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They first met at the mercado outside the city walls.
A young lad, skinny in his loose camisa de chino, stood in front of a tiny but pretty decent stall. His eyes, dark but beautiful, stared at every person passing by, as if pleading for them to get inside and at least have a peek of their store. He’d open his mouth, lips parting with words dangling, but he’d close them before he could even speak. He was shy.
His name was Mingyu. He was nineteen.
Then there was another man. The silver-inlaid salakot, the intricate barong, his Tagalog accent familiar but a little foreign — an aristocrat, a principalia. He stopped at the store and smiled, soft and gentle, as if matching the tender touch of the sun on his already pale, clear skin.
His name was Wonwoo. He was also nineteen.
They stood at the door, stealing glances. Mingyu was red, but Wonwoo was confident. He looked at Mingyu with curiosity, maybe a tinge of excitement, too. They spoke only a few words.
Wonwoo bought a comb, he said it was for his mother’s birthday. He didn’t stay long, leaving as soon as he got what he needed.
But he looked back.
Silay.
They met again in Intramuros.
Mingyu didn’t like the place. He looked around as he walked past the gates, still uneasy from the guardia civil’s unnecessarily long interrogation — he just needed to deliver something to his father's client. If his eyes could talk, they would say the city was too grand, too ostentatious, too alienating. But it’s not like he had a choice. It’s the city. It’s where the money is, was, and will always be. Hands holding a box tightly, he stopped by Casa Urdaneta.
A guardia civil greeted him. Mingyu stood straight, intimidated, but he kept his voice calm and cool — or at least tried to, somewhat successfully — and the guard took the package from him. The guard shooed him, and Mingyu scurried away.
He turned a corner and crashed into another person, both of them stumbling, their bottoms hitting the cobblestone road. They spent a few seconds there with angry groans, hard rubs on the forehead, and a shaking apology from Mingyu.
It was Wonwoo.
Helooked visibly annoyed until he remembered who Mingyu was, his eyes flashing with the immediate eureka of recognition, furrowed brows relaxing right away. He stood up, dusting his pants before extending an arm to help Mingyu up. The latter took it, still apologizing profusely like his life depended on it. It’s the daunting Manila after all.
Wonwoo tapped him on the shoulder. There was another smile, the same soft smile he gave at the mercado. “It’s okay,” he said.
Mingyu remained scared, his eyes teary, but Wonwoo kept his hand on the other's shoulder, the gentle pats turned into comforting rubs. They stood there until Mingyu calmed down.
Wonwoo accompanied him to the city gates. They talked, really short exchanges, barely a conversation. Wonwoo would ask, Mingyu would answer — short, straightforward answers. But he started smiling, shy smiles.
They soon had to part ways, and Wonwoo stood in the archway by the walls, waving at Mingyu with a happy goodbye.
Mingyu waved back. He walked away but stopped before he could even get far from the gate. He turned around. This time, it was him who looked back, watching Wonwoo disappear behind the limestone walls.
Silay.
They met for the third time on a Sunday. Mingyu sat on a bench by Plaza Calderon, waiting for his family to come out of the church. It was empty, a lucky find, he’d say, considering how busy Sunday mornings usually were. He breathed, filling his lungs with the cool, fresh breeze, before letting out an exasperated sigh. He looked tired.
Then out of the blue, there was Wonwoo, next to him, smiling. His presence caught Mingyu off guard, holding a tight hand on his chest, letting the shock escape in chuckles and smiles. He forgot Manila aristocrats also filled Binondo on Sundays.
Wonwoo held a small bag of dried shrimps, munching on them a little too loudly. Mingyu didn’t like the sound, but the day was good, and Wonwoo’s presence was a nice surprise. Wonwoo’s presence was always a pleasant surprise.
They forwent formal “Buenos días” and “¿Cómo estás?” and were soon caught up with each other’s stories. They talked about the silly things Wonwoo and his classmates did at the colegio that week. Mingyu shared the strangest customers he encountered at the shop. They enjoyed the exchange, obvious with their crinkly eyes, animated hands, and almost never-ending laughter.
