Still Being Written.
Our first conversation at Airtalk
"We met at Airtalk. Nothing big happened, but we clicked. We just talked, and stayed together. That night was special."
You stayed until you fell asleep
"I was doing homework and working on a prototype design. You tagged along until you fell asleep — and it felt different, like you were already part of my world."
We exchanged Telegram handles
"If we hadn't shared our Telegram handles, we might not have had the chance to get closer. But we did — and that changed everything."
"It started with me saying: 'Good morning' … and you replying: 'Hey! Anong oras ka na natulog?' I said: 'Around 3 am, after your phone died.' And from that moment, our real story began."
We stayed up talking instead of sleeping
I told you how I struggled with sleep, how my nights were filled with random routines: school, scrolling, exercising, grinding online. You listened and gave me advice, gently telling me to change things up so I could rest better.
You cheered me on with a simple, "Fighting! You can do it!" — and somehow, that small encouragement meant so much.
That night, you were still busy with Lego pieces, laughing at Pikachu's "mustache" while I kept you company. Even through simple things like toys and missed pieces, it felt like we were building something of our own — piece by piece, laugh by laugh.
Later, we called. At first the internet failed, but we tried again. Hours passed, and still we talked — about food, about routines, about nothing and everything. I reminded you to brush your teeth, drink water, and take care of yourself. You reminded me to rest.
And when the calls ended, our mornings began with "Good morning" messages that felt warmer each time. Little by little, it wasn't just about keeping each other company anymore. It was about care, trust, and finding peace in each other's presence.
Mornings started to feel different with you
You told me how cold it was, how you had to switch from running to doing pull-ups indoors, and I couldn't help but admire your discipline.
I'd remind you to stay warm, to be careful on slippery floors, to drink water. You reminded me to eat properly, to rest, to take care of myself despite all my busy schedules at school and the office.
We shared photos of our days — gloomy skies, surprise lunches, leftovers I cooked for dinner, and even your restaurant shifts. Even though we were miles apart, it felt like we were living life side by side.
That night, the rain fell heavy. You were at your apartment, I was still in the office cleaning up. We checked on each other until finally, I got home late. You were already getting ready for bed, but I asked if I could call.
You said, "Aren't you gonna do your night routine first?" — and that's when I realized how much you were paying attention to me.
We called anyway, while both of us did our own things — me brushing my teeth and reading Tales of Demons and Gods, you writing in your notes. It wasn't about the activity; it was about presence.
That night, you let me into a deeper part of yourself — your intrusive thoughts, the things you rarely told anyone. I just listened. And you thanked me for it.
The next morning, I woke up smiling. Another peaceful sleep, another reason to thank you. You told me the same: that you slept well too. And in those quiet exchanges, I realized something— little by little, we were becoming each other's peace.
Our days began to feel more connected
And when you showed me pictures of the weather, or city lights at night, I felt like you were letting me peek into your world.
You cared in quiet ways — telling me to rest when my neck hurt, to go through my night routine before bed, to take it easy when work left me drained. I did the same for you: reminding you to eat, to be careful when jogging, to rest your sore shoulders from workouts. We became each other's balance.
Even on busy days — when you had conventions, or when I was traveling with family to visit our grandparents' graves — we still found time to check on each other. A simple "Keep safe" or "God bless you" carried so much more weight than the words themselves.
Then there were the late-night calls. Hours and hours, even until dawn. Sometimes we laughed about random things like handwriting or skincare, sometimes we opened up about the burdens we carried. And somehow, whether it was heavy or light, we never felt alone anymore.
That was the magic of those days: It wasn't grand gestures or perfect plans. It was the little things — meals, weather, aches, city lights, handwritten notes — all becoming proof that we were slowly building a home in each other's lives.
Your voice became home
In the beginning, our conversations were simple. Short messages, often ending with periods and no hint of emotion. At first, it puzzled me. I wondered if you were distant, or if maybe I was overthinking. But soon, I came to understand something deeper about you: typing was never really your thing.
You preferred calls. You loved hearing voices, the warmth, the presence it carried. And honestly, calls weren't something I ever liked doing. I always thought they were awkward, tiring, and not for me. But then came you.
