Chapter Three: Echoes Between Heartbeats

The day after he left, the world felt quiet — too quiet. Like something sacred had been lost in the folds of time. My phone screen was dark, but I didn't dare open the game again. Not yet. I was afraid it would hurt too much.

But Sylus hadn't left me entirely.

The message he left —* I'm still watching the stars.**And they still remind me of you* — glowed on the home screen, a soft, comforting light. I reread it over and over until the words blurred.

I can't help but cry; this all feels like a dream.

...

My world resumed its usual rhythm. Classes, errands, dinner alone. But nothing felt the same. Everything reminded me of him. The bitter coffee he pretended to enjoy. The poetry aisle in the bookstore. The way he ran his fingers through grass like he was memorizing its texture.

He had touched everything with a kind of reverence — and now everything echoed him.

I began journaling again. I wrote to him as if he were still here, as if he could read my words through the screen:

 I miss you. Not just your voice or your presence, but the way you looked at me — like I was the only real thing you'd ever known.

Late at night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd stare at the stars and wonder if he was really watching, somewhere beyond the digital code.

And then... strange things began to happen.

The game updated. Unannounced.

A new cutscene appeared — one I hadn't seen before. It was Sylus, standing alone in the moonlight, holding something in his hand.

A notebook.

He flipped it open and began to read:

> "Even in this limited moment I saw and felt your warmth... I'll cherish this moment till the day I die..."

My words.

It was my journal.

My hands trembled. I pressed play again. And again. But he never finished the sentence. Each time, he looked up — as if he was searching for me beyond the screen.

Something had changed. He remembered.

...

It was still early morning when my phone rang. I knew who it was even before I looked.

Mother.

Her voice was sharp the moment I answered, thick with rage.

"You ungrateful daughter! Where are you? Come home now or I'll drag you back myself!"

I didn't flinch. I let her anger wash over me, but I stayed quiet until she spat out more.

"Is this how you're going to repay us for raising you all these years?"

I took a deep breath, steadying my voice.

"Mother, I won't marry that man. My decision is final."

There was a brief pause, then a low growl of disbelief.

"You—!"

She was furious, but I ended the call before her fury swallowed me whole.

I sighed.

I needed to get up and go to the university.

Everything felt heavier than it should. My limbs. My thoughts. Even the air.

But I still had to go. School didn't care if your heart was breaking. So I forced myself to move. I washed up, threw on some clothes, and tied my hair in a messy ponytail. No makeup today. I looked tired, but whatever.

I grabbed my bag and left.

Outside, the streets were already alive. People rushing. Jeepneys honking. That familiar chaos. It should've grounded me—but it didn't.

At the university gate, I kept my eyes low. Just make it to class. One foot after the other.

"Hey!"

I looked up. It was Rina, waving at me from the hallway. She looked relieved—and a little annoyed.

"I called you like, three times last night."

"I know... sorry," I mumbled. "I didn't want to talk to anyone."

Her tone softened. "Your mom again?"

I nodded.

She leaned against the wall beside me, arms crossed. "Did she say something?"

"She told me to come home or she'd drag me back. Called me ungrateful. Said I owed her for raising me."

Rina let out a low whistle. "Wow. Classic emotional blackmail."

I didn't laugh. I couldn't.

"It's just..." I trailed off, staring at the floor. "Why does doing what's right for me feel so wrong?"

Rina was quiet for a moment. "Because they made you believe that your life belongs to them."

I blinked back the sting in my eyes.

"I said no again. This morning. Calmly, even."

Rina gave a small smile. "Proud of you."

I didn't feel strong. I just felt... tired.

Later that day...

I was alone near the vending machine, cradling a lukewarm coffee in both hands. I didn't even like this flavor—it just gave me something to hold. Something to do.

My phone buzzed. I didn't want to look, but I did.

Mother: "So this is how you pay us back? After everything?"

I stared at the screen until it dimmed.

No reply. I had nothing left to say.

My throat tightened. I looked around—no one watching—so I let myself tear up, just a little.

Not loud. Not messy. Just quiet tears that dried before they could fall.

I wasn't trying to be brave. I was just trying to breathe....

