Soul Ties
October 27, 2025
After all the years of putting men on pedestals, I got tired of romanticizing every basic human experience. So I’ll just say things exactly how they are.
He was my classmate in Philosophy class back in college. He was trouble. Sat at the back next to a foreign student, skipped classes, ditched me on our reports, and drank too often — my exact opposite. Unfortunately, we had one major thing in common: we belonged to the same circle of Engineering friends.
And ironically, among all the guys in that group, he was the one I secretly liked. Maybe because he never flirted with me (not directly, at least), and because he was both smart and funny — and unbothered — my bread and butter. A sure-surrender combination. The key to my questionable, unreliable heart. Plus, he was cute too — with those chinky eyes, high nose bridge, and black ear piercings, you would practically smell a heartbreaker from a mile away.
Tell him the most absurd things in the world: that trees can talk, that humans should’ve evolved with eleven fingers, or that hairdressing isn’t a form of art. He could turn any ridiculous idea into a fun, engaging, and oddly enriching conversation. I wish I were romanticizing this, but he’s that good at carrying the volley.
We went out three different times in the past. Looking back, I still don’t know what that was. 2016 was the year of firsts — of heartbreaks and new circles beyond high school. It was unstable, messy, and confusing. We were definitely friends, but there was something intimate about hanging out alone outside our circle. It didn’t feel weird, but it wasn’t “nothing” either.
I didn’t know if he liked me. I could’ve sworn I felt it, but there were no verbal confessions, so there was no confirmation for the record. And to be fair, I didn’t acknowledge that feeling either. At most, it was just a quiet, in-denial crush on your stupidly cute guy friend. Years would go by, and he’d later admit that he never pursued me because he didn’t think I liked him. After all, I was one of the boys!
We lost contact for nine years, so I’ll skip that part. All I know is that when I met him again, he was a whole different person. And so was I.
He holds my waist now — on our first date — and I like to stick to my performatively reserved self and shoo him away, but this time, I allow it. Normally, a hand on my waist would’ve made me raise a brow, but this time, I encourage it — without shame.
He takes me to his favorite coffee shops and restaurants — the ones he gatekeeps — and doesn’t force me to like coffee (because I never will). Maybe he’s lying when he says I’m the first girl he’s brought there — who knows? I don’t really care yet. But he holds my hand in public, carries my things, and strolls around aimlessly just to keep our talks going. It certainly feels like love bombing — but I enjoy it. Pinch me.
He shows interest in my so-called boring interests — historical films, art, writing. And honestly, even if it’s just sweet talk, I’ll give it to him. He’s flawless at keeping conversations smooth and alive, even about topics he barely knows. Probably because he’s an artist himself — a racetrack photographer (among his five other jobs). How cool is that? He showed me his work, and I was genuinely intrigued, entertained, and impressed by how professional he is.
He shares his favorite songs and movies too, and honestly? The fact that he listens to Erykah Badu and watches poverty films is all I need to know the man’s got taste. Indie, oldie, taboo.
He brings me around our old friends, and I say this without discount — I genuinely enjoy their company. No pretense. No filter. I laugh as loudly as I want. I curse, joke, dance, and yell. I claim I’m a hardcore introvert but somehow, this circle makes me want to hang out every drunken Friday night — perfectly comfortable, effortlessly myself. And I dare say they like my company too — absolutely provable.
We drive past midnight down Aguinaldo Highway and talk about how K-pop is gay and hard metal is gibberish. We agree on how cringey and incomprehensible they are. He disclosed he couldn’t stand Ben & Ben, and this time I just had to protest. They’re great! He admires me for how I have an opinion on everything — which, honestly, is what everybody else loved about me in the past anyway. We laugh and curse like brothers, and high five like strangers who finally found someone who gets it. It’s amazing how we only dated a couple of times in the past, lost touch for nine years, and yet never run out of things to talk about, like we’re best friends. This match is rare.
Some people bring out the best in me.
Some bring out the soft.
But he — he brings out the real.
The authentic.
And God —
it’s so refreshing,
not having to elevate or shrink or adjust
just to make someone else enjoy my presence.
And amidst all the screaming chemistry, here I am thinking — hadn’t he come from an eight-year relationship, and hadn’t I once experienced the steadiest, warmest, safest kind of love — this connection could’ve been perfectly golden. Had we not been broken before, we would’ve laid all our cards on the table, and this might’ve been a best-selling summer romance. The kind that ends in sunset and bedtime kisses.
