Miggy's POV
The sky was a dull gray, thick with unshed rain and the weight of everything I didn't want to feel. I had no idea how long I'd been driving. I wasn't even sure where I was going. All I knew was that I had to keep moving. If I stopped, I'd have to sit with it—with the words, with the truth, with him.
"I never wanted her, Miggy. It was a mistake. Gabriella was a mistake. But it doesn't mean that I will not do something."
My father's voice clung to the inside of my skull like smoke I couldn't cough out. Calm. Measured. Cruel in its certainty. And now that I'd heard it, I couldn't unhear it.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my fingers ached. Every knuckle was bone-white with pressure. I wasn't sure if I was trying to hold the wheel or keep myself from falling apart.
I kept seeing myself in his office, storming in like a fool with a photograph in my hand and too much hope in my chest. My voice was shaking when I demanded, "Who is she?"
And his? Steady. Dismissive. "That is what I want to discuss with you."
"I made mistakes, son. You need to accept that and move on."
Accept? That he had another child? That he'd kept her hidden, like a secret he never meant to acknowledge? That Mom had to sit there in the same room, frozen, as if every breath was a betrayal?
There was no accepting that.
The silence after that conversation was louder than anything either of us said. My mother's face had been blank, her eyes stuck on the floor, not even flinching when the truth cracked open between us like a fault line. I think that hurt more than the confession.
I blinked back the sting in my eyes. I wouldn't cry. Not now. Not ever. I was in Sansebastián. We didn't fall apart. We didn't break.
But God, I was breaking.
The brakes screeched as I slammed them without warning. My chest hit the seatbelt hard, knocking the wind out of me. And then I saw her.
A woman, standing still in the middle of the road, caught in the glare of my headlights like some ghost I had conjured from grief.
She looked like she didn't belong out here—like she came from a life far removed from his, and yet somehow familiar in its quiet struggle. There was something striking about her, even in the simplest clothes. A plain shirt and jeans, nothing fancy, but she wore them with a kind of effortless grace. Her damp hair clung to her face, and her sandals scraped softly against the road as she shifted under the weight of two overstuffed bags. He caught a glimpse of RTWs spilling out—maybe she sold them online. Clutched tightly to her chest was a plastic-wrapped bundle, like she was holding onto the last thing she had left.
"Shit," I muttered, throwing the car in park and jumping out.
"Are you okay?" My voice came out raw. I was breathing too fast, like my body hadn't realized the danger was over.
She flinched but didn't back away. Up close, she looked younger than I expected—early forties, maybe—but the kind of young that had been carved out of hardship. Fair-skinned, high cheekbones, with eyes that had seen too much and said nothing.
"I didn't see you," I added, heart still slamming in my chest. "I almost—God, I did hit you, didn't I? Just barely... Are you hurt?"
She didn't answer right away, just held the plastic-wrapped bundle tighter. I stepped closer, and that's when I saw it—her elbow scraped and raw, a smear of blood flaking off her skin. Her jeans were torn at the knee, and underneath, her skin was bruised, the purple and red blooming against her fair complexion.
Guilt twisted in my gut.
She shook her head, voice barely a whisper. "I'm fine. Just… passing through."
Passing through. Like me.
She adjusted the bundle she was holding, and one of the bags split open. A child's slipper tumbled out.
I saw the bruises—the raw scrape on her elbow, the fresh scratches on her knee.
"No," she said softly, but I wasn't listening.
"I'm driving you to the hospital. Now." My voice didn't leave room for argument.
She looked at me, startled, eyes wide and wary.
"I don't care if you don't want to go. You're hurt." I kept my eyes on the road but felt her trembling beside me. "You need help. I'm not asking."
She swallowed hard and, for a long moment, said nothing.
Then, with a quiet, reluctant nod, she gave in.
I didn't bother asking her name or anything else. This wasn't the time.
The engine roared to life, and I pulled out, focusing on the road ahead, the weight of what just happened still settling deep in my chest.
She finally met my eyes, and something in her expression cracked—fear, pride, and exhaustion all tangled up.
We sat there in the quiet. Not the heavy kind that suffocates, but the kind that holds two people gently, like we were both balancing something fragile we didn't want to break.
"How did I let this happen? The thought gnawed at me like a thorn in my chest. "I barely missed hitting her, but it was close enough to leave marks. Bruises. Scratches. Because of me."
