LIKE A GHOST
CHAPTER 12
— LIKE A GHOST —
Inside her office, Christine hears every word he speaks through the wood. She doesn't answer; she doesn't move.
Only when the hallway falls silent does she finally stir. She stands, her legs stiff, and reaches for the mango juice and pastry Liam left behind.
She takes a mechanical sip, forcing herself to focus on the work again, using the documents as a shield against the silence.
At 4:00 PM, Christine finishes her final report. She tidies her desk, her movements sharp and efficient, and prepares to leave.
Jeffrey hears her office door click open. He waits a beat before appearing in his own doorway, just in time to see her step into the hallway, bag slung over her shoulder. He doesn't block her path; he leans against his doorframe, hands in his pockets.
"Heading out early." It is a statement, not a question. His voice carries no pressure, no expectation—just quiet observation. "Good. You look like you could use the rest."
He offers a small, neutral nod, then turns back into his office without waiting for a reply. Christine keeps walking toward the elevator, her eyes fixed forward, never glancing back and never hesitating.
Jeffrey hears the elevator doors slide open, then close. The soft hum of the descent fills the hallway before the silence settles back in.
He stands in his doorway for a long moment, staring at the empty space where she was.
Finally, he walks to his desk, picks up the now-cold coffee from this morning, and empties the remains into the sink. He pulls out his phone, opens her contact, and begins to type: I'll be here tomorrow.
He stares at the words, then deletes them. He locks the phone and pockets it, his jaw set. Let her come to me, he thinks.
Meanwhile, Christine arrives home, physically drained and mentally exhausted. She sinks onto her sofa, turning on the television, but her eyes only glaze over the screen.
Her mind is elsewhere, trapped in a loop. The memory of Jeffrey's mother belittling her keeps replaying, sharp and cruel, clashing with the softer, fractured moments she shared with him.
"I've been single since us," she whispers to the empty room, the words tasting bitter. "Maybe I'm just meant to stay that way."
The thought lands in her heart like a stone, leaving a hollow, aching pain in her chest that she can't quite name.
Across the city, Jeffrey sits in his own apartment. A book lies open in his lap, but he hasn't turned a page in an hour. His phone sits beside him, dark and waiting.
Unable to keep the distance any longer, he reaches for it, types a message, reads it over twice, and sends it before he can second-guess himself:
"I don't expect a reply. But I need you to know—what your heart is telling you right now, the pain, the doubt—it's valid. And I'll wait. Not because I'm chasing you. But because I believe in what we started."
He pauses, his thumb trembling, before adding one final line:
"Goodnight, Christine."
The next morning,
Christine doesn't go to the office. Instead, she drives south to the family home in Alabang, seeking the quiet of her parents' house and the distance from the city.
At the office, Jeffrey arrives at his usual time, coffee in hand. He pauses at her door, but it remains locked, dark through the glass.
He checks his phone—no messages. By 10:00 AM, he notices her assistant hasn't arrived either.
A knot of concern tightens in his chest. He makes a quick call.
"She's taking a personal day," her assistant confirms. "Apparently, she went to her family's place in Alabang."
Jeffrey pauses. The silence of the office suddenly feels cavernous. He sets the phone down, staring at the empty hallway for a long, heavy beat.
He pulls up her contact, his thumb lingering over the screen before he types a simple message:
"I hope Alabang treats you well. Take all the time you need."
He locks the phone and forces himself back to work, but he leaves his office door pushed open wider than usual, as if waiting for a draft of air that might bring her back.
Stolen story; please report.
Miles away, Christine's phone lights up with his name. She reads the text once, the words settling heavily in her stomach, before she turns the device off completely.
She tosses it onto the side table and looks toward the kitchen, where her mother is waiting.
"Mom, come on," Christine calls out, forcing a bright note into her voice. "Let's go. We have grocery shopping to do."
The drive to the grocery store is quiet, but as they walk down the aisles, the air in the supermarket feels stifling to Christine.
She moves with a practiced, efficient pace, checking items off the list, trying to keep her world confined to brand names and prices.
Her mother, however, isn't fooled. She moves more slowly, her hand eventually reaching out to gently catch Christine's arm, pulling her to a stop in the quiet of the cereal aisle.
"Chris," her mother says softly.
Christine stops, forcing a small, tight smile.
"We're running behind, Mom. I want to get the baking supplies before the rush."
Her mother doesn't let go. She searches Christine's face, her eyes taking in the shadows beneath her daughter's eyes and the brittle way she's holding her shoulders.
"The supplies can wait. You've been home for three hours, and you haven't truly looked at me once. You're physically here, anak, but your spirit... It's a thousand miles away."
Christine feels the sting behind her eyes. She tries to pull her arm back, but her mother's grip is firm—not restraining, but anchoring.
"I'm just tired, Mom. Work has been... a lot lately."
"It isn't just work," her mother says, her voice dropping into that tone of profound, quiet knowing that only a mother possesses.
She reaches up, brushing a stray hair from Christine's forehead. "You have that same look you had when you were twelve and wouldn't tell me why you were crying in the garden. Your heart is heavy, and you're trying to carry it all by yourself."
Christine's composure fractures. She looks down at the linoleum floor, her breath hitching. "I'm just trying to be okay. I'm just... I'm trying to be strong."
Her mother pulls her into a hug right there in the aisle, surrounding her with a scent of familiar perfume and safety. She rubs Christine's back, rhythmic and soothing.
"You don't have to be strong here," her mother whispers into her hair. "Not with me. You can put it down, just for today. You don't have to carry the skyline of Makati on your back when you're standing in front of me."
Christine leans into her, finally letting her shoulders drop. For the first time in days, the suffocating pressure in her chest eases, replaced by the simple, aching relief of being known.