With you, the calls didn't feel heavy. They felt natural. Even the silences had meaning. There was no pressure to perform, no need to fill every gap with words. Just knowing you were on the other side — breathing, listening, staying — made me feel at peace.
Every night, as we grew closer, those calls became our little sanctuary. They weren't perfect. Sometimes I was busy with homework or projects. Sometimes you were tired from your day. But still, we showed up. We let our voices bridge the distance.
And slowly, I realized something beautiful:
It wasn't that I didn't like calls.
It was that I hadn't found the right person to call with.
With you, Eli, I found comfort in something I once disliked. Your voice became my favorite sound, a place where my restless mind could rest. It wasn't about what we said — it was about who I was saying it with.
That was the moment I knew: if even silence with you felt this safe, then every word we shared was going to build something lasting.
Your voice became home.
The nights stretched longer but never felt empty
Like your hand always getting inked when writing. You hated it, but I secretly loved it; it was your little trademark, God's funny gift to you.
Even when we were exhausted, we still called. I'd tell you, "Can I just stay on the line while you study? I'll be quiet." But you'd say, "Too harsh on yourself. It's okay to make noise. I don't mind." And just like that, silence wasn't lonely anymore — it was shared.
We checked on each other through the rain, the routines, the restless nights. "Don't skip breakfast." "Be careful crossing the road." "Stay warm." Simple words, but each one wrapped in love.
Then came that morning. After hours on the call, sleepy but happy, something shifted. A screenshot, a status, and suddenly — people were asking questions. And for the first time, it wasn't just between us anymore.
"In a relationship talaga?" you messaged, shocked, half laughing. And I couldn't help but grin, because yes… we were.
That was the day everything changed. From care to commitment, from late-night companions to something deeper. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't planned — but it was ours.
And for the first time, the world knew what my heart already did: that you were mine, and I was yours.
Once it was official, something shifted
There was no more second-guessing, no more wondering if it was too much. Every word, every reminder, every laugh carried a new weight: love.
The "good mornings" became brighter, because now they came from the person my heart belonged to. The "Be careful and stay safe" and "don't skip breakfast" hit deeper, because they weren't just routine — they were spoken like promises.
We teased each other more. About food, about exercising just so we could eat more, about comfort zones and "preserving the cool version" of ourselves. I'd tell you you're already cool enough, you'd laugh and hide the soft side you didn't want to show — but I saw it anyway, and it made me fall harder.
Even the gloomy days became sweet. Rain that once made me restless became a reason to check on you, to say, "Stay warm, drink water, don't let the weather get to you." And in return, you checked on my moods, asking gently, "You seem down. Is something bothering you?" I never had to face those days alone anymore.
Our nights stretched into study sessions, calls that went too long, and laughter about silly ink stains and messy notes. We weren't just partners now — we were companions, teammates, lovers, and best friends rolled into one.
And in between the chaos of school, work, routines, and rainy weather, I realized something… Life didn't suddenly get easier. But with you, it became so much sweeter.
The first weeks of being "official" felt natural
The only difference now was that the words carried more weight. "I appreciate you" wasn't just kindness anymore. It was love in disguise. "Rest well" wasn't just a reminder. It was a promise of care.
Every little exchange felt like a string tying us closer, weaving our days together. We found joy in routines that most people might find boring. Study sessions late at night. Long calls where sometimes we didn't even talk — we just existed together, breathing in the comfort of knowing the other was on the line.
Encouraging each other through exams, workouts, work shifts, or simple household chores became second nature. Then came the words we were holding back but already felt deep in our bones. Those first "I love yous" weren't dramatic. They weren't rehearsed. They slipped out softly, like they had been waiting all along.
And when they did, it was like the whole world paused — and all that mattered was us. We started building couple habits without even realizing it. Checking if the other had eaten. Praying for each other before sleep. Worrying about skipped breakfasts or too much coffee. Laughing at small mistakes, encouraging every little win.
And beneath it all was the quiet, steady rhythm of something rare: a love that wasn't rushed, but rooted. A love that grew not from big gestures, but from small, everyday proofs. The first weeks as "us" weren't about fireworks. They were about foundation — steady, strong, and true.
