Anton had never realized how heavy silence could feel—how it could press against the ribs, squeeze the air out of the lungs, and remind a man that even his own heartbeat could betray him.
The small café where Celestine Pontanares had agreed to meet him was half-empty, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange across the dusty glass windows. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago, untouched. Across from him, Celestine sat with her hands folded neatly, her posture sharp, almost unyielding. She was younger than he expected—early thirties maybe—but there was an agelessness about her, something that made her feel both familiar and unreachable.
Anton stared at her, fists clenched. "Where is she?" His voice cracked on the last word.
Celestine tilted her head, her lips forming the faintest of smiles, not cruel but knowing. "You're asking the wrong question."
"I don't care what the right question is," Anton snapped, his pulse hammering. "Krystel disappeared. She left me nothing but fragments—her bracelet, her journal, and your name scribbled in the margins. I want answers. No riddles, no cryptic warnings. Where. Is. She."
Celestine's dark eyes softened, though not with pity. With recognition. "She told me you'd fight this way. That you'd tear at the seams of your own sanity if it meant finding her."
Anton's throat tightened. "Then help me."
For a long moment, Celestine studied him. The ticking clock above the counter marked each second with cruel precision. Finally, she leaned forward, her voice lowering into something almost reverent.
"She didn't vanish because she stopped loving you. She vanished because she loved you too much."
Anton froze. The words felt like a blade pressed against his chest, sharp enough to draw blood with the slightest push.
"What do you mean?"
Celestine exhaled slowly. "Krystel was dying."
The world tilted. Anton's ears rang, and for a second he thought he had misheard. But Celestine's expression told him otherwise.
"No." His voice was raw, guttural. "No, that's not—she was fine. She was alive, laughing, dancing, pulling me into streets just to watch sunsets. She was...she was—" His breath caught. "She can't be dying."
Celestine's gaze did not waver. "She hid it well. She always did. But the truth is simple: Krystel was battling a terminal illness. The seven days with you...they were never meant to last beyond that. It was her pact with herself—her last rebellion against time."
Anton's hands trembled. His mind scrambled for denial, for a crack in Celestine's words. But then he remembered—the hospital name scribbled in the journal. The cryptic entries, the way Krystel would sometimes go quiet when he asked about her future.
"She..." His voice broke. "She knew all along."
Celestine nodded. "Yes. And she chose you. Not because you were convenient, but because something in you mirrored her hunger to live, even when you didn't realize it yourself."
Anton buried his face in his hands. The silence between them stretched, and for a moment, he swore he could hear Krystel's laughter echoing in the hollow spaces of his chest.
[Flashback – Krystel's POV]
The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and wilted flowers. Krystel sat cross-legged on the bed, the journal open on her lap. She pressed the pen to paper, her hand trembling slightly.
Day Zero.
The doctors say the treatment isn't working anymore. I knew it when the fevers came back, when the nausea returned like an old enemy. I have months, maybe weeks. I don't want to count them. I want to spend them. Waste them beautifully.
She paused, chewing the end of the pen. Outside, Manila's noise spilled in faintly—horns, chatter, life. She longed to be part of it, not confined to sterile walls.
That was when the thought came: Seven days.
Seven days where she could pretend. Seven days to love and be loved without explanations, without pity. Seven days where she wasn't a patient, but a woman.
And then she met Anton.
[Anton's POV – Café, Present]
Anton's eyes burned as Celestine's words echoed. "Why didn't she tell me? Why didn't she give me the chance to...to fight for her? To stay with her?"
Celestine's gaze softened. "Because she was terrified. Not of dying, but of leaving you broken. She wanted you to remember her as light, not as shadow."
Anton's chest heaved. "That's not her choice to make."
"No," Celestine agreed quietly. "But it was the only choice she felt she still had."
[Flashback – Krystel's POV]
The third night of the pact. She and Anton were lying on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by takeout boxes and half-drunk bottles of beer. The city lights bled through the blinds, painting stripes across his face.
"Tell me something no one knows about you," Anton murmured, his voice drowsy.
Krystel's heart clenched. A hundred truths burned at her lips—the IV scars, the endless nights of chemo, the quiet terror of knowing her body was betraying her. Instead, she smiled faintly.
"I used to steal mangoes from my neighbor's tree when I was seven."
Anton chuckled, brushing her hair from her face. "That's not a confession. That's adorable."
She wanted to tell him everything then. That every laugh she gave him was stolen from borrowed time. That her heart was already cracking under the weight of what she wasn't saying. But she swallowed the words.
Because if she told him, this fragile dream would collapse. And she wanted it to last.
[Anton's POV – Café, Present]
"Where is she now?" Anton's voice was barely a whisper.
Celestine hesitated, then said, "A hospice outside the city. Quiet. She didn't want you to see her like this."
Anton pushed his chair back so abruptly it screeched against the tiles. His knuckles were white against the table's edge. "Then she'll have no choice. I'm going to her."
Celestine reached out, her hand firm over his wrist. "Anton—listen. She may not let you in. She wanted your story together to end at day seven, not in a hospital room."
Anton's jaw tightened. His entire body trembled with something between fury and desperation. "I don't care what she wanted. I love her. And I'm not going to let her disappear from me twice."
Celestine held his gaze for a long, weighted silence. Then, finally, she slid a folded paper across the table—a name, an address, scrawled in Krystel's handwriting.
Anton's heart lurched.
[Flashback – Krystel's POV]
Day Seven.
The last page of her journal. Her hand shook so badly she could barely write.
Anton, if you're reading this, it means you found the pieces I left behind. I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. You gave me something no one else could—you made me forget I was dying. For seven days, I was alive, not a patient. For seven days, I belonged to you. But I couldn't let you watch me fade. That wasn't the memory I wanted you to carry.
She pressed the pen harder, ink blotting the page.
I love you. That's the truth I can't hide. But loving you also means leaving you before the sickness steals everything you see in me. Please don't hate me for this. Please live, even when I cannot.
Tears stained the paper. She closed the journal, slipped off her bracelet, and placed it on the nightstand beside Anton's sleeping figure. Then, silently, she walked away.
[Anton's POV – Present]
The paper in his hand shook. The world around him blurred, sounds dulled, and only one thought remained, sharp as a blade:
He had seven days with her. But he wanted forever.
And now, even if it killed him, he was going to find her.
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