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Wah! Wah!
The sound of wailing drags me out of my slumber.
I sit up, blinking in confusion. Normally, I sleep through anything loud: fireworks, thunderstorms, roosters crowing, dogs barking, drunkards screaming into the night—so why was I awakened by the sound of a child crying?
Wee-woo! Wee-woo!
I immediately stop rubbing my eyes as realization hits me. It’s not the sound of a child’s cries.
It’s car sirens.
Seeing the screen of my phone flash 01:23 jolts me out of bed. I don’t even care about the noise I make in my hurry—Mikha’s away anyway.
I rush down the stairs and practically run to our kitchen, my pulse quickening as I hear the ragged breaths first before I witness the exact scene.
She’s crumpled against the refrigerator, having fallen into her usual stance whenever the blaring sound of sirens torments her ears: eyes shut tight, hands covering her ears, face twisted in distress.
During our early days together, I found her fear of sirens hard to believe. I mean, for someone who’s so outgoing, outspoken, and resilient in chaotic, unpredictable environments, for someone who’s always associated with everything that’s maingay and magulo, I’d never thought that the sound of something as loud but unavoidably mundane as sirens would unravel Jhoanna Robles so easily.
Judging by her position, the sirens must’ve been going on for a while. Our group’s strategy of screaming at the top of our lungs to drown out the noise before it gets to her is clearly not on the table anymore. Plus, me screaming might only agitate her further or disturb the other girls from their sleep and cause unnecessary panic.
I want to punch myself for not waking up sooner.
I don’t have a concrete strategy in mind, but I waste no time in approaching her.
“Jho? Jho, it’s Aiah.”
She doesn’t respond or budge.
“Jho, it’s me. Come here,” I try again, wrapping an arm around her form and gently guiding her to sit on the chair she must’ve been using earlier.
Kneeling in front of her, I carefully remove her glasses before cupping her cheeks. My breath hitches when I register that they’re damp and—oh no, she’s started crying.
So I start pleading, “Jho, please look at me. Focus on my voice. Focus on my hands.”
It takes her a few moments, but her lips quiver when she finally speaks, “Aiah…”
“Yes? Yes, baby, I’m here,” I croon encouragingly. “Just focus on me.”
“Aiah… ang hirap…” she manages to say in between breaths. On a positive note, this is progress, I think, since she typically goes unnervingly silent during these moments.
“Kaya mo ‘to, Jho,” I tell her, softly wincing when the sirens seem to grow even louder in the background.
Wee-woo! Wee-woo!
What in the world is happening out there at one in the morning?
I rack my brain for a strategy—anything that might help calm her down. Then, a memory from Dubai flashes in my mind, the feelings of warmth and security from that experience suddenly seeping into my senses.
Tilting her face upwards, I lean in and gently press my lips against hers.
And there it is, again—the subtle but comforting blend of vanilla and strawberry.
Her lips stop trembling under mine after a beat. I feel her breathe sharply, signaling she’s responsive, so I deepen our kiss, to make use of the contact of our lips and the mingling of our breaths to convey:
I’m here.
You don’t have to block everything out.
Let’s get through this together.
I slowly pull away when I feel her hands on my wrists. Her long eyelashes glisten with tears under the room’s mellow light as she opens her eyes.
“Aiah…”
“Yes, Jho,” I assure her, softening at her voice as I tenderly wipe away the wet trails on her cheeks using my thumbs. “I’m here, okay?”
Much to my relief, the siren noise’s starting to fade away. I pull her into a hug, feeling her trembling form against mine. She’s still tense, but the worst seems to have passed. I whisper soft nothings, offering whatever comfort I can, hoping my gentle ministrations on her hair and the expanse of her back will soothe her.
We remain in that position for several minutes. When I make a move to pull away at the mercy of my cramping legs, she clings desperately onto my upper arms.
“Jho—”
“No, please,” she begs. “Dito ka lang.”
“I won’t go, okay? Need ko lang tumayo kasi medyo nangangalay ako.”
Once I stand to my full height, she immediately wraps herself around my waist. I almost melt right then and there, feeling the weight of her trepidation and vulnerability sink into me.
I glance at the kitchen counter, taking in the sight of discarded teabags and a clear cup of water that has probably lost its warmth by now.
“Gusto mo pa ng tea? I’ll make you some.”
She shakes her head against my chest.
“Okay, do you want anything else?”
She remains silent for a full minute, making me worry that she’s drifted off to sleep against me.