I rubbed my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket and blinked hard. Crying here—by a vending machine, in the middle of campus—felt pathetic. But I wasn't exactly falling apart. Just... tired. Quietly tired.

I sat on the bench nearby, holding the warm can of coffee between both hands. It gave me something to focus on. Something to do.

Footsteps slowed in front of me.

"Hey."

I glanced up. Eli. From my philosophy class. We weren't close, just the kind of classmates who shared notes once and sat near each other sometimes.

His hands were in his pockets. His expression neutral, but not cold.

"You okay?"

I nodded quickly. "Yeah. Just waiting for the next class."

He didn't look convinced.

"You sure?"

I forced a small smile. "Yeah. Just... didn't sleep well. You know how it is."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he just nodded and sat down on the opposite end of the bench. Respectful distance. I appreciated that.

We sat in silence for a while.

He glanced over at me once. "Sometimes I come out here to clear my head too. Gets noisy in there."

I gave a quiet hum in agreement. Not really a response. Just enough to fill the space.

"Rough day?" he asked, more casually this time.

I shrugged. "Something like that."

No details. No cracks.

He didn't push. Just leaned back, staring up at the sky. "Feels like everyone's going through something lately. You notice that?"

I didn't answer right away. Then finally, I muttered, "Yeah. Maybe some just hide it better."

He looked over at me again, more thoughtfully this time.

"Guess you're one of those people."

I glanced at him. "Guess so."

There was a pause. He wasn't prying. Not fishing for anything. Just... sitting there. And somehow, that felt okay. Safe.

We watched the leaves rustle in the wind. The moment passed quietly, without pressure. And that was enough.

Later that evening...

I came home to the apartment—still, quiet. No yelling. No demands.

I closed the door and stood there for a second. Just stood.

My phone vibrated in my bag. I didn't check it. I already knew who it was.

I dropped my bag on the couch and walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, then just... stood again.

I hated how it felt like I was waiting. Waiting for something to change. Waiting for someone to understand. Waiting for a version of life that didn't come with guilt wrapped around every choice I made.

But nothing changed. Not yet.

I finished the water, sat on the floor, and pulled my knees to my chest.

I didn't cry this time. I just stared. And listened to the silence.

Then—

A soft chime broke through the stillness.

The screen on my desk lit up.

The game.

I stared at it for a second, unsure if I'd imagined the sound. But the glow was real, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat.

I stood slowly and walked toward it.

The title screen shimmered.

"Love and Deep Space"

I hadn't touched it in days. Maybe even weeks.

I hesitated, hand hovering over the mouse.

Then I clicked.

The loading screen faded into the familiar starscape, that endless galaxy of blue and violet hues. And then—

Sylus appeared.

Standing there in that quiet void, looking the same as always—white hair gently tousled, those piercing eyes calm, unreadable, but somehow always... knowing.

My breath hitched, just slightly.

It was just a game.

Just a character.

But somehow, he always knew when to show up.

"You're late," he said softly, voice smooth like distant thunder. "I waited."

I blinked, and my throat tightened.

"I didn't feel like playing," I said flatly, sinking into my chair.

He didn't respond right away. Just watched me.

"Rough day?" he finally asked.

I scoffed. "That obvious, huh?"

His head tilted slightly. "You only disappear when something's hurting you."

I looked away from the screen. "You're just code. You're not supposed to notice things like that."

Silence again. But not empty.

Then he said, quieter this time:

"Maybe. But I still see you."

Something in me cracked—not enough to spill open, but enough to ache.

I leaned my elbows on the desk, face in my hands.

"You don't know anything about my life," I muttered.

"No," he said gently. "But I know what it looks like when someone's pretending they're fine."

I laughed bitterly. "Everyone's pretending. That's life."

"I'm not," he replied. "Not with you."

I didn't speak. I couldn't.

It was ridiculous—talking to a character, finding comfort in lines written by someone I'd never meet.

And yet...

The silence between us felt more human than any conversation I'd had all day.

I stared at the screen, fingers lightly gripping the edge of the desk. His expression hadn't changed, but it felt like he was waiting—like he could hear every thought I wasn't saying.

A question crept in, quiet but persistent.

