“I’m so sorry. Maybe I’m more into guys after all.”

“I don’t think I can prioritize you when I’m this busy with my academics.”

The words don’t hurt anymore. That’s how often I hear them. They’re always delivered carefully, like apologies wrapped in excuses.

February is supposed to mean something— promise, beginnings, proof that love favors someone eventually. I start this month believing again.

I always do.

The walk along España Boulevard feels much heavier than usual. The Fountain of Wisdom stood dry under tired streetlights, its statue frozen mid-thought.

Instead of the usual owl at the side, I couldn’t help but notice that there’s another figure.

Smaller. Almost human-like. Half-hidden to the side, as if it were placed there as some kind of social experiment.

I’ve never noticed it before, yet my feet carry me closer. The statue’s smile is too wide, its eyes carved too deep. I can’t explain what’s wrong with it, only that my skin prickles the longer I stare.

Then it blinks.

Stone grinds as it turns its head toward me. Fear settles slowly, like recognition rather than shock.

“You look lonely,” it says, voice light. Amused.

It calls itself a cupid. Just a cupid.

It tells me it’s been watching.

How I linger, how I hope, how I never stop wanting.

And because I’m the only one who bothered to notice it, it offers me a gift.

A soulmate.

I should leave, but instead I tell it everything.

I describe my type with shaking hands— her principles, her fire, the way she would choose me without hesitation. The cupid listens closely, smiling like it’s memorizing my confession. When I walk away, my chest feels lighter, like something has been set in motion.

A week later, I met Jo.

It’s an ordinary encounter on a crowded LRT car, another Thomasian complaining about the system like it personally betrayed her.

“It’s so hard to commute during rush hour, I feel like a sardine in a tin can. And officials who keep on plundering money get to go home in their luxury cars…” was all she needed to say to get my attention, then a laugh or two.

She was a Political Science major. Sharp. Passionate. Familiar in a way that unsettles me. Conversation comes easily, then too easily. Coffee turns into shared walks, shared anger, shared dreams.

One night after our classes, it rained so hard that the sidewalks were slightly flooded. We’re laughing, soaked, when a motorcycle swerves too close. Before I can react, she yanks me back by the wrist, pulling me into her chest.

“Hey,” she says, breathless, hands still gripping my arms. “You okay?”

Her voice shakes, not with fear for herself, but for me.

She doesn’t let go right away.

“Huy, I never thought you’d be the clingy type?” I teased before giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder,

“I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone who made me feel this way and…. I just don’t want to lose you.”

The words settle strangely in my stomach. Warm. Heavy. I’ve tried to forget them since then, but I’ve begun to notice how protective she is of me, and it feels like it’s out of fear.

Sometimes, I feel like we’re being watched.

I catch flashes of white in reflections of puddles or rivers— stone wings, familiar smiles just out of focus, and those dark, cracked eyes. Each time, I convince myself it’s a good sign.

A blessing, just the cupid is making sure everything goes right.

One day, we went to a protest together. We believed in the same things. Standing beside her felt natural, necessary. At first, it’s peaceful. Then all of a sudden, the police push forward. Shouts turn sharp. Fear spreads fast.

People started running.

I lost her hand.

A deafening blast tore through the air. I saw her before I understood. She looked at me once— eyes wide, certain, then shoved me back with everything she had.

“Run!”

I tried to go to her.

Hands grabbed me, dragged me away. I screamed her name until my voice broke.

When the noise finally faded, I ran back.

I saw a few people collapsed on the ground, some left alone, others surrounded by friends who tried to wake them up, and then I saw someone in her favorite cream cardigan that she was wearing earlier, with a piece of cardboard placed over her head– as if that would help me forget the woman I loved that easily.

I found myself rushing to her side, quickly removing the cardboard from her face to clutch her close to me,

“Jo,” I called out, trying to shake her a bit even if I knew she wasn’t breathing, “Jo, this isn’t funny anymore. I thought we were still going home together?”

The moment I finally broke down and just held her closer, I heard laughter.

Soft. Pleased.

The cupid stands nearby, clapping slowly. Its wings are cracked now, darkened, like something has been feeding on them. I demand answers. I told it this wasn’t the deal.

It tilts its head.

“She is your soulmate,” it says gently.

“For your lifetime.”

The words settle. Rearrange themselves.

Then I finally realized how it watched her pull me back from the street, how it watched her choose me every time. It wasn’t protecting us.

It was measuring.

Counting.

I remembered every time I mistook its presence for reassurance. Every glance I welcomed. Every moment, I believed that being watched meant being protected.

I think of how Jo always stood between me and the street, how she reached for me first, how she chose me even when it cost her something.

The cupid’s smile is still there, carved and permanent, as if it has always known how this would end.

I hold Jo closer and try to name what I’m feeling.

Grief, rage, gratitude, horror, until all the words collapse into one quiet truth I can no longer avoid.

**Love was never a blessing.

It was the most twisted curse of all, and someone is always left behind to carry it.**