CHAPTER 2: TRUTH HURTS

"SORRY, I'm late," Norman panted, slightly out of breath, as he approached his girlfriend, Aria. His eyes flickered with guilt, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead telling her he had rushed to meet her.

Aria, ever understanding, offered a gentle smile that crinkled the corners of her soft brown eyes. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice like a calming breeze. She stepped closer, her heart skipping a beat as she linked her arm around his. The warmth of his presence soothed her, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering between them like a comforting embrace. "Shall we go?"

Norman ran his hand through his tousled hair and glanced at her. His deep-set eyes, though weary, sparkled with affection. "Are you sure you're not hungry? Maybe we should grab a bite to eat first," he suggested, his voice laced with concern as they walked slowly toward the jeepney stop. He always looked out for her, even when he was the one who seemed more tired.

She adored this about him. It had been over a year since they'd started dating, and in that time, Norman had proven himself to be dependable and caring. Though he was two years older, they shared so much in common, including their jobs at the same busy mall. The only difference was that Norman worked as a Merchandiser in the supermarket, spending long hours stocking shelves and managing inventory, while Aria manned the cash register in the bustling department store. It was during one of those busy shifts that their eyes first met—amid the chaos, he had smiled at her in a way that made her feel like she was the only person in the room.

Aria let out a small sigh, thinking of her degree in Hotel and Restaurant Management. She had once dreamed of working in fancy hotels or restaurants, but after graduating, the job market hadn't been kind. Instead, she found herself working as a cashier, far from her aspirations, but she didn’t mind anymore. What mattered to her now was the stability—the ability to contribute to her family and take care of herself. Life, after all, wasn't always about following dreams. Sometimes, it was about surviving.

"No, I’m fine," she replied, shaking her head slightly as they reached the jeepney stop. She gave him a small smile, her fingers brushing against his as she climbed into the jeepney he had flagged down.

As the vehicle started to rumble along the crowded streets, Aria rested her head on Norman’s shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling her into a sense of peace. The world outside blurred into a cacophony of distant sounds—honking horns, laughter, and the rush of pedestrians—yet here, nestled against him, it was just the two of them. As always, the exhaustion of the day caught up with her, and soon enough, she drifted off, trusting Norman to wake her when it was time to get off.

When they finally arrived at her house, the gentle twilight casting long shadows across the street, Norman turned to her with a soft smile. "Dinner first?" he asked, his voice low and tinged with fatigue. His eyes, though loving, were shadowed with the weight of the day’s work.

Aria shook her head, sensing his urgency to leave. "You look tired," she said, her voice filled with concern. "You should go home and rest."

Norman nodded, his movements slow as though the weight of exhaustion pulled at his limbs. "I’ll head home, then," he said quietly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her lips, his touch tender and familiar. His lips were warm against hers, and for a moment, everything else melted away.

"Rest day tomorrow?" he asked as he pulled back, his breath still warm against her skin.

Aria smiled softly, the kind that reached her eyes. She knew exactly what he was hinting at. "Yes, why?"

A playful glint flickered in Norman’s eyes as he moved closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Come over to my apartment? I’ll cook lunch for you," he whispered, his voice thick with suggestion. He gently nibbled on her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine.

Heat flushed through Aria, her heart racing at his touch. "S-Sure, I’ll come over," she stammered, her voice breathless.

He kissed her again, this time softer, before pulling away and bidding her goodnight.

*****

"Good morning, Dad," James greeted, placing a hand on his father’s shoulder as he entered the dining room. The smell of fresh coffee hung in the air, mingling with the soft clink of silverware on plates.

Jaime, his father, looked up from his breakfast, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You slept in today, son?" he remarked, raising his brow as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips, taking a slow sip.

James hurriedly sat down, reaching for the food in front of him. "Yeah, I fell back asleep," he admitted, laughing softly. But beneath his casual tone, there was a hint of weariness, the kind that came from pushing himself too hard for too long.

Jaime’s sharp gaze didn’t miss it. "You’ve been stressed out lately. Maybe it’s time for a break? Even a month off wouldn’t hurt," his father advised, his voice gentle but firm, like a steady rock in a storm.

James shrugged, barely looking up. "I’ll think about it, Dad," he said, though deep down, he knew he wouldn’t. There was always work to do, always something that needed his attention.

Jaime set his coffee down and leaned forward, his expression serious. "I want a grandchild," he said, his voice low, but the weight of his words hung heavily between them.

James froze, the fork halfway to his mouth, as he stared at his father, his heart thudding in his chest.

"You heard me right," Jaime continued, his voice soft but unyielding. "I’m getting old, son. I want to know what it’s like to have a grandchild. You know my condition." His father’s eyes bore into him, filled with unspoken emotions.

"Dad…" James began, his voice strained with a quiet protest, but the knowing look in Jaime’s eyes told him his father understood perfectly well.

A sad, bitter smile curved Jaime’s lips. "Not every woman is like your mother," he said, his voice tinged with old pain.

James didn’t say a word, his thoughts swirling as he silently resumed eating. But his father wasn’t done.

"You think I don’t know that’s why you’ve been holding back?" Jaime asked softly, his words cutting through the silence like a knife.

Ever since he was a child, his father had always spoken to him like this—calm, collected, but with a truth that pierced through all his defenses. It made him feel guilty, as though every word of his father’s struck at something deep inside him.

"One day, I’ll be gone, and you’ll be alone. Money is nice, but it can’t replace family. Having a child, a wife—that’s what really matters," Jaime added, his voice growing softer, almost like a plea.

James smiled weakly as he stood up, his thoughts heavy. "I’ll think about it, Dad," he said, pressing a kiss to his father’s head before leaving the dining room, though the weight of his father’s words clung to him like a shadow.