The stories felt new, and they loved how they sounded curious, unfamiliar. It shouldn’t be surprising. Intramuros and Binondo stood almost next to each other, but they felt like two different worlds.
Then there was a call. A middle-aged couple in flashy, expensive baros waiting by a carruaje yelled Wonwoo’s name. They both looked at the two young men with seriousness, deep and examining, judging.
“Mama. Papa,” Wonwoo mumbled in an accent only the aristocrats would use. Their eyes remained heavy on them, and Mingyu felt like he was being stripped bare naked. He wanted to hide.
Wonwoo apologized, albeit not without stating his optimism to see Mingyu again. He ran to his parents. Mingyu watched how his friend — if they could call each other friends — blended into the crowd scrambling to get to their carriages.
Silay.
But it felt like trying to peek above a wall too high. They really were from two different worlds.
And they met again. And again. And again.
Wonwoo knew when Mingyu would come to Intramuros, and Mingyu knew when Wonwoo would visit the mercado. They neither exchanged letters nor talked about it. They just learned, they memorized, and they expected.
Sometimes, Wonwoo would stop by and buy nothing. He had plenty of time — aristocrats, nothing new — and he never minded joining Mingyu in watching over the shop. He would wear a loose camisa de chino and old pants, as if trying to blend with the sun-kissed, sturdy plebs of the outskirts. Silay. Mingyu thought Wonwoo shone brightly.
Sometimes, Mingyu would bring extra kakanin for Wonwoo. He liked cassava cake, and they’d eat it for snacks. They would go up a section of the walls, past the eyes of the often lazy guardia civil. There, they would talk, spend the afternoon with almost never-ending stories.
One day, Wonwoo brought his salakot with him, and he made Mingyu wear it. He just tried, he just wanted to see. As they sat by walls, legs dangling on the edge, the sun painting a golden glow on their faces, Wonwoo smiled, still looking at Mingyu’ flustered face as he felt strange and heavy, with a salakot on his head.
Silay. Wonwoo thought Mingyu looked beautiful.
For the first time, Wonwoo sent Mingyu a letter, in the loosest definition of the word. It was more of a note, a quarter piece of parchment that said ”Las cinco y media de la tarde. Las ruinas del hospital en Bagumbayan.” No instructions, but Mingyu knew Wonwoo wanted to meet.
And so at half past five in the afternoon, they met at Bagumbayan. Mingyu was a little too early, but he didn’t wait long. Wonwoo arrived, playfully surprising Mingyu from behind. The pleasant surprise that never stopped being pleasant. They laughed, and they never stopped smiling.
Wonwoo wanted to watch the sunset with Mingyu. While Plaza de la Luneta would be the most perfect spot, the ruins hid them from the busy center. It felt more private, intimate, and the horizon looked wider from there. The sunset would still be beautiful.
Stories came one after another as if they had never met two days ago. But they were happy, and they had nothing else to do other than watch the sun disappear. As it sank into a golden bow at the edge of the sea, Wonwoo reached for Mingyu’s hand.
The touch of fingers at the back of his palm startled Mingyu, the sudden turn of his head and the catch of his breath stopping Wonwoo in his tracks. But Mingyu soon realized what was happening, and he kept his hand on the ground, not too firm, loose enough so the same fingers that caught him by surprise could still wrap around his.
Their hearts pounded so hard; they felt it in their hands. They didn’t speak, eyes looking straight at the horizon, sMingyuet glow gleaming in them.
Wonwoo tightened his grip. Mingyu tried to hold the butterflies in. If they were blushing, it was hardly visible, for the pink of their cheeks blended with the deep orange light on their faces.
As soon as the sun was gone, when the sky was finally painted with a beautiful gradient of purple and red, they looked at each other, waiting.
Waiting.
Wonwoo moved. A gentle touch on Mingyu’ face followed by a quick lean. He stopped — a second of hesitation, as if making sure they were in this together, not just him — before closing that tiny gap between their lips. It was innocent and delicate, short but long enough to feel their breath.
Mingyu sighed, their faces still close as they looked in each other’s eyes, mesmerized, in love.
