Synopsis: You, a broke college student, end up fake dating Ningning — a rich, conyo DLSU girl with a Porsche and a deadline to find a boyfriend. What starts as a deal turns into chaos, kilig, and class divide. Now she’s living with you, eating ₱5 coffee and fishballs, all for love
Word Count: 5,148
Ning Yizhou X Male Reader
Tags: Angst
A/n: part 2 out now!! Enjoy this y’all since i love you all sm hehe, if this fic does well I’ll make part 3 and even make this a series.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, Ning.”
That voice—smooth, measured, and just loud enough to turn one or two heads—carried the weight of old habits.
Ning froze. You followed her gaze.
Kai Yoon stood there like he owned the damn place. Perfectly pressed navy blazer. Pants that fell straight like steel. Watch gleaming under the lights. Hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. He looked like a billboard for control, wealth, and carefully constructed charm.
She gave him a slow blink, as if debating whether he was real or a ghost from a nightmare she forgot to lock away.
“Kai,” she said finally. Her voice was even, but you caught the twitch in her hand. “Didn’t know you dined around here.”
Kai Yoon looked around the restaurant like it offended him. “Business meeting,” he said. “Didn’t expect you here either. I thought you didn’t settle for anything under four stars.”
You felt Ning shrink by an inch, just for a second. Just long enough to hate him.
She smiled tightly. “People change.”
His eyes flicked to you—dissecting, measuring, judging.
“And who’s this?” he asked. “Your… date?”
Ning’s hand slid under the table. Gripped your sleeve, light but firm.
“Yeah,” she said. “This is Y/N.”
Kai didn’t offer his hand. He just nodded at you like you were the waiter who brought him the wrong wine.
“Nice,” he said vaguely. “Well. You always did love charity cases.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was acidic.
Ning blinked, once. Her lips parted. Closed. You felt her breathing shift—shallow, then sharp.
Kai leaned slightly closer, that familiar condescension dressed up in fake concern. “I’m not here to cause anything. Just… figured I’d say hi. After all, if you never left me, we could’ve been in Paris right now. You know that, right?”
And there it was.
The guilt bomb.
The line you say when you’re sure the other person still wishes they were yours.
Ning didn’t flinch this time. She looked down at her plate. Took a breath. Then raised her head.
“No,” she said clearly.
Kai blinked.
“No?” he repeated, confused by her lack of remorse.
“If I hadn’t left you,” she said slowly, voice steady, “I’d be miserable in Paris. Playing dress-up for your colleagues. Laughing at jokes I didn’t find funny. Smiling through dinners where I was decoration.”
He opened his mouth. She didn’t let him speak.
“You always said you wanted a partner, Kai. But you wanted an accessory. Something polished. Quiet. A woman who could fit the lifestyle but never outshine you in it.”
The table between them shrank. The whole restaurant seemed to quiet.
“Now I’m here. In a three-star restaurant. With someone who listens when I speak. Who doesn’t measure me by my purse brand or last name.”
Kai tried to scoff, but it caught in his throat.
“You’ve changed,” he muttered.
She smiled. Not fake. Not proud. Free.
“No,” she said. “I just stopped pretending for people like you.”
You looked at her then—really looked. The slight tremble in her hand, the fire behind her eyes, the girl who used to order ₱700 cappuccinos now drinking house water and somehow tasting more alive than ever.
Kai stood there, hands clenched, lips parted like he wanted to say something cruel—but couldn’t. He left without another word.
Ning let go of your sleeve.
You didn’t speak for a while. The waiter came and refilled her water. She thanked him in soft Tagalog.
When she finally turned to you, her eyes were glassy—but not with sadness.
With release.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” she whispered.
You shook your head.
“I’m not,” you said.
And for the first time all evening, she smiled without hesitation
The air outside was cooler than expected—almost like the universe decided to reward you both for surviving dinner without throwing a wine glass.
Ning walked beside you in silence, her heels clicking softer than usual, like even her footsteps were tired of performing.
You didn’t rush her.
