The rains arrived earlier than usual in 2015, turning the earth into a sponge and the rice paddies into a quilt of glistening green. Our province thrived in this season—mud on our slippers, mangoes heavy on branches, and the air thick with the scent of sampaguita. It was the kind of year that felt soft and heavy all at once, and in many ways, it matched my heart.
Treize and Samantha were officially together now. The whispers had faded into normalcy; they weren't hiding it anymore. I even saw them holding hands at the town fiesta, and it no longer felt like a punch to the gut. It stung, yes—but in the dull, distant way an old bruise might ache when rain is coming.
That chapter was over. I had written it before in my past life, read it so many times I could recite the lines, and I finally knew the ending. The difference this time was—I wasn't waiting for him to come back.
The last few months had taught me the quiet power of letting go. There were nights I missed what we used to be, especially those rare moments when he made me laugh so hard I forgot to breathe. But I reminded myself: I wasn't in love with *him* anymore. I was in love with the version of myself who still believed he was meant to stay. And that girl? She deserved someone who wouldn't leave.
I had Raziel now.
He wasn't flashy or overly romantic. He never confessed in grand gestures or tried to win me over. He simply *was*—always there, like the steady beat of a drum you don't notice until the silence makes you miss it. He messaged me when it rained hard, knowing I hated thunderstorms. He sent me funny memes and thoughtful quotes. When he visited from the city, he helped me haul sacks of compost and repainted the wooden bench on our porch.
He never brought up Treize. He didn't need to. He knew healing was like farming: slow, messy, but worth the wait.
"Do you think it's possible to outgrow someone and still be grateful for them?" I asked him one night, our legs dangling off the edge of our newly tiled porch, rain falling softly around us.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Some people are chapters. Not the whole book."
And just like that, I understood: Treize had been a lesson, not a loss.
The house had changed so much since we started fixing it up last year. It still had its original cement-and-stone bones, but I had given it a second life—just like myself. I used what I remembered from those Tiktoks I used to scroll through in my past life, tips I never thought would come in handy. I taught myself how to mix lime and soap for natural whitewash. I upcycled old palochina wood into shelves and repurposed crates into planters.
I even installed a DIY wall planter made from old plastic bottles, lined neatly outside our kitchen window. Basil, oregano, and lemongrass grew wildly from them now. I couldn't believe how far we'd come.
Mama beamed whenever someone complimented our home. "That's my Carmela's work," she'd say proudly.
And I? I'd smile, knowing that the cement I scrubbed, the furniture I sanded, the soil I tilled—they all carried fingerprints of my second life.
In June, my birthday arrived again. June 12—Independence Day.
There was a quiet poetry to it. My past life had been a series of cages: expectations, regrets, unspoken sadness. But now? I was free.
The morning of my birthday, Mama woke me with hugs and the smell of sweet rice boiling in coconut milk. "Eighteen ka na,(You're already eighteen)" she joked. "Legal na legal na."
Papa handed me a hand-carved wooden spoon with my name etched into the handle. Mama gave me a paper rose she'd made at home. Jasmine and Jean biked all the way from town with a hand-painted card that read: *To the bravest girl we know.*
Coleen gifted me a framed photograph she'd taken of me in the garden, hair a mess, dirt on my cheek, but smiling like I had just won the lottery.
"You looked so alive in this one," she said.
"I think that's because I finally feel it," I whispered.
Raziel arrived in the afternoon, holding a homemade strawberry tart and a new journal wrapped in kraft paper.
"I know you filled up the last one," he said. "This one has thicker pages. I figured you'd have a lot more to say this year."
Inside was a note: *For the girl writing her own story, one page at a time.*
We spent the afternoon with my cousins and neighbors, sitting under makeshift tents, singing karaoke on-key, and sharing bowls of spaghetti and pansit canton. It wasn't a glamorous celebration, but it was perfect.
Later that evening, I sat outside alone, staring up at the stars, a plate of leftover tart on my lap. The fields beyond our fence shimmered with water from the rain, moonlight dancing over them.
I thought about how far I'd come.
In my past life, this was the age I felt most lost—clinging to the wrong expectations, hating myself for things I couldn't change, constantly chasing a happiness that felt just out of reach. But this time? I wasn't chasing anything. I was creating it.
I'd turned heartbreak into strength.
I'd turned knowledge into action.
I'd turned a house into a home.
And Raziel… he never asked me to choose him. He simply chose to stay. That alone spoke volumes.
For the first time in years, I blew out the candles on my cake and wished for nothing more than what I already had.
Because this life—this messy, beautiful, reclaimed life—was finally mine.
And I was done looking back.
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The next day, I found a quiet moment to write in my new journal.
*June 13, 2018*
*Yesterday, I turned 18. It wasn't the grandest birthday, but it was the realest. I didn't cry over the past. I didn't wish to be someone else. I just… lived. Surrounded by the people who truly see me. I'm learning that love doesn't have to hurt to be real. That freedom sometimes comes not from running—but from staying and growing roots. I'm grateful. I'm whole. And I'm ready.*
*Here's to the rest of my second life.*