Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 57 - GOD, I MISS HIM

“Where’s Matt?” I asked.

Inez pointed, grinning. Matt walked toward us, not rushing. Just steady. Present.

He wore a crisp white linen polo, open at the collar. Gray linen shorts, tailored just enough. A navy-blue cap, black sunglasses, a watch with brown leather straps and a silver frame. Blue dial. And sandals with brown soles and white straps. Even his casual looked composed. Like he knew the architecture of every moment and chose to walk through them with intention.

“Guyyyysss!” Matt called. “I’m beginning to miss you!”

“Cut the crap, Matt,” Inez shot back, arms crossed but amused. “You enjoy not having me argue with you every five seconds.”

“Yeah…” Matt rolled his eyes. “I hated how we’re both perfectionists in opposite universes.”

Inez scoffed, rolling her eyes with flair. “Your side of the universe needs better design.”

And then... James.

I saw him from the corner of my eye, but it still hit like a full scene change. He walked like the air bent around him. Like he belonged to summer and the end of things. A breezy linen long-sleeved shirt swayed against his body, paired with crisp white shorts that made him look taller. A brown-strapped watch rested on his wrist, silver frame, white dial, subtle but expensive-looking. His khaki cap was slightly tilted, and tortoiseshell sunglasses veiled his eyes. But I knew where he was looking. On each middle finger, silver rings. Simple. Honest. A canvas tote bag hung from his shoulder. I wondered what he packed. I wondered if he’d packed hope. He looked like something I hadn’t let myself want again.

Gosh, he is so handsome.

It slipped through my thoughts before I could catch it.

“Hey,” James said, low. It was unmistakably for me.

I turned, blinking too fast. “H-hey…”

My cheeks flared with heat. I wasn’t ready to feel again. But there he was. And there I was.

They began loading the bus.

Tim and Inez slid into their seats like puzzle pieces. Corey and Drake sat behind them. Matt was with Kath, his hand on her lower back as she laughed about something. That left one row. Two seats. Empty.

James looked at me once, then nodded slightly toward the window. “You can take it.”

I swallowed. “T-thanks…”

I slid in. The window was cool against my arm. The engine vibrated beneath my feet. As the bus began to move, the city began to peel away, layer by layer. First buildings. Then signs. Then roads. Then silence.

And beside me, James. We said nothing. But the space between us buzzed like something not yet named. Maybe this wasn’t closure. Maybe it was beginning again. But this time, I'm not leaping towards it, I'm letting it fall into place, gently. The world outside the window passed like a dream I wasn’t fully awake for.

The sky had settled into that pale blue shade between dawn and day, soft, unthreatening, with streaks of white clouds like cotton dragged across glass. The sun, though rising steadily, still seemed unsure of itself. It peeked from behind trees and mountains in long, golden slants, casting the kind of light that made everything feel like it had been dipped in honey. We passed patches of farmland, rice fields in grids, water shimmering atop them like sheets of glass. A lone carabao watched us from a ditch, its eyes slow and contemplative. Scattered between green hills were crumbling sari-sari stores, rusting roofs painted with hand-lettered names: “Minda’s Eatery,” “Jonalyn’s Loading Station,” “God’s Will Barber Shop.”

I watched them all blur past from my window seat, forehead leaning gently against the cool glass. Every so often the bus would rattle slightly as it passed a pothole or dipped into an unpaved stretch. My shoulder would brush James’s arm with each bounce, just barely, but enough to notice. He hadn’t spoken much since we boarded. None of us really had. The early hour had lulled the group into a kind of shared drowsiness. People murmured low conversations, earbuds were in, and someone toward the back was softly humming a song I couldn’t name. The bus engine made a gentle hum beneath all of it, like a lullaby without lyrics. But beneath my skin, I felt wide awake. Because James’s presence was too loud in my body. His right arm was pressed against my left, and I could feel everything, every tiny hair on his skin brushing against mine, every faint movement of his muscles as he shifted ever so slightly. The scent of his cologne, Versace Dylan Blue, was rich in the small space between us, a sharp and velvety thing that wound its way into my nose and refused to let go.

God. That smell. I used to tease him for wearing something so fancy for school, and he used to smirk and say, “It’s for the aesthetic.” And then he’d wink, like I was in on a secret. I remembered that now, as it wrapped around me again, dark citrus, amber, and something vaguely aquatic. It smelled like something eternal. Like the ocean dressed in a suit.

And the truth pressed itself quietly into me, without ceremony or warning:
I really missed him. I missed him like people miss warmth after a long rain. I missed the comfort of being seen. The way he once looked at me like I wasn’t a burden. Like I wasn’t just surviving, but glowing. I let my gaze drop to our hands, resting separately on our laps. We weren’t holding hands. Not really. But I could feel it, this invisible magnetism. A thread pulling at my little finger, guiding it toward his like it had been waiting months to come home.

Our pinkies brushed. Lightly. Then hooked. A soft, slow, silent tangle. It felt less like a decision and more like a memory. As if our hands knew each other before our minds had time to protest. I didn’t dare look at him. I didn’t need to. Because something settled in my chest. Something I hadn’t known I was craving.

Stillness.

Not the kind you fight for. The kind you surrender to.

Then, I felt it. A shift.

James leaned closer, his movements unhurried, unintentional, or maybe not. His head came to rest against my shoulder, as if gravity had finally pulled him toward me, and he simply gave in.

The weight of him wasn’t heavy. It was warm. Solid. Familiar. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t tense up. I didn’t tell him to move. Because maybe, just maybe, I was tired of always moving people away. The hurt he left inside me hadn’t vanished. It lived there still, curled like smoke in my chest. But it didn’t burn anymore. It ached, yes. A small ache. Like the memory of a wound long since closed. I had cried rivers over what he did. I had built walls and named them survival. I had rewritten myself to keep going.

But in this quiet, swaying moment, with the bus rocking gently, with his warmth pressed to me, with our pinkies tangled like children making silent vows, I realized something.

I had forgiven him. Maybe not loudly. Maybe not with words. But in that slow, invisible way forgiveness often comes. Like dawn creeping through closed blinds. Like your body healing while you sleep. I turned my head just slightly and let it rest on top of his. Our foreheads touched, lightly. Our breaths aligned.

It wasn’t reconciliation. It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t even closure. It was just… peace. Maybe love is not always about holding tight. Sometimes, it’s about not pushing away.

The road ahead stretched endlessly, the bus carving its way through fields and villages and time itself. I let my eyes flutter shut, the sunlight dancing on the other side of my lids. Somewhere behind me, someone laughed. Somewhere beside me, James breathed. And somewhere deep inside myself, I finally let go.

The journey ahead was still long. But for now, I rested.