Love shouldn't feel like this.
But back then, I didn't know better. I was nineteen, naive, and drowning in the way he looked at me like I was his entire world. Like I was lucky to be chosen by someone like Henry Manuel—loud laugh, dangerous charm, always a step ahead of everyone, especially me.
We're in his room. His parents aren't home. The lights are dim. The playlist is soft R&B—his usual seduction soundtrack. I'm curled up at the edge of his bed, already uncomfortable. We were supposed to be studying for midterms.
Instead, he leans in, his voice low and sticky-sweet. "You don't trust me, do you?"
"I do," I say quickly, because that's the right answer. Because fighting feels like failure.
He sighs, shaking his head, like I've disappointed him just by breathing wrong. "No, you don't. If you really trusted me, you wouldn't keep saying 'not now' every time I try to show you how much I love you."
My throat tightens. I glance down at the textbook between us, the words a blur.
"I just..." I start. "I'm not ready. You know that."
Henry moves closer, cupping my cheek. He always knows how to be gentle when he wants something.
"I've been with you for over a year, Sam. Do you think I'd pressure you if it didn't matter?"
He presses his forehead to mine. I can feel his breath—warm, insistent. "This is how people show love. Real love. I want to be with you forever. Don't you want that too?"
Of course I do. At least, I think I do. But forever shouldn't feel like a corner I'm backed into.
He pulls away, and suddenly there's distance in his voice. "If you're still scared, maybe you don't feel the same way. Maybe you don't trust me like I thought you did."
"No—Henry, I do—"
"Then prove it." His eyes find mine, sharp and unreadable. "Let's stop being scared. Let's just do it. If you love me, show me."
And I do.
Not because I'm ready.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPnvyMwQXs6
Not because it feels right.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA78RtaOTgJ
But because I'm terrified that if I say no one more time, he'll stop calling me his girl. That I'll lose him. That I'll be alone.
I snap back to the present, sitting in the small living room of the apartment I now rent alone. Angelique is asleep in the next room. Her baby monitor hums gently.
That night never leaves me.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy0AdRn2HjI
Neither does the feeling that it wasn't love—it was coercion wearing a pretty face.
He didn't make a baby with me. He made a choice for me.
And I've been the one carrying the weight of it ever since. The rice cooker clicks off with a soft pop, breaking the silence.
I wipe my hands on the dish towel and check the tiny pot of sinigang bubbling gently on the stove. It's not much, just something simple—but it's warm, and it smells like home. My kind of home, anyway. The kind built with care, not borrowed promises.
Angelique's soft snoring hums through the baby monitor on the counter. She went down easy tonight, clutching the same stuffed bunny she's been dragging around since she could walk.
"Mommy, don't forget to eat too, okay?" she'd said before drifting off.
That kid. Always worrying about me, like she can already sense the world tried to chew me up once and I never fully stopped flinching.
I plate the food, light a cheap vanilla candle, and sit by the window. The view isn't much—just flickering streetlights, the occasional stray cat—but it's mine. This quiet, this peace, this little moment where I'm not apologizing for existing.
I open my phone to check messages.
Nothing from Henry.
Not that I expected any.
But there's a new one from Stacy.
"Hey babe. Ice cream night? I'm 10 minutes away if you say yes."
I smile. She always knows. Like she can smell the sadness through the screen.
I reply:
"Bring the mint choco and no judgment."
She replies almost instantly:
"That's literally my brand. No judgment, just dessert."
Ten minutes later, Stacy kicks off her sneakers at my door, a pint of ice cream in one hand and a bottle of cheap red wine in the other. She's in sweats and an oversized tee that says Not Your Trauma Dump, and her energy fills the room the way sunshine does through sheer curtains.
She flops onto the couch beside me, cracks open the ice cream, and hands me a spoon.
"So..." she says between mouthfuls, "did that coward text back?"
I shake my head. "Still silent."
"Trash," she mutters. "Absolute basura. I bet even Trina's sick of him by now."
I give a small laugh, one of those dry ones that sounds more like exhale than humor.
"I just wish he'd say something. Anything. Like—'Sorry I ruined your life' would be a good start."
Stacy nudges me. "He didn't ruin your life. He wrecked a chapter. But girl, you're writing the whole damn book."
I look at her, blinking against the tears that rise faster than I expect. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's just been a long day.
She hands me a napkin. "Cry, eat, scream—whatever. Just don't forget: You made a baby, yes. But more than that, you made a life. All by yourself. That's not weakness, Sam. That's power."
And in that moment, with melted ice cream, soft candlelight, and my best friend beside me, I believe her. Maybe not fully. Maybe not forever. But just enough to breathe a little easier tonight.
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and then Add to home screen.