Work Text:
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
The sun was warm on my back as I arranged my stuff on the table—clay earrings, ceramic bowls, hand-painted tote bags, and my sketchpad. I set them out one by one, making sure everything looked presentable. Mikha and Aiah were putting flowers in little pots nearby, Sheena was humming as she set up her coffee kiosk in the corner.
“Hi, ladies! Thank you for joining us!” A voice carried easily through the garden. “I’m Jhoanna with Abante Babae. For those who don’t know, we’re a women’s collective that’s been running community programs for the past five years, focusing on supporting women and children who’ve experienced abuse or violence. This is the first of several activities we’ll be holding this Women’s Month, and we’re thrilled to have you as part of it.”
She paused, smiling at the small clusters of vendors. “As you all agreed when you signed up, twenty percent of each of your proceeds today will go straight to the programs that directly help these women and children. That’s it—nothing complicated. Just share your work, connect with the community, and know that you’re helping someone in the process.”
“Alright, let’s get back to preparing na. The gates open at exactly 3:30, so make sure everything’s ready by then. Thank you again for joining us! We couldn’t do this without you.”
I nodded, arranging my tote bags again, but I wasn’t really listening. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I didn’t want to be here.
Mikha had invited me last week, and Aiah had practically dragged me along. Sheena had jumped in too, saying something about “supporting women’s crafts.” And now here I was, at some garden bazaar called ‘Haraya’, pretending I cared about the whole “proceeds for victims” pitch.
Honestly, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about selling my trinkets. I didn’t care about flowers or coffee. I didn’t even care about being polite. I just wanted to be anywhere else.
But of course, I said yes. My friends had gotten political all of a sudden, insisting that participating in this kind of thing was important, that I should show up and be supportive. And here I was, bending over my table like some dutiful participant, while inside I felt completely out of place.
I stacked a few bowls, adjusted a tote bag, checked the sketchpad, all while trying to convince myself that it wasn’t so bad. It was quiet, the afternoon smelled like flowers and coffee, and no one was asking me to talk to anyone yet. That was something, at least.
I slumped over my chair, chin nearly hitting the table. I wasn’t even trying to hide how done I felt.
“Hoy, be nice,” Sheena whispered as she passed by with a tray of mugs.
“Yeah, konting smile man lang,” Mikha added, arranging a basket of flowers.
Aiah smirked at me from the side. “Wag masyadong masungit, baka mapaalis tayo dito.”
I rolled my eyes but sat up straighter anyway, pretending to fix my sketchpad.
A few seconds later, Jhoanna walked over to our cluster of tables. Up close she looked even friendlier—bright smile, clipboard in hand, the kind of disposition that made you feel like she actually wanted you there.
“Hi again! I just want to make sure I get everyone’s names for our list.” She crouched slightly so she was at our level, making it feel more personal. “You’re our first batch of vendors for Haraya, so I’d like to remember you all.”
She looked at Sheena first.
“Sheena,” Sheena said easily, offering her hand. “I’m running the coffee kiosk.”
“Perfect,” Jhoanna said, jotting something down before turning to Mikha and Aiah.
“Mikha. Flowers,” Mikha said.
“Aiah, also flowers,” Aiah added with a grin.
“Beautiful,” Jhoanna said. “Parang naging garden na ‘tong venue because of you, girls.”
Then her eyes landed on me. I froze, feeling Sheena nudge my elbow under the table.
“And you?” Jhoanna asked, eyes on me.
I straightened a little. “Maloi,” I said quickly. “Uh… I make these.” I motioned toward the table—earrings, bowls, tote bags. My voice came out flatter than I meant it to.
Jhoanna’s smile didn’t falter. She leaned in to look. “Wow, ganda! You’re so talented. Magiging crowd favorite ‘to, I’m sure..” She scribbled my name down, then added with a little laugh, “Baka magpa-reserve pa nga ako ng tote bag.”
I forced a small smile. “Thanks.”
She nodded at all of us again, warm as ever. “Alright, I’ll let you finish setting up. We’re really excited to have you here.” Then she moved on to the next row of vendors.
As soon as her back was turned, I let out a breath and rolled my eyes. Sheena caught it and kicked the leg of my chair lightly, warning.
I didn’t react. I just slouched again, fiddling with one of the bowls. This wasn’t about Jhoanna. She was fine—sweet, even.