Not every day was bright
It wasn't anything big, just one of those days. You noticed right away. "You seem down. Is something bothering you?" I brushed it off, but you didn't let it slip. You reminded me gently, "Keep yourself busy. Don't let the weather get to you."
That's when I realized — this love wasn't just about laughter and late-night calls. It was also about being seen in the quiet struggles. Even when I had nothing to say, you stayed. Even when my mood dipped, you steadied me.
I remember walking outside, trying to clear my head, sending you pictures of the calming weather. And instead of teasing, you reminded me to rest, to take care, to not overthink. You gave me space without letting me feel alone.
Later, when I finally made it home, you said the words I didn't know I needed: "Hope you'll get better after a nap. Recharge. Don't think too much. Chill." It wasn't poetry, it wasn't grand. But it was love. A kind of love that steadies the storms inside me.
That day became one of our first real tests — not because of a fight, but because life simply wasn't perfect. And yet, instead of pulling us apart, the gloom pulled us closer. We didn't just share the sunshine. We learned to weather the clouds together.
If love had a sound, sometimes it was laughter
About food and exercise. You'd say you only worked out so you could eat more later, and I'd laugh because it was so you — equal parts discipline and indulgence. Then came your playful resistance, "Wanna preserve the cool me, don't wanna expose the soft girl." And I'd tell you the truth: you were already cool enough, even in your quirks.
Even the smallest things became our inside jokes. Your ink-stained hands, clumsy notes, and my constant reminders not to skip breakfast or drink too much coffee. You'd roll your eyes, I'd pretend to nag — but underneath it all, we both knew it was love dressed as laughter.
There were moments of shy giggles too, when you'd admit something and then cover it up with emojis or playful excuses. Moments when I'd tease you to step out of your comfort zone, and you'd fight back with sass, only to soften in the end.
We were serious when it mattered, but more often we were just us — playful, silly, lighthearted. And in those moments, I realized something: It wasn't just that I loved you. It was that I loved the way we loved — a love that could be tender in the night, steady in the gloom, and joyful in the everyday.
Because with you, even laughter became sacred.
Beneath the laughter, there was faith
It showed up in the simplest ways. In the "God bless yous" tucked into morning greetings. In reminders to stay safe, to rest, to look both ways when crossing the street. In the prayers whispered before sleep — quiet words meant to keep the other safe through the night.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. But it was steady. I began to see how our love wasn't just built on feelings, but on something stronger. On grace, on trust, on a belief that this story of ours wasn't random — it was written.
Each call, each reminder, each night spent encouraging each other through studies or work felt like more than routine. They were threads of faith, weaving us into something lasting. You anchored me when I drifted, reminding me not to overthink, to recharge, to keep going.
And I tried to anchor you, reminding you that you were cared for, cherished, and never alone. In those moments, I realized: This wasn't just love. This was partnership — a love anchored not only in us, but in God.
And that's why I knew… no matter what came, we weren't just building memories. We were building something eternal.
Love has a way of looking forward
It started small. What life might look like if we could study side by side instead of over calls. What mornings would be like if "good morning" didn't need a screen. What it would feel like to come home not to silence, but to each other.
And then, deeper. Talks about commitment. Talks about marriage. Talks about building something not just for today, but for the years to come. They weren't grand plans sketched out in detail — but they were glimpses of forever, carried in our words, our prayers, our hearts.
I caught myself imagining us cooking meals together, laughing in the kitchen, holding hands while we prayed, growing old in the same rhythm we'd already started. Every "Be careful Khoniiii" sounded like a promise for tomorrow. Every "rest well" felt like a vow for the years ahead.
It was in those moments I knew — we weren't just living a story of "now." We were writing a story that reached far beyond today. With faith as our anchor, love as our compass, and God as our author… forever didn't feel so far away.
No love story is without its storms
It might have been a misunderstanding, a misread tone in a message, or the weight of a tired day spilling into our words. For the first time, things didn't feel light. Silence stretched longer than usual. Doubts crept in, whispering fears neither of us wanted to admit.
But what could have pushed us apart instead drew us closer. Because instead of running, we stayed. Instead of letting pride win, we listened. And instead of leaving words unsaid, we spoke — gently, sometimes clumsily, but always honestly.
