Our first romance storyline was textbook. He courted me the old-fashioned way: ligaw with pan de sal at my doorstep, long walks in Intramuros, a Spotify playlist titled “Rebecka’s Constellations.” I told myself this was the plot twist I deserved after a decade of unreliable situationships.
I am back in Cavite, sitting on Lola’s bamboo sofa. The diary is closed, but the story isn’t. I started a small design co-op with two other women. Jamie and Dina come over for Sunday lunch. My mother still asks about marriage, but now she adds, “Basta masaya ka” (as long as you’re happy).
I didn’t confront him. I went to the bathroom, sat on the cold tiles, and wrote in my diary:
I started writing a different kind of diary entry: Filipina Sex Diary Rebecka And May Full Video
Some love stories are not about finding the right person. They are about finally becoming the right person for yourself.
But Jamie’s storyline was different. She showed me that romance doesn’t have to be a battlefield. That love can be a garden—messy, yes, but also generative. She and Dina argued about dishes, but never about worth. They fought, but never with weapons from the past.
“You called our relationship an ROI,” I said. “You mock my family. You make me feel like I am too much and not enough at the same time.” Our first romance storyline was textbook
“He loves me like a transaction. And the worst part? Part of me wonders if he’s right. Maybe all love here is a transaction. Maybe I am just a girl who learned to trade her softness for stability.”
Entry 47 – Manila, 3:47 AM
My diary knows the truth before I do: I have never been good at soft landings. Three years ago, I met Matteo at a coworking space in BGC. He was Australian-Filipino, half, with the kind of smile that apologizes for existing. A software architect. He wore linen shirts and quoted Murakami during awkward silences. I fell for it—not for him, but for the idea of him. The idea that someone could see my late-night deadlines, my mother’s constant “kelan ka mag-aasawa?” (when will you get married?), and my habit of over-salted adobo, and still call me “enough.” The diary is closed, but the story isn’t
And Matteo? He texted last month. “I’ve changed. Can we try again?”
— Rebecka M. Santos Las Piñas, Philippines October 2024
But the real fracture came when I found the messages. Not another woman—worse. A group chat with his expat friends where he called Filipinas “practical” and said our relationships were “good ROI if you play the long game.” ROI. Return on investment. He was talking about me.
We fought about small things. Where to spend Christmas (his family in Melbourne or my Lola in Cavite). Whether “utang na loob” (debt of gratitude) was a virtue or a trap. He called my closeness with my siblings “enmeshment.” I called his emotional distance “cowardice.”
I don’t know where I’m going. Jamie’s couch, probably. Then a bedspace in Mandaluyong. Then—who knows? Maybe a studio of my own. Maybe a cat. Maybe a year of no romance at all.
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