This was about me not wanting to be here at all.
I wasn’t in the mood to smile at strangers or pitch my little crafts. I wasn’t in the mood to support a cause my friends had suddenly gotten loud about, like they’d all been radicalized overnight and forgot to tell me. I wasn’t in the mood to be a vendor in a garden bazaar with fairy lights and over-eager women, pretending I was part of some big movement.
I wanted to go home.
—
Mikha and Aiah were actually laughing as they fussed over their flower display, as if this was the highlight of their year. Sheena kept testing her little coffee machine, the smell of espresso already pulling people from the other stalls to peek.
Meanwhile, I sat behind my table, staring at my clay earrings like they might magically sell themselves.
At exactly 3:30, someone opened the gates. A small group of women and a couple of families started to trickle in, walking slow, checking out the booths one by one. Some of them looked excited, clutching canvas tote bags ready to be filled.
“Here we go,” Sheena said under her breath, straightening her apron.
Mikha flashed me a grin. “Game na.”
I didn’t move.
People wandered closer to our section. They took photos of Mikha and Aiah’s flowers, asked Sheena what drinks she had, even glanced at my table once or twice before moving along. I didn’t call out to anyone, didn’t try to explain my stuff. I just sat there, drumming my fingers against the sketchpad, counting how long I could last before sneaking out.
This wasn’t me.
At least, not anymore.
There was a time I would’ve loved something like this—setting up a table, talking to people, showing off the things I made with my hands. I used to feel proud whenever someone picked up one of my pieces, like they were holding a part of me. I’d smile, explain the design, tell them the story behind it. I used to believe in that kind of connection.
I used to be excited. Inspired.
Back then, I could spend hours hunched over clay or fabric, burning with ideas, thinking I was building something that mattered. Back then, I didn’t need anyone to force me to show up. I wanted to.
A woman stopped in front of my table, her eyes going straight to the two frog-shaped ceramic bowls.
“Ooh ang cute,” she said, picking one up carefully. “Did you make them?”
I cleared my throat, sat up a little. “Yeah. A while back.” My voice came out short, but at least it was an answer.
She smiled, turning the bowl in her hands. “Medyo iba ‘to sa other displays no?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Four years old na kasi ‘to.”
I didn’t add the rest out loud—that they were the only things I had left that tied me to the love of my life. That we’d made them on our fourth anniversary, laughing and arguing at the same time. That we almost broke up that day because I kept hovering, correcting every little thing she did, until she snapped at me to stop micromanaging.
The woman set one bowl down and held the other against the light. “How much for this one?”
The number was on the tip of my tongue. I almost said it. Almost. But my chest held back.
I couldn’t sell this.
Not this.
I forced a smile instead, shaking my head. “Sorry. Those aren’t for sale eh.”
She looked surprised but nodded, setting the bowl back gently. “Sayang naman. Let me know if you change your mind ha.”
I swallowed hard. “Sure.”
She moved on to the next stall, and I let out a shaky breath, my fingers brushing the smooth rim of the frog bowl.
—
I was handing out change when I heard a familiar voice from Sheena’s coffee cart.
“Miss, dalawang salted caramel.”
I didn’t even have to look.
Colet.
I didn’t freeze. I didn’t panic.
My hands just kept moving—coins into palms, a polite smile I didn’t mean, a thank you that came out by habit. Autopilot.
Behind me, I could hear Sheena answering like it was nothing. “Three hundred po.”
Because she didn’t know. None of them did. Mikha and Aiah, either.
I met them in the after.
In the life I created that didn’t include her. A life I had to piece together with shaky hands, one where I could reinvent myself without explaining why I’d gone quiet for months, why I didn’t talk about the person I used to be.
And now here she was. Ordering coffee. Laughing lightly at something Sheena said about the caramel syrup. Her voice threaded through the garden, through all the other chatter and noise, straight into my ears like no time had passed.
I didn’t turn my head. Couldn’t.
I fixed my eyes on the frog bowls instead, lined up neatly at the edge of my table. All I had to do was glance sideways and I’d see her. Two years without, and here she was, less than ten feet away.
I swallowed hard, shifted in my seat, forced myself to keep my hand steady as I packed someone else’s tote bag. Like nothing was happening. Like my whole body wasn’t collapsing with recognition.
