Gigi was never the sentimental type.
She didn't keep birthday cards. She deleted text messages as soon as they stopped being useful. She didn't re-read old conversations or stalk exes online - because there were no exes. Just would-be lovers she dismissed before they became problems.
But after the confrontation with her father, something cracked.
Not shattered. Just… split.
A week had passed. The house was quieter. Malou had left - packed a bag without a word, left her wedding ring on the kitchen table. Gigi didn't ask where she went. She only hoped she'd find peace.
And for once, no new woman had moved in to take her place.
That night, Gigi sat at her desk and opened a blank notebook. She stared at the first page for a long time. Then she picked up her pen and wrote the words she never thought she'd write:
To the Women Who Came Before Me -
I'm sorry.
I used to think you were weak.
I thought staying meant stupidity. That silence meant surrender.
But now I understand.
You stayed because you hoped.
And hope, I realize, can be louder than dignity.
She paused, unsure if she was writing to her stepmothers, her grandmother, her own mother - who left the country and never returned. Or maybe, all of them.
I watched you bend yourselves just to fit into someone else's idea of "wife."
I watched you forgive over and over like it was your job.
I hated you for it.
But now I wonder…
Who taught you that survival had to look like submission?
She turned the page.
To My Future Daughter -
If I ever have you, I promise: I'll never call love a goal.
I'll call it a choice.
And I'll teach you how to choose yourself first.
Always.
Another page.
To Myself -
You were never broken.
You were built inside a storm.
And every time you refused to be swept away, you became the woman you were afraid didn't exist.
She closed the notebook and exhaled.
No one would ever read these letters. She didn't need them to. The act of writing was enough. It was the only thing she could control.
The next morning, she tucked the notebook into her drawer like a secret. She put on her usual armor - sleek clothes, confident walk, unreadable eyes - and headed to work.
Raymond didn't speak to her when she passed his office. He looked up briefly, then returned to his laptop. Gigi felt nothing.
No flutter.
No ache.
Just clarity.
Whatever had happened in that room - the kiss, the apology, the confusion - it belonged to a version of her she had left behind on the park bench the night Caloy found her.
Speaking of which…
Her phone buzzed.
Caloy: Can we talk tonight?
Gigi stared at the screen. She wasn't ready for what she suspected was coming. Not yet.
But she replied anyway.
Gigi: Okay. Just not in a place with too many people. I don't want to cry in public twice this year.
Caloy: Deal. Rooftop. 8PM. I'll bring wine.
She smiled.
Maybe healing wasn't about fixing anything.
Maybe it was about naming what hurt, saying it out loud, and letting yourself still be strong the next day.
She wasn't healed.
But she was trying.
And that had to count for something.