I met Julian on a bench.
It was an ordinary Sunday—the kind where the sky hung low and the trees stood still, as if the world were holding its breath. I had brought a taho from the vendor near the park entrance, more out of habit than hunger. The warmth of the soft tofu and arnibal in my hand offered a kind of comfort that coffee never could.
He was scribbling in a leather notebook, half-drunk coffee on the ground, a paperback of Rilke tucked under his arm like it was part of his body. He wore a black jacket, scuffed boots, and a look that didn't try to please. His hair curled at the nape of his neck, like he'd forgotten to comb it—and didn't care to.
The kind of man who made silence feel like an invitation.
I sat beside him because there were no other empty seats—but also because something about him made me want to be noticed. There was something about how his eyes followed the movement of the trees instead of people. How he seemed untouched by the world but aware of it in a way that made you wonder what he saw when he looked at you.
He didn't look up for a full minute.
Then he did.
And when our eyes met, I swear I felt it—not attraction, but recognition. Like he was someone I hadn't met yet but had been waiting for.
"You look like someone with a secret," he said, not smiling.
I laughed, surprised. "Don't we all?"
That was it.
That's how it began—with a sentence that sounded like it belonged in a novel, and a man who looked like he knew how every chapter ended but still read them anyway.
We started meeting at that bench.
First by accident. Then on purpose. Then as if the park itself conspired to bring us there, always around 4 PM, when the sun broke through the clouds just enough to make everything golden. Near the bench, there was a vendor who sold kwek-kwek and banana cue. I'd sometimes buy a stick to share, but he'd wave it off, saying he was fasting or "eating metaphors instead."
He'd bring me poems. I'd bring him questions.
We talked about absurdism, dead poets, the weight of expectation. About why our generation seemed to chase meaning and run from it at the same time. I told him how I once wanted to be a doctor because it sounded noble. He said he wanted to be a tree, because trees didn't explain themselves.
He said structure was a prison, that love should feel like breath—not a contract.
And I let myself believe that was romantic.
Because Julian made me feel like I was being understood, not just looked at. He didn't ask about my job title—he asked what kept me awake at night. He didn't say I was beautiful—he said I had "an energy that interrupts silence."
He spoke Taglish like it was jazz. One moment quoting Neruda, the next saying things like, "Alam mo, ang weird mo in a good way. Gusto ko 'yon." And I'd blush like a high school girl, even if I had no business being flattered by a man who talked like the moon belonged to him.
We started texting late.
Midnight became 2 AM. His messages long and winding—like prose disguised as truth.
"I don't believe in ownership. I believe in orbit."
"I want you near, but not trapped."
"Doesn't it feel better when it's undefined?"
And I thought, maybe it does. Maybe I don't need a label. Maybe this is something.
But "something" is a slippery thing to stand on.
He'd disappear for days. No warning. Just gone.
Then reappear with some quiet apology, a new poem, or a quote about how "the moon doesn't explain herself either."
I started marking time by his absence.
Checking my phone before meetings. Re-reading old threads just to feel him in the room. I stopped sharing our conversations with friends because I knew what they'd say: That man is confused. That man is a walking quote but a missing presence. And I couldn't bear to hear it out loud.
Still—I didn't walk away.
Because when he was there, it felt like flying.
One Sunday, he came to one of my talks—a women's leadership conference in Makati. I stood onstage in my navy pantsuit, speaking to a room of polished strangers while he sat in the back with his sleeves rolled up and eyes locked on me like I was the only one that mattered.
Afterward, people lined up to shake my hand.
"Brilliant."
"Inspiring."
"You're a woman to watch."
A middle-aged woman even gave me a Sampaguita lei. "Para sa inspirasyon," she said with a kind smile.
But when I stepped outside, heels clicking against the pavement, he was already gone.
Didn't text until the next day.
"You were incandescent."
No follow-up. No plan. Just poetry.
I walked home alone that night. Clutching my award in one hand and my coat in the other. The city glittered around me—jeepneys honking, lovers walking hand-in-hand, the faint sound of karaoke from a side street.
And I wondered—not for the first time—if any man would ever choose me in a way that felt like staying.
Not admiring. Not orbiting.
Just… staying.