Page 92 of Between Love and War
“Haley,” I say, voice even. “I love that you care. I really do. But I’m not a baby. If I get hurt—let me. That’s part of it. That’s part oflife.”
They’re all watching me with wide eyes. Bon even has her mouth half open. I know what they’re thinking. Who is this weird little lady who suddenly knows how to disagree with people? Who suddenly has the voice to speak up?
“I’ve spent so long saying yes to things just so I wouldn’t rock the boat,” I continue, barely recognizing the version of mewho is still talking. “I say yes because it’s easier. Because it keeps things light. Because when you’re the agreeable one, no one ever accuses you of being difficult or dramatic. But it’s exhausting.”
I lean back a little, sighing deeply. “So no, I don’t know what I’m doing with Michael. Maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s nothing. But whatever it is, I want it to be mine.”
They’re all quiet.
Then Bon nods, slowly. “Well. Damn.”
Emily chuckles. “I kind of want to clap.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking a handful of chips. “Besides, no one said anything about love. I’m not even sure what this feeling is.”
“That’s love,” Bon and Emily say, and they laugh in unison.
Bon sighs dramatically, leaning her cheek into her hand. “It starts like that. Weird, an unwelcome thought. Then it becomes scary. And then suddenly you’re crying in a lighthouse in Batanes while he confesses under the stars—”
“Oh my god,” Haley interrupts. “This is why I can’t talk to either of you anymore.”
“Or overthinking on a rooftop in New York City because you don’t know what you’re feeling,” Emily adds.
“Seriously. Katherine, that’s not love. That’s a heartworm.” Haley stands up and adds, “I’m gonna go get water. And maybe touch some grass before I catch whatever it is you two have.” She scrunches her nose at Bon and Emily, and we all laugh.
As Haley leaves the room mumbling something about romance being a virus, Bon leans toward me and whispers, “She’s totally going to fall hard one day. And we’re going to be unbearable.”
Emily and Bon smile at me like they totally support me. But Haley is a little more difficult to read. I don’t know what she’s going through, but I hope she comes around.
And whatever this feeling is, I don’t have to know, do I? I can just let it be. I’m not going to try to talk myself out of it. I’m not going to shrink it down to make it easier to carry. I’m letting it be exactly as big or small as it needs to be.
Let’s see where this choice takes me.
My friends are asleep, their breathing slow and even, but I’m still by Emily’s window, forehead resting lightly against the glass. I lost track of time, but it’s quiet outside. The street is washed in that late night glow, and everything is still. Unmoving.
My phone buzzes, and my heart gives a stupid, hopeful jump. Jeez, no one ever texts me that a simple buzz makes me think of Michael. Maybe he’s texting me to say something absurd. Or send a meme.
But it’s not him.
It’s Manang Linda.
Manang Linda: Katherine, can you bake extra batches for Lily's tomorrow? I think Freida's having guests.
The words are harmless. Nothing but a simple request. And yet my thumb hovers, because the reflex to sayyesis so ingrained it almost bypasses thought entirely. I can feel my mind instantly drift to the calculation of ingredients I have left and how early I should set an alarm.
Because I usually do. I make room. I push things around. I give the time I didn’t have to spare in the first place, then convince myself I didn’t need it anyway.
But tonight feels different.
Just a few hours ago, I sat across from my friends and admitted (with real, adult words) that I have feelings for Michael. That I like him enough to risk the fallout. And I didn’t backpedal. I didn’t laugh it off or water it down. I didn’t fold under the weight of everyone else’s worries.
I stayed standing.
And I realize now how rare that is for me, the standing. I’ve spent years training myself to bend, to shift, to make space for other people’s comfort. I know the exact angle to tilt my head so someone feels heard. I know how to hide my own exhaustion so no one feels guilty for asking me for one more thing. I’ve gotten good at it.
But now, I stood up for myself. And if I can do that with something as terrifying as my own feelings, I can do it in other places too.
I type slowly.