The streets were mostly empty, save for the soft glow of tricycles in the distance and the flickering “24 HRS” sign of a nearby sari-sari store. You passed a taho vendor packing up, the metal containers clinking softly in the cart. It was late. And yet, you both kept walking.
No destination. Just away.
After a while, Ning spoke.
“That was Kai Yoon.”
You looked at her sideways. “Yeah. I figured.”
She laughed under her breath, like it was absurd that he still had that effect on her. Or maybe she just hated that he didn’t.
“He runs a tech company now,” she said. “Based in Singapore. I think it’s called—uh—Synterra? Something very… artificial intelligence-y. Also opened a modeling agency in Paris. Probably so he could fly in and out without looking suspicious.”
“Of cheating?”
“Of collecting women like they’re NFTs.”
You huffed through your nose. “Classy.”
“Always,” she said. “Everything about him was curated. Even the way he picked pasta. Had to say it in Italian. ‘Tagliatelle al tartufo,’ not ‘truffle pasta.’ Said it made him feel like he was there.”
You glance down. Her fingers were fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.
“You loved him?” you asked.
She took a breath that said yes—but when she answered, it was more complicated than that.
“I loved… the idea of him. What he symbolized. Freedom. Sophistication. Someone who could stand up to my family without blinking.”
She paused. “But then I realized he wasn’t standing up with me. He was standing on me. Showing them he could take their daughter and make her perfect.”
You nodded slowly. The footsteps filled the silence again.
“I didn’t leave him because I stopped loving him,” she added. “I left because I started loving myself just enough to ask: what if this isn’t all I’m meant for?”
The wind rustled her hair. You watched her tuck a strand behind her ear. Her eyes stayed forward, but you saw the truth swimming in them. Not pain anymore. Not even regret. Just… growing pains. The kind you never talk about during Sunday brunches or DLSU org meetings.
“Must’ve been hard,” you said gently.
“It was.”
“You did it anyway.”
She looked at you.
For a moment, you thought she might say something back. Something vulnerable. Maybe even something terrifying like thank you for being here or you make this easier.
But instead, she chuckled.
“You know what’s funny?” she said. “Back then, if someone told me I’d end up living in a small apartment, eating at three-star restaurants, and walking home with someone who wears ₱100 shirts…”
You grinned. “You’d block them.”
“Immediately,” she said, smirking. “But now?”
She stopped.
You turned to her.
She met your eyes. No armor. No lashes fluttering. Just her.
“Now I think I needed to lose everything I thought mattered just to realize what actually does.”
The streetlamp buzzed faintly above you both. In the distance, a jeepney honked. Someone’s dog barked twice.
But right here?
It was just the two of you.
“I’m glad you did,” you said.
She blinked slowly.
Then started walking again.
A little closer this time.
Your hands didn’t touch. Not yet. But your shadows did—faint outlines stretched across the concrete, quietly brushing shoulders the way your hearts almost did.
And for once, that was enough.
You bolted upright to the smell of something… burning?
Panicked, you swung open your bedroom door—only to be met with the sight of Ning Yizhuo standing in the middle of your kitchen, holding a rice spatula like a sword.
“Why is the sinangag… black?” you asked, rubbing your eyes.
“It’s not black,” she said, flipping whatever remained in the pan with blind optimism. “It’s just… toasted.”
You peeked over her shoulder. The rice looked like it had been resurrected from the underworld.
“Were you trying to cook without oil?”
“I thought you said we were out of olive oil,” she huffed.
“Yeah,” you said, pointing to the bottle of Mantika Gold behind the stove. “But we still have cooking oil. That’s different.”
She squinted at it like it was in another language. “I thought that was for, like… tricycle maintenance or something.”
You sighed. She smiled sheepishly.
“I wanted to make breakfast,” she said, quieter now. “To say thanks.”
You looked at her. Hair slightly frizzy, wearing your oversized t-shirt with a cartoon mango on it. Dark circles under her eyes, but standing in your kitchen like it was her battlefield.
You couldn’t help it. You smiled.
“Well,” you said. “Thank you for trying to kill me first thing in the morning.”
She tossed a sinangag chunk at you. You dodged. It hit the wall with a soft thwack.
