I Would've Stayed, If I Could

Clues

Something’s been… off lately. Not in a bad way. Just—strange. Like the universe is whispering something to me, but I can't quite hear it clearly.

It started with a melody.

One quiet afternoon, habang nag-aayos ako ng mga halaman sa gilid ng bintana ng café, napakanta ako ng isang lullaby. Soft, almost like a hum. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until Camille peeked over the counter and asked, “Anong kanta ‘yan? Ang ganda.”

Napahinto ako. “Hindi ko alam,” sagot ko, natawa na lang. “Parang… lumabas na lang sa bibig ko.”

Camille tilted her head, smiling. “Nakakakilig ‘yung ganun. Parang old soul.”

Old soul. I just smiled back, but my heart thudded strangely. That night, the lullaby echoed in my head like it had lived there forever.

Anthony started visiting the café more regularly — or maybe I just started noticing him more.

He had a calm about him. Didn’t talk much, but when he did, he always asked things like:
“How long have you lived here?”
“Do you ever get the feeling you’re supposed to be somewhere else?”
“Do you believe in second chances?”

I usually laughed off his philosophical moods, but the way he asked them… like he wasn’t joking.

Like he already knew my answer.

One afternoon, we were talking about favorite movies. I was rambling about a Korean film I’d just rewatched — the kind with aching silences and tragic endings — and right before I could finish my sentence, he said it:

> “The one where the guy sends her letters she never receives until it’s too late.”

I blinked. “Wait… how did you—”

“You looked like someone who likes movies like that,” he shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Poetic pain. Quiet regrets. Letters no one sends.”

I laughed, trying to shake off the weird feeling. “You got that from all the pastries I bake?”

“No,” he said, eyes meeting mine. “I just… know you.”

I didn’t reply.

Because I didn’t know how to say: Sometimes I feel like I know you too.

---

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I tossed. Turned. Drifted in and out.

And then — the dream.

It wasn’t like the usual fragmented chaos of dreams. This one was clear. Vivid. Like I was watching a memory I didn’t remember owning.

Smoke filled the air.
I could hear bombs in the distance — dull, thunderous thuds shaking the ground.
People were running. Screaming.
And I… I was barefoot. Standing on a cobbled street in the middle of a war-torn city.
The sky was dark, not with night, but with ash.

I looked around, panicked — searching for someone.

“Elena!” someone shouted.

I turned.

A soldier was running toward me. Dust on his cheeks, helmet askew, uniform torn. He reached for me, and the moment our eyes met—

It was him.

Anthony

But not Anthony.

Not exactly.