Sandali // FayeYoko

Epilogue

Years have passed. The stage lights feel warm on my skin, the hum of the crowd just a low buzz in the background. I clutch the microphone, forcing myself to keep my breathing steady. Beside me, the interviewer beams, holding the latest copy of my book, the cover gleaming under the spotlights. My name, in bold letters, sits at the top: Faylene Malisorn. Below it, the title reads: Sandali.

"Your book has touched the hearts of many," the interviewer says, glancing down at her notes. "It's not just a bestseller—it's been hailed as one of the most beautifully written love stories in recent years. What makes it even more compelling is that it has your name as one of the characters. Ms. Faylene, can you tell us—what's the inspiration behind this deeply personal book?"

I smile, holding the microphone just a little tighter. I can feel the weight of the question—heavy, but not unfamiliar. "The book was actually from a real-life experience of mine," I begin, my voice steady but soft. "Yohana, the girl I loved, inspired me the most."

The crowd murmurs, some leaning in closer, eager to hear more. They've read the book, devoured every word, but they want to hear the story from my lips, the truth behind the fiction.

"She was everything to me," I continue, my mind drifting to Yohana's familiar laugh, the warmth of her smile. "Every moment we shared was a gift, and when I wrote this book, it wasn't just to tell a love story. It was my way of keeping her alive."

The interviewer nods, her expression softening. "Hindi ba mahirap to write about something so personal? To revisit those memories?"

A bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "Oo, mahirap s'ya," I admit. "It was like living through it all over again—the joy, the loss, the grief. But it was also healing. It helped me understand things I couldn't grasp back then. And it made me realize that love, no matter how brief, stays with you. It shapes you, even after the person is gone."

The interviewer offers a kind smile. "It's incredible how your story has resonated with so many people. You've turned something painful into something beautiful."

I nod, grateful for the kind words. But the truth is, Yohana was the one who gave me that beauty. She was the one who taught me to see the world in color again, even when everything felt gray.

After the interview wraps up, I step off the stage, greeted by applause. The book signing is next—a long line of readers waiting with their copies in hand, eager for a signature, a moment to connect. As I settle behind the table, I glance at the people in line. Some hold bouquets, others clutch bookmarks and pens, but most of them carry the same look in their eyes—a quiet understanding, as if my story gave voice to something they, too, have felt.

A young woman approaches the table, her hands trembling as she hands me her book. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice cracking. "Your book... it made me feel like I wasn't alone."

I smile, touched by her words. "You're never alone," I tell her gently, signing her book with a flourish. "Love stays with us, always."

She nods, wiping her eyes before moving aside for the next reader.

As I continue signing, I think of Yohana—how much she would've loved moments like this. She never liked the spotlight, but she loved stories, especially the ones that made people feel seen. I can almost hear her voice, teasing me with a playful, "So famous ka na pala ngayon, ha?"

I chuckle under my breath, the thought of her making my heart feel lighter.

Hours pass, and the line slowly dwindles. My hand aches from signing, but it's a good kind of ache—the kind that reminds me that what we shared mattered. That Yohana's love, though fleeting, left a mark not just on me but on every person holding a copy of my book.