“Emergency food,” you deadpanned. “Doubles as a weapon.”
She broke into laughter, finally relaxing.
Later That Morning
She sat at the dining table (aka the folding table you bought from Shopee), poking at the bread you toasted to redeem breakfast. You handed her a mug of instant coffee. She sniffed it like it was a science experiment.
“I’ve never had 3-in-1 before.”
You nearly choked. “You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “I thought it was like, a brand. Not… literally sugar, cream, and coffee in one packet.”
You leaned back. “You ever been to a karinderya?”
“No.”
“Rode a jeep?”
“No.”
“Tricycle?”
She hesitated. “…Only when my driver was sick.”
You nodded slowly, sipping your coffee. “So you really are fresh out the private school bubble.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t ask to be born with a house that had a water heater in the maid’s bathroom.”
You laughed. “It’s okay. You’re adjusting.”
She looked at you—this time, not annoyed, not teasing.
“I want to,” she said, quiet. “I don’t want to go back. Not yet.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Even if it means burnt sinangag and bucket baths?”
She grinned. “Even if I have to shout ‘Para po!’ on a jeep tomorrow.”
You smirked. “Do you even know how?”
She turned pale. “…Do I have to yell it?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Loud enough for the driver to hear. Or knock the ceiling. You’ll see.”
She covered her face with both hands. “God. I’m going to die.”
You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your chin on your palm.
“Maybe,” you said. “But I’ll be there.”
She peeked at you from between her fingers.
“Promise?”
You didn’t blink.
“Promise.
Early Morning, Public Wet Market
You and Ning, out to buy ingredients after her sinangag disaster.
“Ning,” you whisper as the palengke’s chaos swells around you. “You don’t need to say ‘Hi po!’ to every tindera.”
“But they’re smiling,” she whispers back. “What if they think I’m rude?”
“They’re smiling because they know you’re rich.”
She gasps. “How?! I’m wearing slippers!”
You point to her giant tote bag that says Dior: Limited Edition – Tokyo Collection.
She looks down. “Oh.”
You sigh, gently pulling her closer as a manang with a basket of tilapia barrels past her. “Just stay near me. Don’t look too excited.”
Too late.
Ning’s eyes are already wide at the tower of tomatoes stacked like red marbles, the piles of eggplants glistening with morning dew, the giant hanging scales that look older than Makati. You haven’t even made it to the meat section and she’s already taken four mental photos.
“This is so…” she breathes in the scent of calamansi, fish guts, and tsinelas. “…raw.”
You laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
You approach a vegetable stall. The manang behind the counter eyes Ning up and down. You know that look. The internal calculator: 1 foreign-branded bag = 300% markup.
Ning, unaware, leans down and gestures at a bundle of pechay.
“How much po?”
“₱100 na lang, hija,” the vendor says with a smile that hides evil.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Ate, that’s ₱35 everywhere else.”
But Ning already takes out a crumpled ₱100 bill.
“Keep the change po,” she says sweetly.
The vendor nearly bursts into song.
You wait until you’re walking away before turning to her. “You just bought ₱35 pechay for ₱100.”
“What?! But she said—”
“She saw your bag.”
“That’s discrimination,” Ning gasps.
“That’s business,” you grin. “Welcome to capitalism, but stinkier.”
At the fish section, Ning nearly gags.
You watch her lean far, far back as a fishmonger slaps a bangus on the chopping board with a wet thwack.
“Oh my god, it’s staring at me.”
“It’s dead.”
“It’s judging me for eating salmon sashimi.”
She hides behind you as you order galunggong.
“I used to think fish just came in frozen packs,” she mumbles, holding her breath.
“You think those were just born in rectangular trays?”
“I didn’t think at all,” she confesses. “I just ate what the chef plated.”
You glance back at her. Her Dior tote has a bit of fish scale on it now. She doesn’t even notice.
She’s trying.
You hold the plastic bag out to her. “Here. Carry this.”
She takes it hesitantly. It drips slightly. Her face contorts.
“You’re making me hold—ew—raw fish?!”
You smirk. “Congrats. You’re halfway to sainthood.”