But alas, perhaps we were far too cautious to fall in love.
“I believe every person you meet in this lifetime has a purpose,” he said, eyes on the road.
Amused, I challenged him, “So what’s ours, then? Why do you think we met again?”
“I honestly have no idea,” he laughed.
“Oh, come on.” I leaned back, teasing. “Take a shot. Hit or miss. Just say anything.”
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“No idea,” he repeated, shaking his head.
“What do you want it to be, then?” I rephrased the question.
Without looking at me, he said, “You’d just think I’m sweet-talking, but I want this long-term.”
I stopped asking because I realized I didn’t even know what I wanted to hear. Was I just fishing? Or was I just waiting for reassurance I wouldn’t have believed anyway? Even if he said he wanted us seriously, would I have been ready for it?
We parked in front of my house, and I laid out the perfect material for goodbye: “Sorry. We’re too different.” I listed the things he was, the things I wasn’t, and how I had no business — and absolutely no desire — to change him. I told him I preferred to be with someone who naturally aligned with me. That I wouldn’t be at peace settling into a setup I am not compatible with.
And there he went — either genuinely persuasive or just really damn good at manipulation — “I am so offended that you’re so used to dumb guys you feel like you have to spoon-feed me.”
That caught me off guard.
“I get that you don’t want to change me,” he continued, “but for two people to move forward, one of them eventually has to submit.”
“Don’t use the word submit,” I said. “It makes the other party look superior.” I wasn’t rejecting the idea of compromise — I was rejecting the power imbalance.
“Don’t mind the complexity of the terms,” he said, keeping up, showing me it’s okay to be intellectually honest. “What I mean is — someone has to bend a little. And since you’ve made it clear it’s not you… I will. Because I want us to move forward.”
And that — God, that — was exactly what I wanted to hear, even if I didn’t want to admit it. Not love, not forever — just intent. Just willingness.
“So you’re saying you’re… willing to, um, sub-mit?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yes. That’s what I’m doing. That’s why I’m here,” he simply said.
“Okay, but I need you to know I’m not trying to change you,” I said, overexplaining like I always do when I’m scared.
“You’re not changing me, okay,” he replied. “We’re just getting to know each other. We’re learning each other’s differences. You can’t always run away when something doesn’t align. That’s what compromise is for. We’ll figure it out along the way.”
Funny. Those were the exact words I once believed in.
“Oh,” I nodded in realization. “So you really get me.”
“Of course. I was in a relationship for a long time. I like to believe I know how this works,” he said, almost with pride.
And as if the night hadn’t already assured me enough, I still asked, “If I leave… would you be sad?” I wasn’t really asking about sadness. I was asking about impact.
“Eileen, look. I like you,” he turned to me. “If you leave, I’d regret it and wonder what happened. But my world wouldn’t fall apart. I’d keep going either way. What I’m saying is — I like you, I’m ready to invest, and I want this to work out. The choice is yours.”
It was the healthiest answer I’d ever heard. For once, it didn’t sound like a pickup line. No exaggerated promises — just the truth. Just a realistic affection without dependency.
I smiled thoughtlessly. For the first time, I believed him.
Before the night ended, he allowed me the space to let loose, “Now, is there anything else you want to talk about? I’m here. I’ve got time.”
And I finally exhaled. “No. I’m okay now.” My nervous system calmed down.
I entered my room that night with a stupid smile on my face, and even stupider butterflies in my stomach. No way I’m feeling something waking up inside me again. Not from a guy who spelled his name out as TROUBLE. I brushed the fire off. I remembered how badly it burned the last time.
Now, I’m not implying anything, but I’m just saying — we lost contact for nine straight years, and he still remembers my sister’s name, my lucid dreams, my old singing competitions, that my body soap was Perla, and that he and his friends once drove me home wasted. I’m not saying it means anything, I’m just saying even I had forgotten mentioning those things — yet somehow, he remembers.
Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t too guarded to let something so good like this slip away. Had I been innocent, this could’ve felt so dreamy and reckless. I would’ve let the adrenaline convince me it was fate. I would’ve written his name in every diary and sworn it was meant to be — bound by the universe. I wish I wasn’t too learned to recognize when someone feels right only because they’re familiar.
Maybe it’s the price of growing up. You learn to love with your eyes open — and in the process, you lose the magic.
Alas, perhaps we’re way too cautious to blink.