Don’t look. Don’t.
But I could feel it—the pull.
Except it wasn’t the same gravity.
Because another woman was pulling her toward my table.
“Baby, look oh! Ang cute!”
My stomach dropped.
I heard Colet’s voice again, closer now. “Balikan ko lang yung coffee, miss ha.”
And then she turned.
Her eyes landed on me. Just for a second. A pause that stretched longer in my head than it probably did in real life.
Then she shifted her gaze to the frog bowls.
A split-second of nothing.
And then she said, steady, casual, like I wasn’t even worth half a blink. “Oo nga. Which one do you want?”
They stood side by side in front of me. Both in baggy denim jeans with patches stitched near the knees. Both in the same oversized AC/DC shirt, faded black, the kind you only got after too many washes. Colet’s sleeve had slipped low, baring her shoulder. The other girl had hers neatly folded up, as if she couldn’t stand the drag of fabric on her arms.
Their necks caught the sunlight. Two rose gold chains glinting.
An S.
A C.
I looked away before my face could give me away.
At first, my brain tried to play tricks on me. Tried to make it funny. What were the chances? What were the odds they dressed like that on purpose?
But no, of course they did. That’s the kind of thing couples do. Pair outfits, buy necklaces, carve themselves into matching shapes.
The “S” sat neatly against Colet’s collarbone.
The “C” shone against the other girl’s chest.
I felt something twist sharp and heavy in my stomach.
Two years ago, it was me beside her. Two years ago, I was the one laughing at the way she wore her shirts too wide, tugging at her necklaces, telling her she didn’t need to buy another band tee she already had. Two years ago, it was me.
Now it was someone else. Someone new. Someone permanent enough to get an initial around her neck.
“Cute nitong fried egg na magnet, babe,” the girl said, picking one up from the corner of my display.
Then Colet smiled and turned to me again. “Magkano, miss?”
Miss?
Seriously?
This is how you want to play it?
Like you didn’t once set a recording of me saying “good morning” as your alarm? Like you didn’t beg me to repeat it three times until I got the tone right—soft enough that you’d wake up but still feel like I was whispering into your ear?
Like you didn't wake me up with your cold feet pressed against my calves, laughing while I cussed you out?
Like you didn’t once scribble your made-up lyrics on the margins of my sketchpad, insisting they were ours?
Miss?!
I kept my face blank, forcing myself not to flinch, not to laugh, not to cry. Just blank.
“Two hundred,” I told her.
She nodded, casual, like I was just another face behind a stall.
And suddenly it was like history was being rewritten.
Because I’d heard her say that before.
Magkano, miss?
But the first time, it was different.
In College. University bazaar.
I had a cheap folding table and a handful of trinkets I’d stayed up all night painting, nervous as hell that no one would even stop. I kept pretending to adjust my display just so I wouldn’t look too eager.
And then there she was.
Swinging her ID so hard the lanyard smacked her back every few steps, hair pulled into a crooked ponytail, sweat darkening the armpits of her old gray shirt. She didn’t look like she cared. That was the thing—she never looked like she cared, but she always did.
She stopped right in front of me, hands on her knees as if she was inspecting my sad little spread.
“Magkano, miss?”
Except it wasn’t sharp.
It wasn’t meant to cut.
It had been soft, curious, like she was trying to place me. Like she was wondering if she’d seen me in another life.
And then she picked up the ugliest thing on the table: a lopsided butterfly keychain, painted too thick, the colors bleeding into each other.
“Ito maganda oh,” she said, grinning.
I mumbled something—twenty pesos, maybe?—and she dug into her pocket, gave me coins, let her fingers brush mine on purpose. Like she knew even then.
She stayed a little longer than she needed to, asked me if I made them all myself, asked my name even though it was already pinned on a sticker to my shirt.
That was the first time.
And it felt like a beginning.
Now, years later, same words. Same girl.
Except it didn’t feel like a beginning anymore.
It felt like an erasure.
And if she could just erase me like that, then good for her. I guess.
But me?
It’s like I shape-shifted into that naive college girl again.
I kept thinking about that second day, she asked if I had anything new, even though the table looked exactly the same. Day three, she lingered until the very end, pretending to browse but really just standing there, talking about nothing—professors she hated, her dorm mate who hogged the fan, a stray cat that followed her all the way to the gate.
