Cielo doesn't tell anyone.
Not Jessa.Not her mother.Not even her own reflection.
Because some truths are not spoken—they are simply endured.
—
By day, she is fine.
That's her official status now.
Functioning. Quiet. Slightly sarcastic. Possibly stable.
—
She buys eggs.She folds clothes.She avoids sunlight like it owes her money.
Normal things.
Safe things.
Things that don't ask questions.
—
But at night—
she becomes someone else.
—
Not C. the hacker.Not the production assistant.Not the probinsyana trying to rebuild silence into peace.
—
Just Cielo.
Alone.
With a secret she refuses to name.
—
Sleep comes easily now.
Too easily.
Like her mind is tired of negotiating.
—
And every time she closes her eyes—
he is there.
—
Lee
Not always clear.
Not always real.
But always present.
—
Sometimes he is standing under stage lights.
Sometimes in a dim control room she doesn't recognize.
Sometimes just sitting beside her like he has always belonged there.
—
And sometimes—
he looks at her like he already knows everything she is trying to forget.
—
"Why do you keep showing up?" she whispers in her dream once.
—
He smiles.
Not answering directly.
That kind of smile that feels like a memory instead of a choice.
—
"Because you never closed the door," he says softly.
—
She wakes up suddenly.
Heart fast.
Breath uneven.
—
She presses her palm to her chest.
"Okay," she mutters.
"That was emotionally illegal."
—
Morning is worse in quieter ways.
—
Because dreams don't end.
They just change temperature.
—
And Cielo carries them like hidden files in her mind—compressed, encrypted, never opened during daylight.
—
She sits at the small wooden table.
Coffee untouched.
Jessa talking somewhere in the background about neighbors, chickens, and "people who have too much time to judge others."
—
But Cielo is not listening.
She is thinking about him again.
—
Not the real version.
The version her mind insists on creating.
—
Because real or not—
he feels consistent.
And consistency is dangerous when your life has become unpredictable silence.
—
Later that afternoon, Jessa catches her staring at nothing.
"You okay?"
—
Cielo blinks.
"Yes."
—
"That was too fast. That's a liar 'yes.'"
—
Cielo sighs.
"…I just didn't sleep well."
—
Jessa narrows her eyes.
"That's also a liar sentence."
—
Cielo looks away.
Because the truth is worse.
—
She did sleep.
She just doesn't feel rested.
—
Because in her sleep—
she lives a second life.
One she didn't choose.
One she doesn't understand.
One she cannot escape.
—
At night, it gets heavier.
—
Not just dreams.
But emotion.
—
She wakes up sometimes with tears already on her face.
No memory of crying.
Only proof.
—
Like her body is mourning something her mind refuses to name.
—
"Why are you sad?" Jessa asks one night after catching her sitting awake at 2 AM.
—
Cielo laughs softly.
"I'm not sad."
—
"Then why are you crying?"
—
A pause.
Long enough to feel honest.
—
"…I don't know," Cielo says.
And for once, she doesn't joke after it.
—
Silence settles between them.
Not uncomfortable.
Just real.
—
Jessa sits beside her.
"You don't talk about anything anymore."
—
Cielo stares at the floor.
"I talk. I just don't say anything important."
—
"That's not living, Cielo."
—
That word hits differently.
Living.
—
Because she is alive.
Technically.
Biologically.
Functionally.
—
But inside—
she feels like she is existing between pages of her own story.
Not writing it.
Not reading it.
Just… stuck in the blank space.
—
That night, she dreams again.
—
He is closer this time.
Too close.
Like distance has stopped being a rule.
—
"Do you miss me?" he asks.
—
Cielo should say no.
It would be easier.
Cleaner.
Safer.
—
But her voice betrays her even in sleep.
"…I don't know who you are when I'm awake."
—
He looks at her for a long time.
Then gently:
"But you always find me when you're not."
—
She wakes up crying again.
This time she doesn't hide it.
Just lies there.
Quiet.
Letting it happen.
—
Because there is no audience now.
Only truth.
—
Days continue.
Sunlight continues.
Life continues pretending nothing is wrong.
—
But Cielo starts noticing something worse than dreams.
—
She starts wanting them.
Not because they are peaceful.
But because they feel realer than everything else.
—
And that is the most dangerous part.
—
One afternoon, she writes in her notebook:
"Observation: emotional attachment to unconscious mental constructs increasing."
She stops.
Then adds:
"Conclusion: I am not okay."
—
She closes the notebook quickly after that.
As if admitting it makes it more permanent.
—
That night, she sits outside again.
Umbrella untouched beside her.
Sunlight fading into evening.
—
She whispers into the wind:
"I think I'm starting to miss something that never existed in my real life."
—
No answer.
Of course.
—
But somewhere inside her—
something quietly responds anyway.
—
Not a voice.
Not a memory.
—
Just a feeling.
—
Like someone is waiting for her on the other side of a door she forgot she built.
—
And Cielo realizes something she doesn't say out loud:
—
Even when she is alone…
she is never truly alone anymore.
—
And that terrifies her more than sunlight ever did.
—
End of Chapter: Alone with a Secret