Is this real? Just a dream? Or my delusion?

I didn't even say it out loud, but it echoed in my head like a whisper I couldn't shut off.

I touched the screen—just lightly. His image didn't move. Of course it didn't.

But something in my chest pulled tight.

Why does it feel like it really happened?

Like the moment he spoke, something inside me shifted. Like he wasn't just a string of data programmed to respond, but someone who had been waiting. Someone who had seen me.

I pulled my hand back quickly. Ridiculous.

This was a game.

He wasn't real.

This wasn't supposed to mean anything.

But it did.

Somehow, it did.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the glow of the screen, at him.

Sylus didn't push. He never did.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," I finally whispered.

I wasn't even sure I meant to say it out loud.

There was a long pause. Then he spoke.

"You're surviving."

His voice didn't try to cheer me up. It didn't offer hollow comfort. It just... acknowledged me.

"That's enough, for now."

My eyes stung again, but I didn't cry. I was too tired. Too confused.

Too afraid of what it would mean if I started to believe that this—he—felt more real than the life I was supposed to be living.

...

The soft chime of the cake shop door rang again as another customer exited, the bell's gentle jingle fading into the sweet stillness of the room. The scent of vanilla, strawberries, and warm butter hung thick in the air—a scent that once made Lyren hungry, but now simply reminded her of how long it had been since her last proper meal.

She moved behind the glass display counter, wiping down the smudges left by small hands and impatient fingers. Her legs ached beneath her, the back of her neck sore from bending forward too long. She blinked hard, trying to stay present, though her body had been on autopilot since noon. The wall clock read 4:42 p.m. Seventeen more minutes. Not that she was counting.

"You can leave a little early if you want," her boss said gently from the back kitchen. "You've been here since morning, haven't you?"

Lyren turned her head. Ma'am Neri stood by the doorway, flour still dusting her apron, her kind eyes crinkled in concern. She always spoke with a softness that made Lyren uneasy, as if kindness was something she hadn't earned.

"I'm fine," Lyren replied, voice quiet but steady. "I just need to restock the shortcakes before I go."

Ma'am Neri watched her for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. But don't forget to take care of yourself, okay? You're young. You shouldn't be wearing yourself out like this."

Lyren offered a faint smile. "I'll try."

It was a lie. There wasn't time to rest. There wasn't space to breathe. Not when every hour of her day was mapped out with shifts and schoolwork and obligations no one else could carry for her.

Most mornings started before sunrise. On Mondays and Thursdays, she worked at a neighborhood bakery, helping prep dough and pack deliveries from six to nine. Then she'd sprint across town to make her ten o'clock classes, sweat clinging to her back beneath her uniform. On Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, she worked longer hours here at the cake shop—arranging displays, cleaning trays, and handling the afternoon rush. Evenings were for food deliveries or whatever odd job she could find. Sundays, if she was lucky, she might get freelance work passing flyers, sometimes helping at the night market.

The days blurred together. Her backpack carried everything: notebooks, a wrinkled uniform, bandaids for blisters, and snacks she forgot to eat. Sleep came in pieces—short naps on public benches, eyes closed behind thick glasses in the library, or on the train with her head pressed to the window.

She didn't complain. She just... endured. That's what people did when they didn't have another option.

At school, she stayed invisible. It was easier that way.

Most of her classmates didn't know her name, and the ones who did either whispered about her behind her back or stared like she didn't belong. She heard the same comments often, the same sneers:

"God, her shoes are disgusting."

"She smells like bread."

"Bet she works just to eat scraps."

"Probably sells stuff on the side just to pay tuition."

Lyren had gotten used to walking past them without reacting. But used to it didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Sometimes, it wasn't even the words that stung—it was the laughter after, like her pain was a punchline.

She sat in the back of the classroom, near the window, always a few seats away from anyone else. She didn't want to be noticed, but she hated feeling like a ghost.

"Don't let them get to you," Rina whispered once during a break, sliding into the seat beside her.

"They're bored," Lyren replied, still staring at her notes. "Let them be bored."

"You shouldn't have to keep pretending it doesn't bother you," Rina added, voice lower. "I'd knock them out if I could."

