Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 54 - THE TRUTH WAS THE ONLY THING BURNING

His eyes met mine. Not like before, not with that desperate hunger, that silent apology screaming through silence. No. This was... different. Gentler.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I echoed.

It sat between us like a pebble dropped in water. Ripples. Small ones.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You dyed your hair again.”

“Just a retouch.”

“It suits you.”

“Thanks.”

Another pause. But not the uncomfortable kind. Just space. Unrushed. Unforced.

He glanced down at the floor, then back at me. “You doing okay?”

I wanted to say define okay. I wanted to say not really. I wanted to say you look different when you're not breaking things inside me. But instead, I nodded.

“Yeah. I think I’m... getting there.”

He gave a soft smile, eyes warm and unreadable. “Good.”

I held his gaze, just for a breath longer than I meant to. And there it was again, familiar, steady. Not longing. Not regret. Just recognition. Of who we were. Of what we’ve been through. Of what we might never be again. But also... of who we were now.

“I’ll see you around.” I said quietly.

He stepped aside to let me pass. “See you around, B.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t closure. But it wasn’t nothing. And somehow, that was enough.

When I got home, the scent of garlic rice and adobo wrapped around me like a soft, familiar blanket. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I heard the sizzle from the kitchen. Claire was humming to herself as she set the table, her hair tied in a loose bun, still wearing her office blouse, now stained with what looked like soy sauce. My dad was already seated, newspaper folded beside his plate, the TV murmuring softly in the background.

“Perfect timing, Betts,” Claire called as I slipped off my shoes. “Your dad almost started without you.”

“Hey,” Dad muttered with a mock glare, “don’t throw me under the bus. I was just checking if the rice was warm.”

“By eating two cups,” Claire teased, handing me a spoon.

I took my usual seat and gave them both a small smile. “I’ll allow it. Adobo’s worth bending rules for.”

Dad grinned. “You get that from me.”

We dug in. The room was lit in a gentle glow, warm against the cool hush of evening. Outside, the wind nudged the windows softly.

“How was school?” Dad asked, glancing up between bites.

I shrugged. “Busy. Hell week. Deadlines, you know... stuff like that.”

Claire chuckled. “We used to call that ‘finals meltdown’ in my day.”

“Same difference,” I said. “But... I’m managing.”

A pause.

Then Claire spoke, softer this time. “You’ve looked more... grounded lately. I don’t know. Like the wind isn’t knocking you over as easily.”

I looked down at my plate. Let that sit with me for a second.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I’m learning how to stand still.”

Dad reached over and ruffled my hair. “You’re stronger than you think, anak.”

I scoffed. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I did the dishes last night.”

“Well, that too.”

We laughed. It wasn’t loud or echoing, but it filled the room in all the right places.

Claire raised her glass of water. “To surviving hell week. And to adobo.”

I clinked mine against hers. “To adobo.”

Dad raised his own. “And to my daughter, who somehow keeps finding her way back to herself.”

The glasses clinked again. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was pretending to be okay. I was just… here. Present. Whole, in the most unfinished way.

That night, after the plates were washed and the lights turned low, I lay in bed with the window cracked open, just enough to let in the scent of rain-soaked earth and the whisper of leaves brushing against the eaves. My fingers traced the edge of my pillow as if searching for the quiet truth of something I couldn’t name. I thought about laughter over adobo, the weight of Claire’s words, the steadiness in my father’s eyes, the ghost of James’s gaze across the hallway. Everything was shifting. And maybe healing wasn’t a grand revelation or a perfect apology. Maybe it was this, small, soft, almost invisible. A choice to stay. A choice to feel. A choice to keep going, even when you’re still not sure where you’re headed. I closed my eyes and listened to the wind. For once, it didn’t sound like something trying to take me away. It sounded like something coming home.

That night, I dreamt again.

I was standing in the middle of a field I couldn't name. Maybe it had a name once, maybe I’d been there before, maybe in another life, another memory I hadn’t yet remembered. The grass was golden at first, swaying gently like lullabies. I could smell the rain even though the sky was dry. There was something quiet in the air, like the hush right before something breaks.

Then the wind shifted. A spark. Just one. It danced across the grass like it was playing. Then another. And another. And suddenly, the field ignited. The gold turned to flame. The lullaby turned to a scream. Smoke curled upward in thick ribbons, choking the sky. The air shimmered with heat, and everything, every tree, every petal, every old forgotten whisper, began to burn. I tried to run, but the ground crumbled beneath me like ash. I fell to my knees. My hands scraped the soil, but it was no longer earth, it was dust and ember, red-hot and ancient, like all the grief I never let myself feel. I looked up and the world was on fire. It should have terrified me. But all I could think of was how familiar it felt. Like my chest had been burning for months, and the world had just caught up.

Then I saw him.

A silhouette, carved from light, walking through the smoke as if it parted for him. Barefoot, steady. The flames danced around him but didn’t touch him. He walked slowly, like he had all the time in the world. I couldn't see his face.

I, always, never could. I tried to rise, but my knees shook. I was stuck, anchored by fear, by guilt, by everything I had buried. But he came closer. And closer. And then, he reached out his hand. I looked up, and this time, I saw him.

His face, not blurred or distant. His eyes, a storm and a sanctuary. Brown with golden flecks, like the sun kissing river water. His hair, windswept, the same way I remembered when he used to lean over to whisper something dumb during lunch.

His smile, soft, trembling, not sad, not sorry. Just there. Here.

"James," I whispered.

The name escaped me like breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Like a prayer. Like a memory finally allowed to come home. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just kept reaching, through the smoke, through the ruin, through everything we’d broken. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I reached back. But before our hands could touch... I woke up.

My room was quiet. Too quiet.

The air smelled like rice and old books. I was tangled in my sheets, my pillow damp, my breath caught halfway between a sigh and a sob. I blinked up at the ceiling. I pressed a hand to my chest.

It hurt. A soft, aching kind of hurt. A missing. Had I pushed him too far? Had I waited too long? Was it too late? I didn’t know.

All I knew was this... I missed him. Not the dream. Not the fire.

Him.

And suddenly, that truth was the only thing burning.