You moved abroad not for adventure, not for career, but to forget. To forget him. To forget the nights you cried so hard your chest felt like it would collapse. To forget the words that shattered your spirit in the middle of a dimly lit apartment while your hands trembled and your voice cracked trying to make him understand. But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “You’re the problem. You’re impossible to love.”

And somehow, you believed him.

Even now, years later, with a new address, a new life, even a new accent slipping into your words—those four syllables echo in your mind every time someone gets too close. Impossible to love. It became a quiet truth you wore like skin.

When the invitation for the college reunion arrived, you stared at it for hours. Manila. The city that held your happiest and most painful memories. A part of you wanted to delete the email and move on. But another part—the part that still believed in healing—clicked RSVP. You told yourself this was about closure. About proving to yourself that you’ve grown, that the past doesn’t own you anymore.

The night of the reunion was warm and humid, typical of July in Manila. The venue shimmered with golden lights and laughter. Familiar faces hugged you, voices from the past calling your name like no time had passed at all. For a while, you smiled. You even laughed. Until you saw him. Kyle.

He looked the same—only older, sharper around the edges. Your heart didn’t race. It ached. You avoided his eyes, told yourself you were indifferent, that you were over it. You overheard someone whisper, “He’s engaged now. Some girl from work. Pretty, rich family.” You smiled politely, excused yourself for a drink you didn’t need.

Then came the game: Three Lies and One Truth. It was harmless fun, until it was Kyle’s turn. All eyes turned to him. “Your turn!” someone shouted. He shook his head, jaw tense. “No. I’m not doing this.” “Come on, don’t be such a downer,” a friend laughed. Kyle’s eyes, uninvited and sudden, met yours across the room. “No. Not tonight,” he said quietly. You looked away.

When the night ended, people drifted off into taxis and Ubers. You stood by the curb, ordering a ride, when his voice came behind you. “Hey. Let me drive you.” You almost refused. But something in his tone—soft, unsure—unraveled you. “Fine,” you muttered, sliding into the passenger seat. The car was silent, save for the city’s lullaby outside. Neon lights, motorcycles, the occasional barking dog. Then he spoke. “I still love you. I wasn’t the problem. I hate you. I never wanted to see you again.” You blinked, heart lurching. He exhaled. “Those are my answers. One of them’s true.” You stared out the window, unable to speak. He had to be drunk. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Minutes passed. You reached your parents’ villa, lights off, peaceful. You opened the door without looking at him. “Wait,” he whispered. “Can we try again? I’ll do better this time…”