You always knew you couldn’t hold onto Fabian forever. Even as kids, something about him was too big for the small corners of your childhood. He was the boy with a guitar too heavy for his little arms, the boy who sang like the world was listening even when it was just you under the shade of that big tree by the creek. He was your best friend, your first love, your forever in a place where forever always felt too short.

And then the day came when his father told him they were leaving the country. His family packed their bags, and your world shrank.

The night before his flight, you sat under your tree, the summer wind thick with crickets. Fabian strummed his guitar, his voice low, shaky, as if he already knew he’d miss you too much.

“Ang iyong ganda’y… umaabot sa buwan~” he sang, his eyes fixed on yours instead of the strings, “…ang tibok ng puso’y, dinig sa kalawakan~”

Tears pricked your eyes. “Don’t sing it like that, you’ll make me cry.”

“I want you to cry,” he admitted with a crooked grin, though his own eyes were wet. “So you’ll remember me.”

“As if I could ever forget you,” you said, your voice breaking, “but what if, what if we lose touch? What if I never see you again?”

He set the guitar aside and held your hands tightly, small palms warm against yours. “Then listen,” he whispered, serious in a way only kids could be, “if we ever lose each other, we’ll find each other again. Promise me.”

You nodded hard, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Promise.”

“And if you ever hear me sing this song again,” he said, squeezing your fingers, “you’ll know it’s for you. Always for you.”

Years passed, but he never left your heart. You watched his rise from afar, saw Fabian Josh Cruz become more than a boy with a guitar — he became a voice for thousands, a star. And yet every time he sang, you listened for the boy under the tree, the boy who promised to find you. Years spun on, carrying him oceans away, but you never forgot that boy.

And then one evening, in a crowded arena lit with thousands of lights, he stood there again. Not the same boy, but a man with a voice polished by pain, with fame wrapped around him like a crown he never asked for. Fabian Josh Cruz, the name that echoed everywhere now, was on stage singing a sad ballad that the whole world knew.

You sat among the faceless crowd, just another fan to anyone else, but when his gaze swept the sea of people, he froze.

Your smile.

The same soft curve of lips he swore he’d never forget. The same eyes that once looked at him under a tree and promised to wait. His throat closed, his hand faltered on the strings.

The band quieted, unsure, as Fabian’s fingers slid to another chord. Without warning, his voice shifted, trembling but certain.

“Ang iyong ganda’y~”(your beauty)

“umaabot sa buwan~”(reaches the moon)

The crowd erupted in confusion and cheers, but Fabian only saw you, only sang to you. His voice cracked, tears spilling down his face as he stepped off the stage, walking slowly through the parted sea of fans, his song wrapping around every step.

“Ang tibok ng puso’y~”(the beating of my heart)

“dinig sa kalawakan~”(is heard across the universe)

Your tears blurred everything until the only thing clear was him, moving closer, breaking down years of silence with every lyric.

“At bumabalik… dito sa akin~”(and it returns back to me)

“ikaw ang mahal~”(you’re the one I love)

“ikaw lang ang mamahalin~”(you’re the only one I’ll love)

And then he was there, right in front of you, the mic trembling in his hand, his eyes wet as yours. The world faded, the crowd screamed and disappeared, until it was only him, only you, and the song that had bound you since childhood.

“Pakinggan ang puso at damdamin~” his voice broke, a sob in the melody,

“…damdamin aking damdami~”

The last note hung in the air, heavy and alive. Fabian dropped the mic, reaching out to you with shaking hands, his lips forming the words only you could hear —

“I kept my promise.”