hindi sila magtatagal, you let them be—just for a little while longer. That's how it feels with Yohana. After the confession, nothing really changes, yet everything does. We still have our quiet mornings and lazy afternoons, but now there's a shift, subtle as the breeze that carries the scent of blooming flowers in the garden.

Yohana hasn't said much about what happened that night—how we peeled back layers we didn't know we were hiding. She just stays, present as ever, her laughter like music threading through my days. Sa kanya ko naramdaman ang paghinga ulit—yung tipong hindi lang para makasurvive, pero para maramdaman ang bawat segundo.

"Oh eto," Yohana grins, handing me a paperback novel as we sit beneath the old acacia tree. "You'll love this one—it's tragic."

She always says that with a smile, as if stories about loss and heartbreak amuse her. I laugh, shaking my head, and take the book. "Are you trying to make me cry again?"

She shrugs, playful but distant, like she's hiding behind her grin. "It's good for the soul, Fay."

I hold onto these moments, hoping that, eventually, the weight she carries will lift, and she'll trust me enough to let it go. But for now, I settle for the version of Yohana she's willing to give me, even if it feels like a delicate act of balancing on the edge of something fragile.

"Hoy, slow down!" I laugh as Yohana drags me toward the flower beds, a playful grin on her lips. "Hindi lahat ng tao hyper katulad mo."

She flashes that mischievous smile—the one that makes me feel like the world is lighter than it actually is. "Come on, Fay. Look at them—ang ganda nila!"

The roses are in full bloom, petals spread wide under the sun. Yohana crouches beside the bushes, brushing her fingers lightly against the soft edges of the flowers. I watch her with quiet fascination, as if she's part of the garden, growing and changing with every day we spend here.

"Sana ganito rin kadali, ano?" she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

"Ang alin?" I ask, kneeling beside her.

She shrugs, still tracing the petals. "Living. Growing. Yung wala kang takot na baka masira ka."

I stay quiet. Moments like this-when Yohana slips out of her cheerful mask without meaning to—are rare, fleeting. I let her words settle in the air between us, not daring to touch them too soon.

"Pero nandito ka pa rin, living, growing," I say softly, not as a question but a statement.

She glances at me, her expression unreadable. Then, she smiles-soft and sad, like she's carrying the weight of things she can't say out loud.

The perfect days continue.

We spend our mornings under the canopy of trees, reading to each other from books we find in second-hand shops. In the afternoons, we get lost in conversations that dance between lighthearted banter and the kind of honesty that makes your chest ache. And at night, we sit beneath the stars, sharing silences that speak louder than words ever could.

"Masarap pala maging ganito," Yohana says one evening, her head resting on my shoulder as we lie on the grass. "Yung wala kang iniisip na bukas."

I hum in agreement, though deep down, I know the truth. There's always a tomorrow. And with tomorrow comes uncertainty—something Yohana and I both know too well.

Every now and then, I catch her in moments where her smile falters, where the weight of her fears slips through the cracks. But she's quick to recover, always bouncing back with a joke or a playful remark.