When the truth hurts too much to say, you start to sing.
It was a slow unraveling with Jeth.
We had built something delicate, thread by thread—night by night, lyric by lyric. No kisses. No shared meals. Just words. Screens. Emotion shaped in digital ink. And I truly believed that sometimes, love didn't need the physical to feel real.
I was wrong.
Flashback: The Other Jaimie
We were already using pet names.
Already telling each other about our worst days and our childhood fears. I knew the rhythm of his sighs. He once said, "if our connection had a sound, it'd be a rainy night and your voice."
I saved that message.
Then one night, his tone changed.
He said, "I need to tell you something, and I hate that I waited this long."
I froze.
He continued:14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmBOYwsw42L
"My girlfriend's name is Jaimie too. She's working abroad. We've been together for three years. I'm supposed to marry her next year when she comes back."
I read that over and over.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdORn9zgoH8
Then once more, as if maybe it would mean something else the second time.
My fingers went numb. My chest burned.
And then, like a switch was flipped, I went silent.
He begged me to say something. Anything.
But all I typed was: "You knew what you were doing. So did I. But you lied, and I believed."
I blocked him the next morning.
And once again, I was left holding pieces of a version of love that never even touched the ground.
Singing the Silence Away
Grief has a way of finding outlets.
Some people drink. Some people scream.
I sang.
At first, just humming late at night when I couldn't sleep. Then whispering melodies into my phone. I wrote lyrics in between calls at work—little verses about betrayal, longing, the sound of being left behind.
Yuna found me crying one night and said, "You should download this singing app. It's where all the heartbroken people go."
So I did.
At first, it was just a quiet form of release. I uploaded duets. I sang raw, unrehearsed. No filters. Just pain and melody.
And then... something strange happened.
People started listening.
Leaving comments.
Liking the way I blended words and emotion.
It was the first time in a long while I felt heard—not judged, not advised, just heard.
Running Again
That's around the time my sister in Manila asked me to move in. Isabel needed to relocate back to the province. Carmela's mother had taken a turn, and they had to be with her in her final months.
I didn't argue.
Part of me needed the change. The distance. Christian had started messaging again—random, reckless attempts to "fix" things. He sent flowers. Voice notes. Even waited once outside my work building.
I didn't want to deal with it.
So I packed my things, said goodbye to Pampanga, and moved back to Manila, hoping for peace but expecting nothing.
And then came Dominic.
I first heard his voice, not his name.
On the singing app, we'd been randomly matched on a worship duet. His voice was smooth, clear, and unshakably warm—the kind that wraps around your ribs and makes you believe you'll survive.
His screen name was DomThePsalmist.
He messaged me after the duet:14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIPCP4auCEp
"You have a gift. There's soul in your tone. Let's sing again sometime?"
So we did.
Again.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUOoyy79Ycd
And again.
We started chatting.
He was sweet. Gentlemanly. Always respectful.
He didn't flirt. He complimented. He didn't rush. He listened.
A religious man, he often spoke about faith, healing, surrender. We had long talks about why people stay even when love hurts, and how heartbreak sometimes brings us closer to God.
He was single, smart, and deep.
The only thorn in the bouquet?
He was a mama's boy.
Every decision had to go through her.
What he ate, where he went, who he dated.
But I tried to understand.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVEwwuz53MR
After all, wasn't I also shaped by a mother's expectations? Weren't we all, in some way, still answering to the echoes of childhood?
He made me feel safe again.
And for a while, that was enough.
Until I learned that sometimes, safety isn't love.
Sometimes, it's just a cushion before the next fall.
14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGDHO2ahLJb