Walking Back Home
She’s carrying two plastic bags now. One with the galunggong. One with overpriced pechay and two calamansi she got bullied into buying for ₱25 each.
Her back aches. Her arms are sore.
But her face?
Sun-kissed, flushed, smiling.
“I think I have tendonitis,” she says dramatically. “This is what the masa experience feels like?”
You snort. “You’ve been here a week.”
She stops walking for a moment, looks at the street—dusty, uneven, vendors on both sides yelling “ISDAAAA!” and “PALENGKE PRESYO!” She looks down at her slippers, a far cry from her Jimmy Choos. Then at her tote bag with fish slime. Then at you.
“I don’t hate it,” she says.
You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
She looks up at you with a weird kind of wonder. Like she just surprised herself.
“I feel like I’m doing something real. Like I’m… living. Not just existing between air-conditioned places.”
You hold her gaze for a second longer than you mean to.
She breaks it first, laughing lightly. “Plus, I’ll have a great story when I go back to school.”
You chuckle. “You’re going to open with ‘I once overpaid for pechay’?”
She grins. “No. I’ll open with, ‘I once held a bag of raw fish and survived.’”
And for the first time, you don’t see the rich girl from DLSU.
You just see Ning.
And she’s starting to feel like yours
Your Apartment Kitchen, 2:14 PM
You place the ingredients on the counter. Fish, pechay, calamansi, some leftover onion, a tomato Ning insisted was “too wrinkly to live.” You’re planning something simple—just fried galunggong and ginisang gulay.
Ning stares at the fish.
“I feel like they’re… fighting for their lives.”
“They’re already dead, Ning.”
“I mean spiritually.”
You roll your eyes and grab a chopping board. “Come on. We’ll cook together.”
Her face lights up. “Like those couples on YouTube?”
You freeze mid-chop. “We’re not—”
“Shh,” she says, putting on your spare apron. It hangs off her like a child playing house. “Don’t ruin the aesthetic.”
You hand her a tomato. “Slice this.”
She holds it like it’s alien technology.
“…How do I hold it again?”
You step behind her, gently placing your hands over hers.
“Like this,” you say, guiding her fingers.
Your hands linger. Her hair smells like coconut shampoo. She’s not speaking.
Neither are you.
Just the sound of your breaths syncing, your hands on hers, the tomato slowly surrendering under the blade.
She exhales, shaky. “This feels like a scene in a teleserye.”
“Except there’s no background music,” you mumble.
She glances over her shoulder, smirking. “Says who?”
You roll your eyes—but your heart’s beating a little faster.
Eventually, the stove hisses to life.
You heat oil in the pan. Ning steps back cautiously, eyes squinting like it might explode.
“You’re scared of the oil,” you tease.
“I’m scared of trauma,” she says, backing against the counter. “It pops like gunshots!”
You drop the fish into the pan. It sizzles loudly—Ning screams. You barely catch her wrist as she jumps behind you, peeking like she’s watching a horror film.
“It’s frying, not fighting you.”
She peeks again. “It’s bubbling…”
“You bubble too when you’re angry.”
“Exactly. See how scary I am?”
You laugh. “Yeah. Terrifying.”
She shoves your arm lightly. You don’t move.
You just smile.
30 minutes later.
You both sit at the table, staring at the final product: a semi-burnt but edible galunggong, slightly overcooked pechay, and rice Ning almost remembered to fluff.
She takes a bite.
Chews.
Then raises both arms in the air dramatically. “I have achieved domesticity!”
You snort. “It’s not MasterChef, Ning.”
“But it’s mine,” she says softly. “Our mess. Our rice. Our fish.”
You glance at her. Her smile is smaller now. Warmer.
No designer lipstick. No filters.
Just Ning Yizhuo, sweaty from cooking, proud of her ₱100 pechay, and looking at you like maybe—just maybe—this is what home could feel like.
You grab your fork. “Next time, you do the frying.”
She gasps. “That’s a death sentence.”
You smirk. “Then I guess we better cook together again.”
She blinks.
Then smiles.
