Am I the one who's missing? Or am I the one who's lost? My heart aches so much today and every day. I wish I fought for us both. The words echoed in my mind, a mournful refrain playing on repeat since the day he left. Since the day I lost him. Not to death, but to silence, to distance, to a carefully constructed wall of his own making.

We met in the vibrant chaos of Manila, a whirlwind romance amidst the city's bustling energy. He, a quiet artist with eyes that held the depth of a starless night, and I, a whirlwind of ambition and laughter, drawn to his quiet intensity. Our love bloomed quickly, a riot of stolen kisses under the mango trees, whispered secrets shared in dimly lit cafes, and promises murmured against the backdrop of the city's nightly symphony. We were two halves of a whole, perfectly imperfect, fiercely in love.

But our paradise was fragile. His family, steeped in tradition, disapproved of me, a woman they deemed unsuitable. He, torn between his love for me and his loyalty to his family, retreated, his silence a chilling prelude to the storm that was to come. My attempts to bridge the gap, to understand, to fight for us, were met with a cold indifference that chipped away at my resolve.

The arguments became more frequent, the silences longer, the unspoken accusations hanging heavy in the air. He became distant, lost in his art, in his own private world, a world I could no longer penetrate. The vibrant colors of our love dulled, replaced by the muted tones of despair. His touch, once so tender, became fleeting, almost apologetic.

One rainy afternoon, he packed his bags. No grand pronouncements, no dramatic farewell. Just a quiet goodbye, a fleeting touch on my cheek, and the hollow echo of his footsteps fading down the hallway. He left me with nothing but the weight of unanswered questions and a heart ripped apart.

The days that followed were a blur of tears, sleepless nights, and a gnawing emptiness that consumed me. I replayed every moment, every word, every silent argument, searching for a clue, a sign, a reason. Had I done something wrong? Had I not fought hard enough? The self-recrimination was relentless, a cruel tormentor that whispered doubts and insecurities into my ears.

I tried to reach out, to bridge the chasm he had created, but my calls went unanswered, my messages unread. He had vanished, leaving me adrift in a sea of sorrow. The vibrant city that once held our laughter now felt cold and empty, a stark reflection of the void in my heart.

Now, months later, the pain still lingers, a dull ache that never truly fades. The question, "Am I the one who's missing? Or am I the one who's lost?" continues to haunt me. Perhaps we were both lost, adrift in a sea of unspoken words, unbridged gaps, and a love that was not strong enough to withstand the storm. The only solace I find is in the memory of our love, a bittersweet reminder of what once was, and a constant reminder of the battles I wish I had fought, the words I wish I had spoken, before the last goodbye.