Chapter 3: The Breaking Point and the Hidden Reality

As the school term began, everything seemed clearer: Vanessa was no longer just a classmate. As a lector in church and an active part of our school life, she was like the light Gabe was always seeking. While they were busy with projects, I was desperately drowning myself in club activities and studies, hoping that through the exhaustion of the body, my heart, which was trying to escape, would also tire out. But no. Love cannot be erased by keeping busy.

I reached a point where I was ready to give in—to let him go for his own happiness. But one afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore. All the walls I had built collapsed.

"Is she really that much more important than me?" I asked with a broken voice while standing in front of him. "I'm sorry, Gabe, okay? I'm not as beautiful as her, and I'm not as smart. But I'm your best friend! Isn't that enough for you to prioritize me even just once in a while?"

I couldn't stop my tears from flowing. The pain I had long been nursing exploded like a volcano.

"Yvonne, don't say that. You are important to me too," he replied, confusion and exhaustion etched on his face. "It's just that Vanessa needs me for the tasks. She is the Secretary, I am the Vice President. This is just work, Yvonne."

"Is this work, or just an excuse to be with her? Admit it to me, are you two together already?!" I shouted, no longer able to keep my voice down. "You don't know how painful what you're doing to me is! Fine, be together!"

I ran out of the room, carrying the weight of the words I shouldn't have said. Days passed, and my whole world seemed to have gone deaf. I didn't know that in the midst of my anger, a worse reality was catching up with us. His heart condition—the mild condition I was always caring for and protecting—suddenly flared up. I only found out that our argument resulted in an episode. His heart, which I considered the most precious treasure, gave up because of the words I uttered.

Now, I am just staring at my phone. I can't bring myself to open it. There are consecutive missed calls and messages from him—apologies that I don't know if I am worthy of receiving. How can I face the person I hurt, if the pain I feel now is the result of my own explosion?

I am the reason. That thought is what continues to kill me. I want to forgive him, I want to hug him and say that I am the one who should apologize, but my conscience is the bars preventing me from approaching him.

While I was staring at the wall of my room, my phone suddenly rang. The name of Tita Elena—Gabe's mother—appeared on the screen. My hand was shaking when I answered it.

"Yvonne, my dear... please, come here to the hospital," Tita's voice was full of exhaustion and pleading. "Gabe hasn't stopped crying. He doesn't want to eat, he doesn't want to let the doctor check on him properly. He keeps saying that it's all his fault, that he didn't think you would feel that way. Please, you're the only one who can calm him down."

I didn't think twice. With every step I took toward the hospital, my heart felt like it was being sliced. When I entered the room, I saw him lying down—pale, weak, and his eyes swollen. When our eyes met, time seemed to stop.

"Yvonne..." he called weakly. He immediately tried to get up, but I stopped him. "Sorry. Yvonne, forgive me. I didn't know... I didn't know that was how you felt. Vanessa and I have no relationship, really none. Sorry if you felt I took you for granted."

In those moments, my anger vanished like a bubble. I saw the fear in his eyes—not fear for himself, but fear of losing me. There, we made amends. His tears seemed to wash away all the resentment I had built up. We embraced, and in that moment, I felt his heartbeat slowly calming down.

But despite that peaceful embrace, there is a secret I am forcing myself to swallow. I still haven't told him the truth.

Why?

Because in front of me, I saw a person who had just come from the brink of death. His heart is fragile, like crystal that would shatter with one wrong move. I am afraid. I am afraid that if I tell him my feelings—that I see him as more than a best friend—it might just be an added burden for him. What if because of the pressure brought by my admission, his heart tires out even more? What if my love, which should be his pillar, becomes the spark for his final weakening?

For now, being his "best friend" is the safest position I can give him. I don't want to be the cause of his breath stopping. I am ready to bury my own happiness, as long as the important thing is to see him continue to breathe, even if the trade-off is the repeated crushing of my own heart as I watch him slowly heal—for another girl, or for a world where I am not the center.

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