“Yeah,” she says. “We better
The meal’s done. Sort of.
You’re drying plates while Ning stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair clipped messily. Dish soap bubbles spill from her hands like foam parties gone wrong.
“Are you sure I’m doing this right?” she mutters, squinting at a fork.
“It’s not neurosurgery, Ning.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she says. “I’ve never washed a dish in my life.”
You blink. “Never?”
She shakes her head, sheepish. “Not once. I always just… left it on the counter. And poof. It disappeared.”
You whistle low. “Wow. Must be nice.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just looks down at her hands. Sudsy. Pale. Dripping.
“I think that’s why I stayed with Kai for so long,” she says softly. “Because I thought love was… being taken care of. Being served.”
You glance at her, waiting.
“But this—” she gestures at the sponge, the heat, the water. “This feels weirdly better.”
You bump her hip lightly with yours. “It’s because you earned it.”
She smiles at the sink. “It’s because I’m with you.”
Your hand stops mid-dry.
But she doesn’t push it. She just continues washing, humming quietly to herself.
You don’t say anything.
You just keep drying the plates like your heart didn’t just hiccup inside your chest.
Rooftop, 11:34 PM
The night air is cool. You both sit on the rooftop—her in your hoodie now, legs tucked into her chest, your shoulder nearly touching hers.
Below, the world murmurs. Jeepneys. Radios. Barking dogs. But up here, it’s calm.
She sips from a cheap plastic cup of Milo.
“I used to think I knew who I was,” she says suddenly. “Yizhuo. Daughter of the Yoons. Fluent in French. Studied abroad. Always clean. Always polite. Always… perfect.”
You say nothing. Let her speak.
“But the more I stayed in that life, the more I felt like I was shrinking. Like every time I said ‘yes po’ or smiled at a dinner I hated, I lost a version of myself.”
She rests her head on her knees.
“I’m scared,” she admits.
You turn slightly. “Of what?”
“That I don’t belong here either. That I’m just playing pretend in reverse now. Like a rich girl trying to cosplay being normal. And that the moment I get one thing wrong… people will laugh.”
You take a beat. Then: “Then let them.”
She looks at you.
“You’re trying,” you say. “You’re failing sometimes, yeah. But failing isn’t fake. It’s proof you’re in it. It means more than all the perfect smiles you gave for free before.”
She stares at you. Long. Quiet. Like she’s memorizing the words.
Then, softly: “You make me feel real.”
You smile. “You are real.”
A pause.
She sets her cup down. “Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“If I asked you to hold my hand right now, would it be weird?”
You look at her—really look at her—and for the first time, she’s not playing at anything. Not pretending. Not flirting.
You reach out. She takes your hand.
And together, you just sit there. Holding onto silence like it’s the only thing keeping your hearts from spilling over.
The Next Day
The next morning, you’re frying eggs when there’s a knock at the door.
Ning, hair still wet from her bucket bath, peeks out the window.
And freezes.
“What?” you ask, stepping beside her.
Outside, standing crisp in a dark grey long-sleeved polo, holding a takeout bag from some overpriced café in BGC…
…is Kai Yoon.
You and Ning stare at him. He meets both your gazes. Eyes unreadable.
He lifts the bag slightly. Almost like a peace offering.
“Can we talk?” he asks, eyes on Ning.
She doesn’t answer right away. Just clutches her towel tighter, like she’s not sure what she’s shielding—her skin or her peace.
You look at her. “You don’t have to.”
But she steps back, exhales, and says—
“Give me five minutes.”
Your jaw tightens, but you nod.
As she closes the door behind her, your knuckles whiten around the frying pan handle.
You’re not worried about him hurting her.
You’re worried about her forgetting what she’s learned to love.
The door clicks shut.
Ning steps out barefoot onto the sun-warmed tiles of your apartment landing. Her hair is still dripping, towel slung over her shoulder. She looks like she just stepped out of something pure—like peace—and into something that smells like old perfume and pretense.
Kai holds the café bag awkwardly.
“I didn’t know what you eat now,” he says, offering it. “They had truffle croissants.”
She stares at it. “You think this is a peace offering?”
