Caloy arrived twenty minutes after Gigi's text.
No questions. No assumptions. He just showed up - hoodie on, paper bag of takeout in hand, and the softest expression on his face. Like he already knew she didn't need words, just presence.
"Don't tell me you brought lugaw," she said, opening the door.
"Comfort food. You looked like you needed it."
"I said 'come over,' not 'feed me like I'm emotionally unstable.'"
"Same thing," he teased, stepping inside.
They sat on her bedroom floor, not on the bed - too intimate, too symbolic. Caloy handed her a plastic spoon, and they ate like kids at a sleepover. Quietly. Familiar.
She told him about what she heard her father and grandfather say.
How they believed independence was a flaw. How they'd never really listened, just expected her to fit inside a mold they'd already cracked and reshaped for every woman before her.
She didn't cry. Not this time.
She was too angry. And too tired.
"They act like I'll wake up one day and regret not being gentler. Like I'll reach some age where I'll suddenly beg for a man to rescue me," she said.
Caloy chewed slowly before replying. "They don't understand that not needing someone isn't the same as not wanting someone. That there's power in choice."
She stared at him. "Do you ever feel like I'm too much?"
He looked at her like the question offended him.
"No. I feel like you've always been told to be less. And I hate that you believed it, even a little."
She put her food down.
It was in that moment - the soft glow of her desk lamp, the silence wrapped around them like a blanket - that Gigi did something she'd never done before.
She leaned in, slowly, and rested her head against Caloy's shoulder. Not out of exhaustion, or sadness, or seduction.
Just need.
He didn't move. Didn't tense up. Just let her be.
"You make it feel safe," she whispered.
"What?"
"Feeling something. You make it feel? not stupid."
He didn't respond with a grand line or some romantic punch. Just whispered, "I'm not going anywhere."
And he didn't.
Not when she got quiet.
Not when she fell asleep mid-conversation, head still leaning against him.
Not when her walls fell piece by piece and left her uncovered, soft.
When she woke up at 3:17 AM, Caloy was still there - sitting on the floor, hoodie pulled over his head, neck bent awkwardly as he slept against her bookshelf.
She grabbed a blanket and covered him.
Then stood there for a second, watching him.
And smiled.
Not because she was in love. Not because this was the beginning of a romance.
But because - for the first time in a long time - she didn't feel alone in the room.
She didn't feel like she had to fight to prove her worth.
She didn't feel like she was bracing for betrayal.
She didn't feel like her strength had to mean solitude.
She felt seen.
And it didn't scare her this time.
No questions. No assumptions. He just showed up - hoodie on, paper bag of takeout in hand, and the softest expression on his face. Like he already knew she didn't need words, just presence.
"Don't tell me you brought lugaw," she said, opening the door.
"Comfort food. You looked like you needed it."
"I said 'come over,' not 'feed me like I'm emotionally unstable.'"
"Same thing," he teased, stepping inside.
They sat on her bedroom floor, not on the bed - too intimate, too symbolic. Caloy handed her a plastic spoon, and they ate like kids at a sleepover. Quietly. Familiar.
She told him about what she heard her father and grandfather say.
How they believed independence was a flaw. How they'd never really listened, just expected her to fit inside a mold they'd already cracked and reshaped for every woman before her.
She didn't cry. Not this time.
She was too angry. And too tired.
"They act like I'll wake up one day and regret not being gentler. Like I'll reach some age where I'll suddenly beg for a man to rescue me," she said.
Caloy chewed slowly before replying. "They don't understand that not needing someone isn't the same as not wanting someone. That there's power in choice."
She stared at him. "Do you ever feel like I'm too much?"
He looked at her like the question offended him.
"No. I feel like you've always been told to be less. And I hate that you believed it, even a little."
She put her food down.
It was in that moment - the soft glow of her desk lamp, the silence wrapped around them like a blanket - that Gigi did something she'd never done before.
She leaned in, slowly, and rested her head against Caloy's shoulder. Not out of exhaustion, or sadness, or seduction.
Just need.
He didn't move. Didn't tense up. Just let her be.
"You make it feel safe," she whispered.
"What?"
"Feeling something. You make it feel? not stupid."
He didn't respond with a grand line or some romantic punch. Just whispered, "I'm not going anywhere."
And he didn't.
Not when she got quiet.
Not when she fell asleep mid-conversation, head still leaning against him.
Not when her walls fell piece by piece and left her uncovered, soft.
When she woke up at 3:17 AM, Caloy was still there - sitting on the floor, hoodie pulled over his head, neck bent awkwardly as he slept against her bookshelf.
She grabbed a blanket and covered him.
Then stood there for a second, watching him.
And smiled.
Not because she was in love. Not because this was the beginning of a romance.
But because - for the first time in a long time - she didn't feel alone in the room.
She didn't feel like she had to fight to prove her worth.
She didn't feel like she was bracing for betrayal.
She didn't feel like her strength had to mean solitude.
She felt seen.
And it didn't scare her this time.
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