“Jho?”
“I think… I want to sleep,” she says weakly. She takes a deep breath, as if she’s breathing me in, and tightens her embrace around me. “Pero at the same time, parang ‘di ko pa kayang matulog.”
I sigh sympathetically, remembering that she’s been sleeping alone in her room for the past few days, with Stacey staying at her mom’s condo for the week and with Sheena opting to sleep in Colet, Maloi, and Gwen’s room temporarily because she can’t endure the malfunctioning, freezing air conditioning in their room.
“How about you sleep in my room tonight? Wala naman si Mikhs.”
I can practically hear her contemplation in the quiet aftermath of the sirens.
“Hmm? What do you think?”
“Okay,” she shyly replies. “But pwede mamaya onti? I want to stay like this muna.”
I titter in adoration, hugging her head closer to myself.
“We can hug more like this in my bed, baby.”
– –
She curls into me the moment I settle beside her with open arms.
I’ve cuddled with all the girls during our time spent together under one roof, but lately, I’ve come to realize that cuddling with her is my favorite—not because we do it the most, but precisely because we don’t. Contrary to the popular belief that she thrives in the company of other people, Jhoanna Robles prefers to keep to herself more than anyone realizes. The vibrant persona she presents to the public is a stark contrast to the person she becomes behind closed doors: a contemplative soul who seeks solitude to decompress and retreat into her thoughts.
At the core of this observation, I find it kind of funny how I, Aiah Arceta, thrive in order but wouldn’t mind a bit of chaos, while she, Jhoanna Robles, thrives in chaos but deeply yearns for order.
I smile triumphantly to myself as she buries her face in the crook of my neck. Tonight, she finds comfort in the solace that I provide, and there’s something special about those rare moments we share that makes them feel even more meaningful.
“Aiah?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” she whispers somberly. “At sorry rin, kasi naistorbo kita.”
I comb my fingers through her hair. “Hindi naman, Jho. Istorbo ka lang sa’kin ‘pag may araw na—joke.”
She chuckles softly against my neck—another win for me, as she usually ‘shuts down’ in the wake of these moments. “Pa’no mo alam na gising pa ako nang ganitong oras?”
“Your eyebags are bigger than usual,” I joke again, immediately receiving a whine and a light slap in response. “Sorry! Pero ayun, I don’t know if ako lang ang naka-notice, but you’ve been sleeping late recently.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I gently probe, hoping to learn whatever it is that’s been keeping her up at night.
She draws in a long breath as she starts to fiddle with my sundial necklace. “Wala pa ‘kong napagsabihan nito sa girls, but… do you want to know bakit sobrang affected ako sa sounds na ‘yun?”
It’s not exactly what I hoped, but I’ll gladly take whatever she’s willing to share. “Okay, why?”
“No’ng bata pa ako, may naoospital sa mga lolo’t lola ko every other month. Since kaming tatlo ng magulang ko ang pinakamalapit sa bahay nila, kami lagi ang nagdadala at bumibisita sa kanila sa hospital. Expected nang may sirens na umaalingawngaw tuwing may nangyayari sa kanila. Minsan, dumadaan lang sa tapat ng bahay namin. Minsan, maririnig ko nang mas malakas ‘pag nag-aalaga ako sa hospital.”
I nod in silence, taking in her words.
“Dumating sa point na ‘pag may naririnig ako na sirens, mapa-ambulance, police, or fire truck, inaatake na ako—alam ko nang may masamang nangyayari. Kahit after mag-pass away nina Lolo’t Lola, kahit madalang na kami mapadpad sa hospital after that, hindi na nawala ‘yung panic at anxiety na feeling ‘pag naririnig ko ‘yung gano’ng tunugan.”
So I was kind of right, recounting my eventual hypothesis regarding her fear of sirens.
It’s not about the noise. It’s about what it means. Sirens, a symbol of warning, danger, or death, of things that are bad and that can’t be controlled, trigger an ingrained fear that makes someone like Jhoanna Robles, someone who aches for control and only good things for the world, feel helpless and powerless.
And this conclusion breaks me a little more, knowing that she has this unwanted penchant for getting hospitalized herself ever since she was young. I can’t even begin to imagine how she copes physically and mentally during the times she was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.
“Sorry kung medyo OA tuloy,” she laughs self-deprecatingly.
I click my tongue in disagreement. “Ano ka ba, hindi naman eh. Watching people you loved get rushed off in ambulances? Of course that would stick with you—you were just a kid.”