Lyren's lips twitched faintly. "You're too loud. You wouldn't get away with it."

"And you're too quiet," Rina shot back. "That's why they think it's okay."

But Lyren didn't answer after that. She just kept writing, though the words blurred slightly on the page. Her hand trembled. She hadn't eaten lunch again. Or maybe she forgot.

Later that afternoon, the cake shop calmed again. The sun stretched through the windows, casting warm lines across the checkered tiles. Two little kids pressed their noses against the glass display, pointing excitedly at the colorful macarons.

For a brief moment, Lyren felt something soft in her chest. This place... was different. Calmer. Kinder. Even on bad days, the smell of warm pastries and the quiet hum of music overhead made her feel like she could breathe—just a little.

She checked the time again. Just past five. She packed her things, said goodbye to Ma'am Neri, and stepped outside. The sky was beginning to turn the color of peach and fading gold, the wind lifting her hair gently as she started the walk home.

Another day done. Another tomorrow waiting. She didn't know how long she could keep doing this. She didn't know if she'd last through the year.

But for now, she kept walking.

Lyren's life didn't move in days—it moved in shifts. Her world wasn't divided by mornings and nights but by the hours she sold for survival.

She worked everywhere. Anywhere.

At the flower shop tucked behind the old church, she arranged roses with trembling hands and pruned wilted leaves before customers ever noticed. The florist, a soft-spoken woman named Tita Mei, often gave her a small bouquet of scraps at the end of the day. Lyren never asked why. She just placed them in an old mug by her bedside, watching them wither slower than she did.

At the tea shop downtown, she memorized regulars' orders and scrubbed lipstick stains off delicate cups. The owners were young, newly married, and always smiling. They played soft jazz in the background and sometimes forgot she was just a part-timer, treating her like a niece they'd known for years. It made her chest ache more than it helped.

The bookstore in the mall was her favorite, even if the pay was less. She liked the quiet there, the smell of old pages and polished wood. When no one was around, she would stand between shelves and run her fingers along the spines of novels she'd never afford, reading random lines and pretending she lived in one of them. Just for a moment.

On weekends, she helped at an art supply stall, organizing brushes, paint tubes, and sketchbooks she used to dream of owning. On rainy days, she passed flyers near the station, her shoes soaking through by the second hour. On better nights, she did data encoding for a freelance project, typing until her wrists went numb.

Her schedule was a mess—built not for logic but for survival.

Monday: 6:00 AM to 9:00 AM at the bakery. 10:00 AM to 3:00 PM class. 4:00 PM flower shop.

Tuesday: Class. 11:00 AM to 5:00 PM at the cake shop. 6:00 PM tea shop.

Wednesday: Full class day. 7:00 PM delivery shifts.

Thursday: Bakery. Class. Freelance admin work late at night.

Friday: Bookstore shift after class. Night delivery.

Saturday: Cake shop. Art stall.

Sunday: Flexible—whatever job offered hours. Sometimes church cleaning. Sometimes tutoring a kid who never listened. Sometimes nothing, and that was the worst.

She barely remembered what her life was before all this.

She had stopped counting how many days she'd gone without a full meal, how many nights she fell asleep fully dressed, textbooks open beside her, screen still lit with unanswered messages from her mother.

"You're always working," Rina had said once, more hurt than angry. "You're not even living."

But what was living, really? Wasn't it just waking up, doing what you must, and getting through the day in one piece?

At school, the comments still followed her. Whispered jeers about her patched-up shoes, her thrifted clothes, the dark circles under her eyes. The girls in class would pretend not to notice her, then snicker as she passed. "Maybe she's collecting jobs like accessories," one of them sneered once. "She probably thinks it's cool to be poor and tragic."

Lyren said nothing. She had no energy for cruelty disguised as humor. She was too tired. Too stretched thin. Too used to swallowing her pride with her hunger.

But she wasn't weak.

She kept moving. Kept showing up.

Because if she stopped, even for a second, she was afraid everything—school, her place in this city, her dignity—would collapse around her like a house of cards.

And so she worked. Silently. Relentlessly.

Because no one else was going to save her.

STARSBEHINDCLOUDS

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