Jay‑jay
If there was one thing London had given me besides exhaustion, it was control — control of breath, pace, rhythm.
Tennis became my escape there, a way to focus on precision instead of pain.
But I hadn't realized what it would feel like to hold the racket again under Manila's sun, surrounded by ghosts who never left.
The P.E. coordinator had paired London and HVIS for a mixed "friendly" tennis exhibition.
Mia and Clara were thrilled. Eli bragged shamelessly about his lack of coordination.
I just tightened my grip around the handle, pretending it wasn't shaking.
Drake stood near the court fence with the teachers and Section E.
His smile was steady, camera in hand. "Show them what you've got, love!"
I nodded — then glanced once at the crowd.
Sixteen boys, silent but watchful.
My serve cut through the air cleanly. The ball slammed into the opposite court and bounced with precision that shocked even me.
I didn't miss a shot for the next five serves.
The old Jay‑jay — the reckless, laughing one — used to yell after every win.
This one just breathed steady, calm, efficient.
But every hit, every swing, every rush of adrenaline brought back pieces I'd buried: the after‑class games with Section E, the way Keifer used to tease, "You'll hit the moon before you hit my serve," followed by her always proving him wrong.
Halfway through, my chest tightened.
Not from running — from remembering.
Drake
At first, I was proud.
Jay moved like lightning, composed and confident. The crowd loved her.
But I'd spent enough months studying her silence to know what happiness looked like on her — and this wasn't it.
Each time she scored, her shoulders stiffened instead of relaxing. Each smile died too quickly.
And her eyes... they weren't on the ball much anymore.
They were scanning the sidelines.
Straight toward him.
The tall one. Keifer. The boy she swore was "just a classmate."
The one whose eyes never once left her the entire match.
Something in my chest went cold.
Keifer
She'd always been good at tennis — but not this good.
Now, every serve was a sword, every swing a declaration.
She wasn't playing the opponent. She was battling memories — battling me.
David murmured beside me, "She's trying too hard to not look at you."
"I noticed."
When she turned her head mid‑serve and met my gaze for a split second, the world tilted.
Ten months of silence, lies, and pride cracked under that look.
She won the match easily, but the victory barely landed.
Her eyes glossed, her hand trembling as she shook her opponent's.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Jay‑jay
After the game, the court emptied fast.
Mia and Eli left with the others; the teachers stayed behind chatting.
Drake caught me by the net, handing me my towel.
"You all right?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
He watched me carefully. "You still look for him."
I froze. "What?"
"During the game," he said gently. "You couldn't hide it… You still look for him, Jay."
I shook my head, forcing a laugh. "Drake, that's ridiculous. I don't—"
"Please," he said softly. "I'm not angry. Just… be honest with me."
The racket slipped from my grip.
The truth had lived under my ribs for too long to lie anymore.
"I don't love him," I said. "But I miss who I was before he broke me. And sometimes, I look at him and remember what it felt like to matter."
Drake nodded slowly. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's still love, Jay. Just not the kind that heals yet."
And before I could reply, a familiar voice broke through.
"Jay."
Keifer was there.
Keifer
I shouldn't have come.
But seeing her shake like that after the game — after hearing that confession from just outside the fence — I couldn't stay still.
She turned, shock written across her face. "What do you want?"
"To talk."
"We don't have anything to say, Keifer."
"Then let me say it anyway."
She looked at Drake, then back at me. "Not here."
But I was already stepping closer. My voice came out rough.
"I never used you. I never meant any of it. Everything I said that night — it was to keep you safe."
Her eyes filled, fury and heartbreak colliding. "Safe from what, Keifer? From the truth?"
I didn't answer in time. The silence was enough.
The words useless.
So I closed the gap instead.
She stepped back — once, twice — until her shoulder hit the wall behind the bleachers.
"Don't," she warned, trembling.
"Tell me to stop," I whispered.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
The world blurred.
For the first time in ten months, I stopped pretending.
And when our lips met — firm, shaking, desperate — the lie between us shattered completely.
Jay‑jay
The kiss lasted only a heartbeat before I pushed him away.
Hard.
"You don't get to do that," I snapped, breathing fast.
Keifer looked wrecked — eyes wild, chest heaving. "I had to."
"No, Keifer," I said, voice breaking. "You wanted to. And I let you."
Drake's shout came from somewhere behind us — angry, confused, hurt.
I flinched before turning to the sound.
Everything I'd tried to protect — all the careful peace I'd built — was slipping through my hands again.
Keifer
When Drake reached us, Jay‑jay was already walking away, crying too hard to see where she was going.
He glared at me, fists clenched. "You just don't stop hurting her, do you?"
Maybe he was right.
Maybe I didn't know how to stop.
As he ran after her, I stood there on the court, replaying the taste of everything I'd just ruined — every truth, every apology, every chance at peace.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure which hurt more: pretending to stop loving her… or finally failing to.