STRINGS BETWEEN US

CHAPTER TWO: OF DRAMATIC STORMS, NAMES CLAIMED IN THE DARK, AND

CHAPTER TWO: OF DRAMATIC STORMS, NAMES CLAIMED IN THE DARK, AND THE BOY WHO NEVER LEFT

Arielle Rylance Del Rio's POV

Mistake number one? Staying at the orphanage. Or maybe... mistake number two, three, and four, all rolled into one.

The kids were laughing. The staff kept sneaking glances, like I was some walking cautionary tale. And my mom, floated around like she hadn't shattered anything important.

And then... there was him/ Khaizer Dylan. Always present. Always watching. Like he was trying to solve me one stare at a time. It made me want to vanish. Dig a hole, crawl in, and let the universe erase every trace I existed.

I didn't even know why I came here in the first place.

Dad kept messaging me:

"Where are you, anak? Are you safe?"

Eventually, I gave in.

"I'm with Mom."

He didn't ask questions. Just replied:

"Alright. Let me know when you're heading home. I'll send Lyle to pick you up. Enjoy your vacation."

Vacation? Is that what this was? A couple of weeks of pretending? A front-row seat to the life she rebuilt without me? Was I here to process something? Forgive her? Stay? I didn't know. And somehow, that terrified me more than anything else.

I wasn't here to stay. But I wasn't ready to go either. Somewhere between... maybe that's where I've always lived.

That afternoon, Mom stepped into the guest room.

"The second house is ready. I'll have Khaizer take you there," she said.

Of course. Right on cue, Khaizer Dylan appeared in the hallway—same wet-look hair, same relaxed chain, same face card that never declined.

"It's quiet there," Mom added. "Close to Khaizer's place. You'll be able to rest."

Right. More like she just wanted the tension out of her main building.

"Okay," I replied flatly.

She smiled. Gentle. Hopeful. "I live there too. I'll come home every night, anak."

I didn't answer. We both knew how that usually went. She said it like a promise. But I'd seen enough to know. Her promises always came with expiration dates.

Khaizer Dylan walked me to the second house in silence. I appreciated that. Talking was exhausting. The place looked like a furniture catalog. Perfect. Untouched. Empty of anything real. He helped me check the lights, peek into rooms, until we found one with a laminated label on the door:

Rylee's Room.

"Wrong spelling," I muttered.

"Effort counts," he said with a shrug.

I rolled my eyes.

Later that night, I came down for water. He was on the couch, flipping through a book like he was half-reading, half-drifting.

"Khaizer Dylan," I called.

He looked up, alarmed. "What? Why do you sound like I've done something wrong?"

"Guilty conscience?"

"No, but anytime someone uses my full name, I brace for trauma. It's muscle memory."

I smirked. "So would you rather I call you Kuya Khai?"

"Absolutely not. I'd just like to not have PTSD every time you say my name."