Rain fell without sound that morning — a drizzle too light to be noticed, too persistent to ignore.
The kitchen smelled faintly of last night’s garlic and leftover coffee, a combination that felt strangely fitting.
Lara stood by the counter, writing a grocery list on the back of a used envelope.
“Eggs. Rice. Canned tuna. Instant noodles.”
Each word felt like déjà vu, an echo of the week before, and the week before that.
Jonas was still in bed, asleep beneath a blanket that had seen better days. His breathing was steady, peaceful — the kind of peace that comes from not worrying enough.
Lara looked at him and wondered, not for the first time, if love was supposed to feel this heavy.
When he finally stirred, she was already dressed, hair tied up neatly.
“Good morning,” she greeted.
Jonas groaned, half-asleep. “You’re up early.”
“I’m going to the market,” she said. “We’re running out of food.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Can you buy me shampoo too? The one with the cooling thing.”
She nodded automatically and added it to the list. It didn’t even surprise her anymore. The list had long stopped being ours; it was hers, with occasional guest requests.
At the market, she moved through the aisles with mechanical grace. Prices had gone up again — rice, oil, even sardines. The vendor smiled apologetically as if the inflation were her fault.
Lara smiled back because that was what people did.
By the time she returned, Jonas was sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone.
“Did you eat?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said, without looking up. “I was waiting for you.”
She unpacked the groceries in silence.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing at her now.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just tired.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re always tired lately.”
“I wonder why.”
Her tone was soft, but it landed like a small stone dropped into still water.
Later, while Jonas cooked lunch, Lara sat on the couch, watching him.
He looked content, humming as he flipped the pan.
“You know,” he said suddenly, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’ll start that online design gig again. The one my friend mentioned.”
She brightened a little. “That’s great. Do you need help setting it up?”
“Maybe just your laptop for now. Mine’s still acting up.”
Of course.
“Sure,” she said. “Just don’t forget to log out from my accounts.”
He grinned. “You don’t trust me?”
“I do,” she said quietly. “But I also trust data breaches.”
Jonas laughed, thinking she was joking. She wasn’t.
They ate lunch in silence. The food was good — it always was when Jonas cooked. It was his quiet apology, maybe.
But apology doesn’t pay bills.
When the plates were cleared, Jonas asked, “Can I borrow fare later? I need to meet a client in Ortigas.”
Lara looked at him carefully. “I thought you said he’d meet you online.”
“This one wants face-to-face. You know how some clients are.”
“Hmm.”
“Come on, Lara. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re my mother.”
She set down the dish towel slowly. “Then stop acting like my son.”
The words hung between them — not shouted, but sharp enough to leave a mark.
Jonas’s jaw tightened. “Wow. So this is what you think of me now?”
She didn’t answer. She simply handed him a folded bill, eyes steady.
He took it but didn’t say thank you.
That evening, Lara sat by the window, listening to the traffic outside. The city never slept; it just changed tempo.
Her reflection in the glass looked tired. Not sad — just drained in a way that felt deeper than physical exhaustion.
She tried to trace where it all started — when “helping” began to feel like owing.
There’s a term for it, she remembered: compassion fatigue — the emotional depletion that comes from constant caretaking without reciprocity.
Psychologists say it happens to caregivers and health workers.
Apparently, it also happens to women in love.
Jonas came home late. The sound of his footsteps was slow, deliberate.
“Hey,” Lara said softly, not looking up from her laptop.
He dropped his bag onto the couch. “Client canceled last minute. Sayang pamasahe.”
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically, though it wasn’t her fault.
He shrugged. “I’ll get another one next week.”
“Next week” — his favorite promise.
Lara closed her laptop. “Jonas, can we talk?”
He looked wary. “About what?”
“About… us. Finances. Everything.”
He sighed, already defensive. “Lara, I know what you’re going to say.”
“Then say it for me.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms. “You think I’m lazy. That I’m not doing enough.”
She hesitated. “I think you’re comfortable not doing enough.”
His face darkened. “You’re being unfair.”
“I’m being realistic.”
He stood up abruptly. “You know what, never mind. You’re tired. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
“Jonas.”
But he was already walking toward the bedroom.
The conversation ended where most of theirs did — midair, unresolved, like smoke without a fire.
That night, Lara couldn’t sleep. The rain had returned, tapping gently against the glass.
Jonas snored lightly beside her, one arm draped over her waist as if possession could replace effort.
Her mind replayed their talk — every sigh, every pause, every half-formed apology.
She realized she had stopped hoping for solutions; she was only waiting for peace.
There was a word for this, too: emotional detachment — when the heart quietly begins to pack its bags long before the body does.
Morning came gray and reluctant. Jonas was still asleep when Lara got up. She brewed coffee, black and strong. The bitterness was comforting — at least bitterness was honest.
She took out her notebook and wrote three columns: Needs, Wants, and Reality.
Under Needs, she listed rent, food, utilities.
Under Wants, she wrote “a partner who participates.”
Under Reality, she left it blank.
The silence in the apartment felt heavier that day, pressing on her like humidity.
When Jonas finally woke, he found her at the table, staring at the list.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A reminder,” she said simply.
He looked over her shoulder, then smiled awkwardly. “You’re so organized.”
Lara smiled too, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes.
That evening, while she washed dishes, Jonas came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Let’s stop fighting, okay?” he whispered.
She nodded. “Okay.”
But something in her chest had already gone quiet — the kind of quiet that doesn’t heal, only accepts.
(End of Chapter 2)
Author’s Note:
Sometimes, love doesn’t vanish in an explosion. It fades like ink in water — slowly, invisibly, until you realize you’ve been carrying someone else’s weight for too long.
If you’ve ever been the one who “holds things together,” ask yourself — who holds you?
Psychology Fact:
Compassion Fatigue is a form of secondary stress that occurs when individuals continuously care for others without receiving emotional replenishment. It often leads to irritability, apathy, and emotional exhaustion.
Book Suggestion that explores the Chapter Theme:
“Women Who Love Too Much: When You Keep Wishing and Hoping He’ll Change” by Robin Norwood
→ A classic about why some women become trapped in unequal relationships — giving too much, hoping love will fix what effort can’t.
(Ideal for exploring Lara’s guilt and rationalization.)