Kai smiles faintly. “It’s a start.”
She doesn’t take the bag.
“You always did that,” she says. “Use money to fix things.”
“It’s what I have,” he replies. “And you liked it, remember?”
She blinks. “I liked you. Not your Black Card.”
Kai shifts, uncomfortable for the first time. His voice drops.
“I miss you.”
Inside the apartment hallway, behind the door:
You didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
You were just… worried.
You press your ear to the door, trying not to breathe too loudly.
Then you hear it:
“I miss you.”
Your chest tightens. You grip the edge of the counter like it’ll steady your heart.
Back outside:
Ning crosses her arms. “You miss the version of me that didn’t talk back. That wore what your mom liked. That went to meetings just to smile and pour wine.”
Kai’s jaw clenches. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks. “Do you even know who I am now?”
“I’m trying,” he says quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”
There’s a long pause.
Then Kai says the thing that you hear through the door:
“You were better with me, Ning.”
The words hit like cold water.
Inside, you flinch.
Your throat dries.
Outside, Ning stays very still.
Kai softens. “You had structure. Discipline. A path. You weren’t flailing around in slippers at wet markets with some random guy who—”
“Don’t,” she cuts sharply. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
Kai’s eyes flash. “You really think he understands you more than I did?”
She doesn’t answer.
And silence, this time, screams.
Then—
He steps forward.
And wraps his arms around her.
She freezes.
Then slowly—reluctantly—lets herself rest her chin on his shoulder.
Not tightly.
Not long.
But enough.
Inside:
You see it.
Through the open window.
That hug.
Your world stills.
The eggs on the stove begin to burn.
You don’t notice.
You just… quietly step back.
Like something in you cracked open and didn’t know how to close again.
Ning steps back into the apartment.
She looks shaken, but not sad. Just thoughtful. Her towel still slung over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed.
You’re already wiping the pan clean. Face unreadable. Voice even.
“Breakfast’s cold,” you say.
She pauses.
“I—Kai—he just wanted to—”
“You don’t have to explain,” you say too quickly.
She hesitates again. “You sure?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
But you don’t meet her eyes.
You just turn your back and start reboiling water you don’t really need.
And Ning, for the first time since staying with you, feels a distance that wasn’t there yesterday.
You used to cook together.
Now, you eat in silence.
The only sound at lunch is the scrape of a fork against your ₱10 plate and the ticking fan that wobbles like it might fall any day now.
She sits across from you, legs crossed, hair perfect again. Even her nails are painted now—light pink with tiny gold accents. There’s a glint of pearl earrings that weren’t there last week.
You don’t ask.
She doesn’t tell.
But between every spoonful, there’s that thick quiet. The kind you only hear between people who used to laugh.
Market Morning
You grab the bayong and head out. The sun is high, the air thick with rain that hasn’t fallen yet.
She stays in bed, scrolling. You glance once before leaving.
“Need anything?”
She shakes her head without looking up. “Kai’s picking me up in an hour.”
You nod once.
You don’t say goodbye.
Rooftop Steakhouse – Night
A rooftop in BGC. Golden light. Jazz music. Wine in glasses with stems longer than her fingers.
Ning sits across from Kai, eating steak she didn’t order. He talks about expansion—tech, models, Singapore, Paris.
“Paris?” she asks softly, staring out at the skyline.
“Yeah,” Kai says. “We could go. For New Year. You and me again.”
She chews slowly.
The steak tastes like money. Like comfort. Like the life her father wanted her to return to.
Her phone buzzes once.
She doesn’t check.
But her fingers twitch.
Back home, the rain finally comes.
Not in drizzles.
In sheets.
You scramble as water rushes in through the back door, frantically stacking up chairs, unplugging sockets, grabbing the rice container before it floats away.
The water is ankle-deep.
You’ve got no rain boots. Just tsinelas. Just yourself.
You think of Ning.
Of how she used to squeal when she saw a cockroach, how she held fish like it was cursed, how she once tried to sweep a leak away with a face towel.
She’s not here now.
You’re soaked to the bone.