Wonwoo smiled, a genuinely happy and satisfied smile.
Silay.
The next days were days of stolen kisses, hidden kisses. No words spoken, just their lips, their hands, their touch.
Then their eyes. They looked at each other as if there was no time left for them to revel in the beauty of the other. Always soft, always gentle. But they were also scared and longing.
Wonwoo held Mingyu’s hand tightly, carried it to his lips, and kissed it. The breath on the back of Mingyu’s hand was warm, like a soft caress, but the lips stayed. It didn’t want to let go.
Wonwoo’s eyes were wet. He was crying. When Mingyu asked why, he said he was just happy — really, extremely happy. Mingyu believed him.
The second time Mingyu received a letter from Wonwoo, it was finally an actual letter.
And it was also the last.
He opened it as soon as he received it, read it, and felt like he was sinking — falling — to the ground.
I love you, and this will hurt, but know that our separation will just make me love you a hundred, a thousand, a million fold more.
His father came rushing back to the store with a curious face, the same face he had always worn when he’d hear gossip. This time, it wasn’t rumor — it was news. The letter was true. The Jeons were leaving Manila for Europe. For good.
Mingyu ignored his father’s calls, running past the already busy Binondo streets. He tried to recall port schedules — his father always had them on his desk — but he couldn’t. He almost tripped, vision blurry with the tears welling up in his eyes. He just needed to see the ship, it should be visible from the bridge.
As he neared Puente de España, he could see smoke. Steam.. The ship was still docked. Relief, too short, left him just as it came, so he ran as fast as he could, even if his legs felt like weights.
The whole of the dock was visible from the end of the bridge, and as he turned, dashing down the stairs to the plaza, he realized how thick the crowd had become. It's packed, and he tried his best to look for Wonwoo, mumbling his name in between heavy breaths. He checked every face. None.
When he noticed people started boarding the ship, he turned his eyes on them. And there he was, Wonwoo, in a full black suit and top hat, head down as he carefully — hesitantly — treaded the walkway.
Mingyu called. He yelled. He screamed. Jeon Wonwoo!
Wonwoo stopped. He looked up and craned his neck, searching for the voice with a glimmer of growing distraught in his eyes. He was teary, and he was scared. He saw Mingyu, squeezing his way through the crowd, and he immediately ran back to the dock.
Wonwoo's mom called, but he didn’t stop. Never mind bumping against those who were trying to board; he went down, muttering excessive apologies along the way.
As soon as his feet touched the ground, he felt a strong thump against him, a light tackle, then a tight hug. It was a bit stifling, but he didn't care. Mingyu clung onto him, and he wrapped his arms around him, too.
They both cried like a child left by their mom for the first time. No words, just them holding onto each other, faces wet with tears, suffocating in every breath that escaped their lips..
Wonwoo said sorry, sorry that he had to go, sorry that he had to hurt them like this. He said sorry again. And again. And again, until he sounded like he hated himself for repeating the same words over and over. Yet Mingyu wouldn't budge, even when the ship already sounded its horn, signaling its imminent departure.
Hearing his parents' stern, commanding cries, Wonwoo knew he had to let go. He had to release himself from Mingyu' hold. He did — and he hated himself more.
He breathed his last apology before gently pushing Mingyu away. As soon as he's freed, he stepped back — his final glance — and ran to the now empty gangway. He didn't look back, dashing to the deck with his head bowed down, wiping his face with the sleeves of his suit.
Mingyu stood at the dock, trembling. The ship sounded its horn again, louder, longer. It pulled the gangway up before starting to sail. He watched as the ship inched away, a hand pressed against his chest because it felt like breaking, exploding. His tears won’t stop.
The crowd thinned as minutes passed, but Mingyu stayed. He stood there until he was alone, staring at the horizon.
The steam dissolved into the sky. The ship was gone.
Silay.
Huling silay.
Mingyu returned to the shop that afternoon, tired, feeling lifeless. His father was angry, but he had the littlest care right now. As he sat down, he saw on the table a silver-inlaid salakot. His father said the Jeons’ messenger left that for him.
Mingyu bent forward and cried like he’d vomit his heart out.