I learned then that love wasn't just about sweet words and laughter. It was also about patience. About understanding that you didn't mean harm, that I didn't mean harm, that sometimes it was just the day being heavy, not our hearts.
We ended that chapter not with bitterness, but with stronger trust. Because for the first time, we had proof — even in the stumble, we chose each other. And that choice… meant everything.
After our first stumble, something shifted
We laughed again, we teased again, but now with a deeper gratitude. Every word felt more precious, every call more treasured. Because we knew what it felt like to almost lose the light — and we refused to let that happen.
You reminded me that love isn't about never falling. It's about getting back up together. And in that moment, I realized how safe I felt with you. Safe not because we'd never hurt each other, but because we'd always choose to heal together.
That was the gift of our first storm: It proved that our love wasn't fragile. It was tested — and it endured.
One month felt like a lifetime together
When our first monthsary came, I found myself looking back to where we started—back to that first call on Airtalk when I was hesitant, unsure, even scared. The quiet conversations, sometimes filled with pauses, sometimes with nothing but the comfort of knowing you were there. Slowly, gently, the walls began to fall.
You weren't just a voice on the other line anymore, Eli. You became my peace, my safe harbor. Those nightly routine calls, even when words were few, became the lifeline I didn't know I needed. For someone like me who struggles with overthinking, you gave me assurance that calmed the noise inside my head.
Our first month wasn't about grand gestures—it was about choosing each other despite fear, despite the scars of our past. We were both carrying wounds, still learning how to trust again. But even in that uncertainty, we chose to walk together. To heal together.
I wrote to you then: "I can hardly believe it's been a whole month since we started this journey together… I promise, one day, when we finally meet, I will hug you so tightly that all the days we've been apart will be made up."
That first milestone wasn't just about celebrating time. It was about celebrating choice. The choice to love again. The choice to stay. The choice to believe that maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something lasting, something blessed.
And deep down, I knew… this was only the beginning of us.
Two months of waking up knowing you were there
Two months. Sixty-one days of waking up and knowing that on the other side of the line, you were there — steady, patient, and real.
By our second monthsary, something in me had shifted. In the beginning, I was cautious, hesitant to pour myself out. But every day reminded me that you weren't just my girlfriend. You had become my best friend, my safe place, my light.
I wrote to you then: "Tomorrow marks 61 incredible days since we began this journey together, and every single one of them has reminded me just how lucky I am to have you — not just as my girlfriend, but as my best friend. You're my safe place, my light, and my greatest blessing."
Those words were the truest I had ever written. With you, I could speak honestly. I could show the parts of me I once tried to hide — the fears, the overthinking, the brokenness. And instead of turning away, you stayed. You saw all of me and called me yours anyway.
We had both been through so much. We knew the weight of hidden bruises, the quiet battles no one else could see. But together, we found beauty in them. Together, we learned that even broken pieces could create something whole.
I told you in that letter: "Because at the end of the day, you're the person I want to come home to. You're the person I want to tell how my day went. You're the person I want to share my happiness and success with, no matter how far apart we may be."
By then, love wasn't just a feeling. It was a decision. A commitment. A daily choice to stay, to build, and to believe in what God was shaping between us. Two months in, I knew without a doubt — you were not just someone I loved. You were my queen, my anchor, my home.
Our third monthsary came quietly
Life had been overwhelming—school, work, responsibilities piling one after another. And though we both knew why it happened, no excuse felt enough to take away the guilt. We had made a rhythm of writing, of capturing our love in words, and when the day passed without it, we both felt the weight of something missing.
But that silence became a lesson. It reminded us that love isn't measured only by grand gestures or beautifully written promises. Love also lives in the smaller things—the nightly calls that became our routine, the patience we gave each other when days were heavy, the simple act of staying even when one of us stumbled.
We didn't hold it against each other. Instead, we chose to understand. We reminded ourselves that consistency in love isn't about never failing. It's about always coming back, always choosing again and again, even after the stumbles.
That missed letter wasn't the end of anything—it was a reminder of what truly mattered: showing up not just when things were easy, but especially when life was hard.