The electric fan you bought last month sparks once—then dies.
So you sit.
In the flood.
Alone.
You, in the dark, watching raindrops plink into your pot.
Ning, on a rooftop, watching city lights flicker like stars you can almost touch.
Kai’s voice fades into the background. Something about investment. About her father calling him “finally someone respectable.”
Ning cuts her steak.
But her heart?
It’s not chewing.
It’s remembering.
The burnt sinangag. The way you looked at her during that rooftop talk. How your hand fit perfectly in hers without needing to squeeze too tight.
She blinks.
Her wine glass reflects the city.
But in it, she sees you.
And her smile fades.
Back at Your Place – Midnight
The floodwater’s receded.
You mop in silence.
You place the fan outside, unsure if it’ll ever work again.
You don’t text her.
You don’t check her socials.
But when you sit back on the wooden chair by the window and close your eyes—
You think of her.
And wonder if she still thinks of you
The house smells like wet cement and bleach.
Your jeans are still damp. You haven’t changed out of them. Haven’t eaten dinner either.
Instead, you sit on the monoblock chair just outside your door, elbows on your knees, a bottle of Ginebra at your side, half-empty. A box of Fortune Reds lies unopened beside it.
You stare at the box.
You told yourself never again. Not after your dad. Not after what it did to your voice.
But it’s quiet tonight. Too quiet. The kind that makes you want to cough out every feeling like smoke just to fill the space.
Rain drips from the rusted awning overhead. A faint scent of galunggong still lingers in the air, like it’s haunting you.
And then you hear it.
That low, smooth hum.
Tires on wet gravel.
A sleek, polished black sports car—almost foreign against the warped concrete and half-flooded gutter—pulls up right in front of your gate.
You don’t move.
The driver door opens.
And there she is.
Ning Yizhuo.
Hair smooth. Blazer expensive. Heels tapping lightly against the wet pavement.
The door doesn’t close. The engine keeps running behind her like it’s waiting. Like she’s just pausing.
She steps forward.
You still don’t move.
Only your fingers twitch toward the cigarette box.
She looks at you like she’s not sure what she’s expecting—anger? forgiveness? one last smile?
You look at her like you’re not sure what she’s offering.
Her lips part.
Then, softly:
“Y/N… I’m flying to Paris.”
You exhale through your nose. Not shocked. Not anymore.
Of course she is.
Paris. The place they promised her. The symbol of who she used to be. Or who she was always meant to become again.
You nod slowly.
Not because you agree.
Just because it’s the only thing you know how to do without crumbling.
She waits. Maybe for you to say something. Stop her. Ask her not to go.
But you don’t.
You finally pick up the cigarette box. Open it. Pull one out with shaking fingers.
She watches, eyes widening. “You don’t smoke.”
“I do now,” you say.
Your voice is hoarse. Not cruel. Just… tired.
She looks at the car.
Then back at you.
“It’s not forever,” she says, almost desperate. “Just… for now. Just a little while.”
You light the cigarette. It sputters against the rain-heavy air, but you breathe in anyway.
The taste burns.
So does everything else.
You look up at her.
Eyes red. But not from smoke.
From the flood you’re trying to pretend isn’t inside you.
“Then go,” you say quietly.
She flinches.
“I waited,” you add. “You said you wanted something real. I thought you meant me.”
Her lip trembles. “I did.”
You scoff, bitter. “Then why does it feel like I was just… part of your transition? A layover between lives.”
She blinks rapidly.
You flick ash onto the pavement. The ember glows faintly in the dark.
“You’re gonna forget me in first class, Yizhuo.”
She shakes her head. “No. I won’t.”
But the car’s still running.
The lights still on.
You don’t believe her.
You just look at her one last time.
Soaking her in—every detail. The old you would’ve reached for her hand. Tucked her hair back. Told her to stay.
But now?
Now you just say:
“Paris is beautiful this time of year.”
She swallows hard.
“Goodbye, Y/N.”
She turns.
The car door closes.
The taillights disappear.
And you sit back down, alone again, rainwater at your feet.
The cigarette’s ash falls off quietly into the gutter