"I don't know how to fix it," Christine murmurs, her voice muffled against her mother's shoulder.
"Then don't fix it today," her mother replies, kissing the top of her head. "Just breathe.
We'll get the groceries, we'll go home, and you can tell me as much or as little as you want. But you are not alone in this, Christine. Never."
Christine nods, wiping her eyes quickly and pulling back, a genuine, if watery, smile finally touching her lips. "Okay," she breathes. "Okay, Mom. Let's get the baking supplies."
Back in Makati, a quiet afternoon settles over Jeffrey's office. He has reviewed the same document three times without absorbing a single word.
Finally, he sets the paper down, leans back, and stares at the ceiling. He picks up his phone, scrolls to her contact, and lingers there, tempted to send more—but he stops himself.
Instead, he opens his laptop and sends a brief, professional email to her work address—nothing personal, just a shared project document she might eventually need—with a short note:
"Thought you might need this when you're back. No rush."
He closes the laptop, reaches for his lukewarm afternoon coffee, and lets the silence of the office stretch, his door remaining wide open, a silent, patient sentinel in the hallway.
The next morning, Christine arrives at the office early to collect some pending papers.
Jeffrey arrives even earlier, his usual 8:30 start time replaced by 7:45. The hallway is silent, her office still dark as he passes.
He doesn't pause, just unlocks his door and steps inside. By 8:15, he hears the main lobby doors open, followed by light, hurried footsteps.
He stays at his desk, not looking up, though his hand stills over his keyboard.
A moment later, a soft knock comes from his open door. It's her assistant, holding a small folder.
"Sir, Miss Javier asked me to drop this off. She said you might need it for the joint project." The assistant pauses, looking toward the hallway.
"She's already in her office if you need anything."
He takes the folder, a quiet beat passing before he nods. "Thanks."
When the assistant leaves, he glances across the hall. Her door is slightly ajar now, a sliver of light escaping into the corridor.
He sets the folder aside, waits a full five minutes, then walks to the small kitchenette. He prepares two cups of tea—chamomile for her, black coffee for himself. He sets hers on a small tray with a napkin and leaves it on the side table just outside her door, then returns to his office without a word or a glance inside.
He watches from his desk as the minutes pass. The tea sits untouched. He doesn't check, doesn't hover, but he notices when her assistant retrieves the cup—still full, now gone cold. A quiet beat, then he turns back to his work.
At noon, as he steps out for a meeting, he pauses at her door. He raises a hand to knock, then stops himself. Instead, he pulls out a sticky note, scribbles something, and presses it gently to her door before continuing down the hall.
The note reads: "I'll be in meetings until three. If you need anything, just text. No pressure."
At 2:50 PM, Christine steps into the lobby, the cool air of the building a stark contrast to the humid heat outside. Liam is already there, waiting near the entrance with a small paper bag from the bakery she likes.
"Chris," he calls out, his face brightening as he walks over. "I saw you coming in. You look like you've been running on fumes since you got back from Alabang."
"Quiet," she admits, accepting the bag he offers. "Which is exactly what I needed, but it feels like I'm still trying to catch up to the world."
Liam steers her toward a quieter corner of the lobby. "You don't have to catch up all at once. I grabbed you one of those sourdough rolls you like—the one with the herbs. You looked like you could use a proper meal today. Eat. It's better than running on adrenaline."
As Christine takes a small bite, Liam begins to recount his recent trip to Cebu. His voice is warm and unhurried.
He talks about the early mornings by the docks, the way the light hits the water, and the simple, grounding rhythm of life away from the city. He keeps the conversation focused on things that have nothing to do with deadlines or the tension in the office.
"It's funny," Liam says, his tone turning thoughtful. "We spend our whole lives trying to build something that lasts—these skyscrapers, these projects—but sometimes, the only things that actually stay with us are the moments where we weren't trying to achieve anything at all. Just sitting there, watching the tide."
Christine leans back against the wall, listening, the small gesture of the food grounding her. "I think I've forgotten how to do that, Liam. Everything feels like a task. Even rest."
"That's because you're carrying everyone else's expectations," Liam says gently. He looks at her with a sincerity that feels safe. "You give so much to everyone—your team, your family, your work. But who is looking after you? If you're not careful, Chris, you'll burn out completely. And the skyline will still be there, but you won't be."
Christine lets out a dry, shaky laugh, looking down at the roll in her hand. "You're starting to sound like my mother."
"Maybe your mother is onto something," Liam chuckles, though his eyes remain steady on hers.
"I'm not trying to be another item on your to-do list. I just want to be someone who can remind you that you're allowed to just... exist. Without needing to perform."
Christine feels a genuine warmth—not the frantic heat of stress, but a slow, calming comfort. "Thank you, Liam. Truly."
"Anytime," he says, his smile easy and unforced. "I'm just glad you're back."
It is then that Christine catches a flash of movement in the corner of her eye. Jeffrey steps off the elevator, briefcase in hand.
He stops mid-stride as he catches sight of them—her laugh carrying across the lobby, Liam leaning in with an easy grin. Something tightens in his chest, but he doesn't let it show.
He adjusts his grip on his briefcase, offers a small, neutral nod in their direction—acknowledging her without intruding—then turns and walks toward the hallway leading to their offices. He doesn't look back.
In his office, he sets his things down, rolls up his sleeves, and pulls out a set of blueprints, burying himself in the work. His phone buzzes. He checks the message: it's from Amanda.
"Hi Jeffrey, your mom asked if you'd like to come for dinner at your parents' house tonight?"
A muscle jumps in his jaw as he reads the message. He knows exactly what this is—another calculated attempt by his mother and Amanda to force a situation he has no interest in.
He sets the phone face-down on his desk, exhales slowly, and picks up his pen.