When the bazaar ended, I thought that was it.
Until a week later, while I was doing laundry, I felt something crumpled in the pocket of my jacket. A folded piece of paper, the ink blurred and smudged from sweat and rain. I could barely make out the words anymore. Maybe a name, maybe a number. But it was ruined into nonsense.
I kept the scrap anyway. Tucked it into my wallet like it was holy.
And then—nothing. We didn’t cross paths on campus after that. Weeks passed, months. I started convincing myself I had imagined her.
Until College Days.
The field was crowded, everyone was sweaty, rowdy, loud. And there she was at the end of the tug-of-war line. Feet dug in the dirt, hands white-knuckled around the rope, shouting with the rest of her team.
And then our eyes met.
And it was like she didn’t even have to think.
She just…let go.
The whole line stumbled forward, collapsing, boos and groans exploding around her. But she didn’t care.
She just kept looking at me.
Like the world could burn in the background and it wouldn’t matter.
Because I was the only thing worth seeing.
—
Colet handed me a five-hundred peso bill.
“Wala ka bang smaller?” I asked.
She shrugged, casual, like she hadn’t once slipped notes into my pockets. “Wala eh. Sorry, miss.”
Miss.
Again.
She didn’t even look fazed. As if she had mapped out every inch of her brain and carefully deleted every detail that included me. Every laugh, every fight, every time we swore we’d never let go.
And it worked. She looked untouched. Even I almost believed we never happened.
Even I almost believed we were strangers.
I pressed the bill flat between my fingers, forcing my face neutral. She didn’t look guilty. She didn’t look like anything.
And I realized she was better at this than I was.
And maybe she always had been.
She was better than me at a lot of things.
She was better at knowing.
When I asked her why she thought she loved me after we kissed for the first time—half-drunk, in some stranger’s living room that smelled like stale beer—she didn’t hesitate.
She just said she knew.
When I asked what made her want to move in with me, she didn’t list reasons. She didn’t make a case. She just said she knew.
She painted pictures with that certainty. A one-bedroom apartment with thin walls. A lazy cat that never left the couch. A turtle in a plastic basin by the window. A calamansi plant we’d water every morning. She made it sound easy.
She wanted me to be ready too. And I said I was.
But maybe I wasn’t.
She wanted me to just know too. And I told her I did.
But maybe I didn’t.
Because how do people just…know?
Is love supposed to be that clean? People talk about it like there’s this single, shining moment where you look at someone and everything falls into place. They call it a look. A wave of relief. An epiphany you didn’t ask for but can’t unsee.
But for me?
There has to be a system. There has to be a way. There has to be solid, tangible, inexcusable evidence.
Something you can point at and say, See? This is why. This is proof.
Like the way clay hardens after heat—you can tap it, you can trust it won’t fall apart.
But love? Love was slippery.
Love was her saying she knew, and me lying awake at night, running scenarios in my head, creating equations I couldn’t solve.
If we fought, would we survive it? If she saw the worst of me, would she still stay? If the rent went up, if one of us lost a job, if the silence stretched too long—would knowing still be enough?
I wanted charts. Rules. A blueprint.
She wanted me to leap.
And maybe that’s what broke her.
That while she was already building a life in her head, I was busy taking it apart piece by piece, checking for cracks before I even stepped inside.
And when she looked at me, all she saw was hesitation where her certainty should’ve been reflected back.
For her, the answer was simple.
It was me.
It was us.
Every grocery run. Every dirty dish in the sink. Every boring, ordinary Tuesday.
And I still couldn’t give her the same.
—
I counted the change into her palm. One. Two. Three hundred.
And then I saw it.
A ring.
I looked at her, searching for the tiniest crack—something in her eyes, the twitch of her mouth, anything that said this wasn’t what it looked like. But she just stood there. Ambivalence carved clean across her face. Genuine. Unrehearsed.
Then the girl tugged at her sleeve. And there it was
an identical ring.
I didn’t drag myself out of bed this morning for a fucking bazaar only to end up wanting to curl under the table and die.
It wasn’t just the rings. It was the ease of it. The way the girl leaned into her, casual, comfortable, like she’d been doing it all her life. The way Colet didn’t pull away. