DEAFENING
CHAPTER 14
— DEAFENING —
Christine walked slowly toward the glass lobby door. Her hand hovered over the handle, and she paused, glancing back at Jeffrey. He remained slumped against the building's exterior wall, his head buried in his hands—a portrait of raw vulnerability.
She pushed through the glass, finding Liam exactly where she'd left him. His eyes tracked her movement, searching for damage.
"How are you feeling?" Liam asked, his brow furrowed with genuine worry.
"I'm okay, Liam. Thank you," she replied, her voice soft but steady.
She continued toward the elevator, her shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of the last hour. As the doors slid shut, the silence of the ride felt oppressive.
When they opened, she drifted into her office. The late-afternoon sun was streaming through the glass, casting long, golden streaks across the carpet, yet the office felt vast and hollow. She didn't turn on the lights, letting the fading daylight bathe the room in amber.
She pulled her phone from her bag, her thumb hovering over the screen. She unlocked it, her fingers navigating to her gallery. She went straight to a specific album: Tagaytay.
She tapped on the last photo. There they were, captured in a moment of reckless, unfiltered joy. They were standing on the ridge, the mist curling around the volcano in the background. Jeffrey's arm was around her waist, his head resting against hers, a genuine, unburdened smile on his face—the kind he only wore when he was truly alone with her.
We looked so happy then, she thought, her chest tightening with an ache that threatened to undo her composure. Everything felt so simple, like the world was just the two of us, and nothing could reach us behind those walls.
She closed her eyes, the soft glow of the screen reflecting in her damp lashes. How did we go from that... to this? She locked the phone and laid it face down on the desk, forcing herself to stare blankly at the wall, trying to find the strength to navigate the wreckage of the day.
Meanwhile, in the garden, Jeffrey forced himself to stand. He shook off the exhaustion, entering the building with a renewed, albeit fragile, resolve. He headed straight for the restroom, splashing cold water over his face to wash away the signs of his breakdown.
He leaned against the sink, bracing his palms on the cool marble, and forced himself to look at his reflection in the mirror.
Get it together, Jeffrey, he commanded his reflection, his jaw set. You promised her. Do not let them take her away.
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
Jeffrey walked onto the office floor, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. He skipped the elevator, taking the service stairs instead—his body craving the physical exertion to burn off the adrenaline still buzzing under his skin.
He reached his office door, which was located just down the hall from hers. He looked as though the past few days had finally caught up with him. His tie was stuffed unceremoniously into his pocket, his shirt was pulled halfway out of his slacks, and his hair stood up in wild patches where he'd been clawing at his scalp all day. He wasn't the polished executive everyone expected anymore. He was just a guy who hadn't slept in days.
He didn't make a grand entrance. He just slumped into his own chair, his office door left wide open to the hallway.
He didn't need to open his gallery. The wallpaper on his phone was already the memory he kept returning to—a candid shot from Tagaytay. They sat across from one another in a small restaurant, a bowl of bulalo steaming between them. Christine was laughing at something he'd said, caught mid-bite, completely unaware of how beautiful she looked.
His thumb lingered over the screen before his gaze drifted to the framed family portrait on his desk. Perfect smiles. Perfect posture. A perfect illusion.
With one sharp movement, he turned the frame face down.
Then, he heard it. The sound of her office door opening.
He didn't move. He sat frozen, eyes glued to the hallway, waiting. Christine walked slowly toward the elevator, her steps quiet on the carpet. As she passed his open door, she stopped. She turned her head, her eyes meeting his. There was no warmth, no smile—just a tired, guarded blankness.
"See you tomorrow," she said, her voice flat.
He didn't get up. He didn't rush to her. He just held her gaze, feeling the massive, terrifying gap between who they were and where they needed to be.
"See you tomorrow, Christine," he replied, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet. He remains seated.
Neither of them smiled. But neither of them looked away first.
The elevator door closed. The hallway felt silent once again. Jeffrey lowered his eyes to the dark screen of his phone.
For the first time in days, he didn't reach for it.
——— Later that evening.
Her apartment was quiet, save for the low, monotonous hum of the air conditioner.
Christine sat on her couch, the blue light of her phone screen cutting through the dark, illuminating the exhaustion under her eyes. She hadn't moved in an hour.
She was scrolling through the Tagaytay photos again, not because they brought her joy, but because she couldn't stop picking at the scab.
There was a photo of Jeffrey—candid, loud, messy. It was the version of him that felt real, a stark contrast to a guarded CEO.
She swiped to a picture of them at dinner in the night market.
It felt like looking at a different couple, two people who hadn't yet been weighed down by the quiet, suffocating pressure of his mother's expectations.
"Jeffrey, I know you're hurt, and so am I," she thought
The words, replayed in her head, weren't cinematic. They were just heavy. They felt like a deadline she couldn't meet.
She looked out the window at the Rockwell skyline. It was just a grid of lights, distant and unfeeling. She felt like a ghost in her own living room, waiting for something—a text, a sign, an accident—that wasn't coming.
She wanted to believe the universe had a plan, but sitting there, the cold air hitting her face, it just felt like a long, drawn-out fade to black.
Across the city, Jeffrey was pacing.
He wasn't calculating trajectories or architecting his life; he was trying to work off the agitation that had been sitting in his chest for days.
His suit jacket was balled up on the floor like trash. His tie was loose, hanging around his neck like a noose.
He had a glass of scotch in his hand, though it had stopped being about the drink an hour ago.
He stared out at the bright sprawl toward Makati. Greenbelt was close—close enough that he could drive there in ten minutes if he wanted to break every traffic law in the city—but the distance felt insurmountable.
It wasn't the road; it was the unspoken stalemate between them. He thought about his mother, the way she could say one sentence that sounded like an apology and felt like a cage.
He was an engineer; he was supposed to be good at fixing things, at identifying the stress points and reinforcing the structure. But he was failing.
He was just a guy standing in a luxury condo, drinking too much and feeling sorry for himself while the city didn't give a damn about his problems.
"Do something," he muttered to himself, his voice sounding raspy in the empty room. "Just do something."
He was tired of the math. He was tired of the waiting game. He looked at the city, looking for a break, a way out, something to force the issue.