Page 112 of Between Love and War
It’s like this. Standing in your tiny kitchen with flour on your cheek, dough under your nails, and tears on your apron because you gave someone a piece of yourself and now you don’t know how to ask for it back.
I stare at the cooling rack in front of me. Chocolate chip, as always. His favorite. And now my favorite, for all the wrong reasons.
From the living room, I hear the soft hum of the television. Mom must’ve fallen asleep with it on. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and head over to turn it off, but I stop cold at the voice of the announcer.
“Michael Lee returns.”
My heart stutters.
I look at the screen. Footage of him flickers to life—fast cuts of him on the court, weaving through defenders, sinking impossible shots, that familiar sharp glint in his eye. It’s all there. The brilliance. The control. The way he belongs in that world.
“After the press interview that re-captured the public’s heart,” the reporter says, “Michael Lee is officially back on the court.”
I step closer, arms folded tightly across my chest. “To celebrate, the Philippine Basketball Association is holding a comeback game next week.”
The montage plays: Michael in motion, arms raised in victory, sweat on his brow, joy on his face. Not the man I knew in the classroom, the one who sat on tiny chairs and helped make popsicle puppets with little kids.
This isthatMichael. The one the country worships. The captain and the legend.
And he’s so good. Like—really, really good. I never watched much basketball before, but now I can’t look away. I feel… proud of him.
This is who he is. This is who he was always meant to be.
And I’m just the small-town girl who borrowed a few months of his heart.
How dramatic, Kate.
I can’t ask him to stay. I never could. Not when the whole country’s holding its breath to welcome him home. I blink fast and press my palms into my eyes. No tears. Not now.
A soft knock on the backyard door makes me jump. I turn around and see Michael waving his hand.
Great.
I open the door and he enters, wearing gym clothes.
“You shouldn’t watch that,” he says, pointing to his face on the television.
“Funny,” I say. “Four months ago, you would’ve said something like, ‘I look good, don’t I?’”
“Yeah, well four months ago, I didn’t like you yet.” He settles his bag on the floor. It’s like he went straight here before he went to his own house. “But now I like you way too much to show off. That guy,” he says, pointing to the screen, “is a phony.” He laughs. “That guy never knew how to just be. He didn’t know how to lose. Or sit still.”
I watch him, something tight in my chest unwinding.
“I didn’t really start learning any of that,” he continues, “until I met you.”
“I didn’t mean to change you,” I say softly.
“You didn’t change me,” he says. “You gave me space to see who I already was.”
I smile softly. “So what are you doing here?” I take off my apron and hang it on the rack. He approaches me and takes a cookie off the table.
“I could smell these from a mile away.” He smiles, but it falters immediately. He adds, “And I wanted to tell you that I’m leaving tomorrow. Back to the city.”
My heart sinks to my stomach, down to my legs, and I feel myself wobble internally. “Oh,” I say. “Of course.”
“Just… don’t tell anyone. They’ll throw this big going away party, and I don’t want to feel like I’m not coming back here.”
I just nod, unsure of what to say. I try to smile, but I’m sure it looks lopsided.
