My Lover Is My Teacher (ON GOING)

Eggs or Bacon

​"Babe," I called out, my voice bright, trying to cut through the heavy silence of the kitchen. "Which do you prefer? Eggs or bacon?"

​Leandro didn't respond. He was staring at the blank screen of his iPad, his fingers hovering motionless over the glass.

​"Okay," I said, forcing a smile that felt a little too tight on my face. "I'll cook both. And, you know? We should change the color of the walls. Maybe a soft beige?"

​Again, nothing.

​"Babe? Are you with me?"

​He blinked, as if snapping back from a great distance. "Hm?" He looked at me then, but his eyes didn't seem to fully connect. "I'm sorry, Chealsie. Just work. Deadlines. Sure, change the walls if you want to." He stood up, clutching his iPad like a shield.

​"Where are you going?"

​"The park. It's quieter. Easier to concentrate." He leaned down, pressing a quick, dry kiss to my forehead. It was a polite gesture-the kind you'd give a sister, not a fiancée. "See you later, babe."

​He didn't wait for a response. The door clicked shut, the sound final and hollow.

​I looked down at the eggs and bacon sizzling in the pan, the smell suddenly nauseating.

​I'm Chealsie Ferrer. Best friend, girlfriend, and-as of six months ago-fiancée to Leandro Dela Cruz. Our families go back decades; we're two halves of the same history. We grew up inseparable, sharing the same naive dreams and that childish, breathless pact: If we're both single at thirty-five, we'll marry each other.

​It felt like a joke then. But six years ago, we found each other again. Both of us were single, both of us were tired of searching. It felt like fate. I was the lucky girl who landed her long-time crush, the man who knew every secret I ever had.

​Or so I thought.

​Ever since we started living together, there's been a shadow. Leandro isn't the man I remember. He's distracted, frayed at the edges, and carries a quiet, aching heaviness in his chest that he refuses to name. He never talks about those years he spent as a teacher, or why he resigned so abruptly. When I ask, his eyes go dark, and the conversation ends. I'm terrified that if I push too hard, he'll just walk out the door and never come back.

​The smoke alarm chirped, a piercing sound that jolted me back to reality. I scrambled to turn off the stove, staring at the perfectly cooked breakfast sitting in the pan, cooling rapidly.

​I rubbed my temple, feeling a dull throb behind my eyes. "Well," I whispered to the empty, beige-walled kitchen, "I guess I'm eating for two today."

​I looked at my reflection in the window-polished, waiting, and deeply, deeply lonely. I didn't know what he was searching for at the park, but I knew, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that it wasn't beige paint or wedding invitations.