She hums thoughtfully.
“But now, you’ve grown,” I continue. Right then and there, I decide to relate her childhood fear with her present worries. “You’ve learned how to handle the world around you. And even if you can’t control everything, you can control how you face it.”
She stops playing with my sundial as she processes my words. She then promptly disentangles herself from my hold to stare at the ceiling.
I nearly falter at the sudden emptiness in my arms, but I persist, “You’ve been leading us all this time, Jho. You’re much stronger than you think.”
She snickers, “Ba’t may biglang pa-ganiyan ka?”
“Wala lang! Ano… after hearing your story, I just realized how incredible your strength is—you’ve faced so much and still managed to lift others up,” I say, imploring her gaze. “And it’s okay to acknowledge that it comes with its own struggles or flaws… or fears. It makes you more mature, more admirable.”
“You admire me?” she asks, turning on her side to finally face me, and I catch my breath at the way her eyes seem to sparkle under the moonlight streaming through the slats of the window blinds.
“I do, I really do.”
She smiles, reaching out to fidget with my sundial again. “You really have this talent in thinking things through and saying the right words, ‘no?”
I chuckle, “To be fair, I only have it kasi mas marami akong free time kaysa sa’yo.”
She releases a brief laugh before leveling me with a meaningful gaze. “Ang selfish pakinggan, pero… I wish I can have you by my side all the time, Aiah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out, Jho.”
“Big words ah?”
“Oo nga, you’re stuck with me.”
“Kahit araw-araw may sirens?”
I feel my heart melt at the sincerity in her eyes, the innocence in her voice, and the gentle way her fingers trace the patterns on my sundial. “Now that you’ve met me, you don’t have to face the sirens alone. I’m here with you, and I promise you, we’ll get through it together—one siren at a time.”
As a bookend to my promise, I rest my forehead against hers and intertwine my fingers with hers, grounding us both in the sincerity of the moment.
A long yet comforting lull engulfs us. I spend the next few minutes with my eyes closed, just savoring the shared warmth between us and syncing my breathing with hers. When I open my eyes, I find her looking at me with a gaze that holds so much meaning that it nearly steals my breath away again. Her eyes shimmer with a depth that, I hope, mirrors my own.
“Aiah.”
“Yes, Jho?”
Her voice is thick with emotion when she asks, “Can you kiss me again?”
I respond in the simplest way possible—I kiss her.
Like the first time we kissed in Dubai, it’s gentle and sweet, illuminating the chaste connection that’s bound us together for so long. Like the second time we kissed in the kitchen, it carries the weight of everything that we’ve felt at that moment but have yet to voice. Like both times, time melts away, and I feel a warmth blossom in my chest—a mix of anticipation, exhilaration, and vulnerability.
Both of us are wide-eyed and breathless when we break the kiss. I vaguely notice how my hand has cupped her face, how her fingers have tightly gripped my sundial, how our other hands remain locked together between our bodies.
“Aiah…” she breathes. “Please…”
“What?”
“Please tell me you feel something more too.”
I let out a breathless laugh, my heart swelling and my chest bubbling with giddiness at the realization that the girl in front of me—Jhoanna Christine Robles, the leader of the Philippines’ rising girl group, and the first true object of my affection since coming out—has just confessed to me.
“I do, Jho. God, I do—matagal na.”
Her face morphs into pleasant surprise before scrunching in elation and curiosity. Her breath brushes softly against my face as she exhales in amusement, “Huh? Kailan pa—”
“Shh,” I interject, cutting her off before capturing her lips again.
The subjects of our late-night talks in Dubai were, in fact, a window to our souls: I’d wanted to explore the idea of dating while being an idol because I’ve always craved adventure and excitement, yearning to pursue my inner desires amidst my structured life, while she’d been striving to strengthen our brand as a group because she seeks and accepts any form of stability—a subtle force that would reassure her and help her feel grounded amidst the chaos of the industry, amidst the chaos of her own world.
And from my first-ever kiss with her, I realize that I was right from the get-go: We do complement each other. She’s the Yang to my Yin; I’m the Yin to her Yang. We both struggle to maintain our respective smaller circles of harmony while wrestling with pressures of different forms—hers being incredibly ambitious self-imposed standards, and mine being crippling and overbearing societal expectations.
But as I bask in her warmth and immerse myself in her chaotic world where every day is an adventure, while I offer her the anchor she desperately needs against the backdrop of blaring sirens and all that is bad and ugly in the world, another wave of clarity washes over me: We don’t just complement each other—we complete each other.