"I should've been paying more attention. I should've slowed down sooner. What if I'd done worse?"
The guilt pressed down hard, heavier than the weight of the steering wheel in my hands.
I stole a glance at her through the rearview mirror — head lowered, silent, broken.
"I don't even know her name. But right now, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I fix this."
I was in a mad dash, weaving through traffic as more and more vehicles piled up behind me. After the accident, all I could think of was getting her help. I drove her straight to the nearest hospital, where she was taken in immediately by the emergency staff.
While waiting outside the ER, I called Meynard to explain what had happened and asked him to come over.
Minutes later, a doctor came out looking for the patient's companion. I stood and approached him quickly, ready to take responsibility.
"She'll need x-rays for her hand and hip," the doctor explained after I gave a quick rundown of the incident. "We need to check for possible fractures."
"No worries, Doc," I said without hesitation. "Do whatever is necessary for her treatment. I'll take care of the expenses."
The doctor nodded and disappeared back into the ER. Soon after, I saw her—slumped in a wheelchair, being pushed toward the x-ray department. She looked so fragile, yet something about her still held a strange dignity. I didn't even know her name, and yet I felt responsible.
I stayed near the ER entrance so Meynard could spot me easily. When I heard his voice behind me, I was still sitting on the bench, elbows resting on my knees. "Bro?" he called.
I straightened up. "Good, you're here."
"How are you? Where is she?"
"She's getting x-rayed," I said. "Please settle the bills and request a private room for her. I'll take care of everything she needs. I'll explain later—I just need a break. I'm heading to the café."
I walked off, needing air. As I stepped outside the hospital, my phone started ringing. I did not bother to check on it.
I let it ring. I couldn't deal with whoever is calling right now—not after everything that had happened earlier.
Inside me, it was chaos. This woman. The confrontation with Dad. The secret sister. My whole day had unraveled like a thread caught on something sharp.
By the time Meynard and I met at the café inside the hospital, I had already ordered coffee. He slid into the seat across from me.
"Bro, I took care of everything. The woman's in a private room now. I spoke with the doctor—test results will be out tomorrow. For now, she needs rest. They've already given her medicine for her wounds."
I handed him his coffee. "Thanks, man."
"Don't worry, I don't think it's serious."
"I know," I replied quietly. "I just wanted to be sure she was okay. I didn't even mean to bring her into all this…"
"What happened?" he asked. "You're not a reckless driver."
So, I told him. Everything—from Dad's office to how I broke down to the accident. I admitted I didn't even get her name. I just reacted.
Meynard was quiet for a while. "How do we contact her family?"
"I don't know," I said, rubbing my forehead. "I should've asked earlier, but I was out of it."
"It's fine. A nurse already called someone—her last dialed number. Apparently, it's a family member. The nurse said someone's on their way."
We decided to go grab dinner nearby. After eating, we picked up some essentials—toiletries, water, and some food—for when her family arrived.
While we walked back, I felt my phone vibrate again in my pocket. I ignored it, assuming it was Dad again. I just couldn't face him—not yet.
Then Meynard's phone rang.
"Probably his girlfriend," I muttered to myself.
He answered. "Bro, the nurse texted—her daughter arrived and wants to talk to you."
Then his phone rang again. Meynard's eyes widened as he answered.
"Whoa, good evening, beautiful!" he said playfully. "Yes, he's with me. What's up?"
His face turned serious. "Ah… okay. Please text me the room number. Got it."
He ended the call and turned to me. "That was Carla. Ma'am Barbs asked her to call you—since you've been ignoring all their calls. Your dad was rushed to the hospital earlier. They're both there now."
I stared at him, the world falling silent around me.
Dad. Hospital.
My chest tightened, breath catching in my throat. After everything we'd said to each other earlier today…
"I'll talk to the daughter first," he muttered. "Then you head over. I'll take your car—I'll just bring it back later to you. Just take a cab for now," he continued.
I nodded, and he waved down a cab. I climbed in, dazed, watching as he sprinted back toward the hospital entrance. My mind was blank—too much to process, too many things spinning out of control.
I leaned back in the seat, the city lights blurring past the windows.
"I didn't know what to say when I saw Dad. I wasn't even sure I wanted to see him. But one thing was clear—I couldn't run from this reckoning anymore."
Not anymore.