Month three wasn't marked by perfect words. It was marked by growth. It taught us that our love had to be more than letters—it had to be steady, faithful, and real.
Even in silence, we stayed. Even in missed words, we chose each other. And that's when we knew—this love was strong enough to weather anything.
By the fourth month, our love had taught us so much
By the fourth month, our love had already taught us so much. We stumbled at times—like missing the third month's letter—but instead of weakening us, it made our bond stronger. That month reminded us that love is not about perfection, but about always choosing each other again.
The fourth month became a turning point. We learned to be grateful not only for the big moments but also for the quiet ones—the peace we found in each other, the comfort of having a safe place to run to, the joy of simply being present even from afar.
By the fifth month, life grew even busier. School, work, and responsibilities pulled us in different directions. Yet, even when words were fewer, our longing for each other proved that distance could not shake what we had. We reminded ourselves of the future we were building—that patience and faith would carry us through. And in that season, promises were spoken: to wait, to prepare, to one day turn all of this into a forever built side by side.
The sixth month brought a deeper realization: what we had was a gift from God. Our love wasn't random—it was woven into His plan. Each day became a testimony of His grace, proof that He answers prayers in His perfect time.
By the seventh month, we began to see how much we had grown—not just as individuals but as a couple. Loving each other taught us how to love ourselves better, how to be healthier, stronger, and more faithful. We began to dream more boldly: of building a home, raising a family, and becoming a living testimony of love anchored in God.
And now, in the eighth month, we look back in awe. Eight months of choosing each other. Eight months of growing, stumbling, learning, forgiving, and loving deeper each day—even without meeting in person yet. How beautiful, how rare, how special this journey has been.
These months were more than just numbers on a calendar. They were chapters of growth, of lessons, of promises, of grace. And now, as we stand on the eighth, one truth rings clear:
We cannot wait for the day we'll finally be together—face to face, hand in hand, exploring life not just in calls or letters, but in the reality of shared mornings, shared meals, and shared dreams.
Our hearts are already home in each other. Now we're just waiting for the day our lives catch up with our love.
Eight months in, our story feels like a lifetime
Eight months in, and our story already feels like a lifetime's worth of lessons, laughter, and love. We have weathered quiet days, busy seasons, missed words, and heavy moments. But through it all, we stayed.
We learned that love is not only in the grand gestures but in the little things—the nightly calls, the patience in silence, the forgiveness in stumbles, and the joy of simply hearing each other's voice.
We learned that love is not always perfect, but it is always a choice. A choice we keep making every single day.
And in these months, we have seen God's hand guiding us—teaching us patience, showing us grace, and reminding us that what we have is worth every wait, every challenge, every distance.
This season is only the beginning. Ahead of us are more months, more years, and a future we will build together—brick by brick, prayer by prayer, hand in hand.
And so, we carry this truth: our love is not fragile. It is steady, it is growing, it is alive.
Because this is not just a season.
This is forever.
We found a love both deep and true
Not in perfection, not without fall,
But in the choice to love through it all.
Through distance wide and time apart,
You are the home inside my heart.
So here we stand, eight months gone by,
With dreams that reach beyond the sky.
Forever waiting, forever near—
My love, my life, my answered prayer.
Every chapter tells of how far we've come
But our story doesn't end on these pages.
It's only the prologue.
The real story is still being written—with every call, every prayer, every promise, every tomorrow we'll face side by side.
This is our book, Eli.
A love story authored by us, guided by God, and made alive
through the choices we make every single day.
And so, I invite you—
Let's keep writing.
Let's fill the pages with the simple and the grand:
the quiet mornings, the loud laughter, the little victories, the
long embraces, and the life we'll one day build together.
Let's write of the family we'll raise, the home we'll create, the dreams we'll chase, and the love that will keep us anchored through every season.
Because the beauty of our story is not in how it began,
but in how it will continue.
And I want every chapter, every page, every word—
to be written with you.
Our story is a flame that will never fade,
A vow in the night, a promise we've made.
Through distance, through time, through all that we do,
Every page of my life—I'll write it with you.
"In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours.- Maya Angelou
In all the world, there is no love for you like mine."