And as I sigh into her mouth and pull her closer, as I, for the first time in a long while, give into the chaotic whirlwind of emotions swirling within me—love, hunger, longing for connection and opposing forces, the ache of unspoken desires, a craving for vanilla and strawberry and order and chaos, and everything in between—a new realization hits me.
I love her.
I love her more than I should.
– –
“Staku, may ilalakas pa ba ‘yang pagti-TikTok mo?”
“Ang hina-hina na nga oh, hindi ko na masyadong marinig.”
“Hindi! I mean, lakasan mo pa kasi!” Sheena says in a volume that makes me look at her questioningly. She gestures to the view outside the window of the service van, explaining in a low voice, “May mga ambulance na dadaan.”
Without needing to see them, I just know that the other girls widen their eyes and nod their heads in shared understanding and silent acknowledgment.
I turn my head to regard the girl next to me—she’s gazing out the window, her expression lost in thought, completely unaware of what’s been happening and what’s about to happen in our van. I gently grasp her hand, and a soft smile creeps onto my face when she instinctively intertwines our fingers.
Sheena places our portable Bluetooth speaker atop the bags in front of us (a bit closer to Jhoanna than me), the cheerful notification signaling a successful connection chiming shortly after.
Once the sound of sirens enters Colet’s earshot (as she has the best hearing), Stacey, after being nudged by the older girl, suddenly exclaims, “Uy! Pakinggan niyo audio nito—ang funny lang.”
The audio of a TikTok video blares through the speaker, with the sudden burst of sound filling the van and halting all conversations. The bass thumps heavily, reverberating through the seats and making the entire vehicle vibrate slightly. Everyone’s now attuned to the booming sound—even Jhoanna has snapped out of her daze.
Wee-woo! Wee-woo!
Then the overlapping screaming ensues.
“Tangina, ano ‘yan, Staku?!”
“Ang babargas na talaga ng mga pinapanood mo!”
“OA! Funny scene lang galing sa sitcom?!”
“Piskit, hoy! Ang lakas ng laugh track!”
“Mas malakas tawa ni Sheena, ‘Te! Tiisin mo ‘yan!”
“Ay, talaga! Malakas ta’s funny pa! Baka 2-in-1 ‘to!”
“Ano ka, Nescafé?!”
“Tanga! 3-in-1 ‘yun!”
I don’t join in the raucous conversation, instead opting to laugh to myself while gently drawing circles on her hand with my thumb. Jhoanna and I are seated directly in the line of fire of the speaker, so the sound crashes over the two of us like tsunami waves—loud and intense and overwhelming and (slightly) physically painful. Their plan seems to be working perfectly as the speaker’s volume has practically muffled any kind of noise from the outside world, leaving us in a bubble of sound that temporarily deafens us.
“Staks, lakasan mo pa!”
“Oh, ano?! Enjoy niyo naman?!”
“Ano pinagsisigaw mo, Gwen?!”
“Damay-damayan tayong lahat dito!”
I didn’t realize that I was already wincing, that I had shut my eyes and raised my free hand to my ear until the speaker abruptly turned off, plunging the van into an eerie silence that starkly contrasted with the continuing wails of the ambulance sirens outside. The sudden shift and sharp contrast pull every one of us in the van back to reality.
Wee-woo! Wee-woo!
“Hala, bakit?”
“An’yare?”
“Uy, ‘di pa tapos!”
“Ate Jho?”
“Tama na, masyado nang maingay,” Jhoanna says, dropping the speaker onto the bags. Her voice is commanding like a siren, but it carries this unexpected calming authority that captivates more attention than the actual blaring sirens outside. “Nabibingi na si Ate Aiah.”
I simply gaze at her in silent admiration, appreciating the double meaning that she may or may have not intended.
She knows how much I prefer and value the quiet.
“Sure ka ba, Jho?”
“Pero ‘yung mga ambulance…”
“Okay na, girls,” she insists while gently tugging on my sundial with her free hand, pretending to adjust my necklace as her fingers brush against the skin of my neck. The gesture feels intimate and peaceful, as if she’s crafting a delicate moment just for the two of us amidst the dissonance.
Wee-woo! Wee-woo!
She shifts her eyes to our joined hands, then to mine, her gaze filled with affection and gratitude—and a quiet strength radiates from her, rising above the slowly fading wails, grounding me in her warmth.
“Okay na ‘ko ngayon, thank you.”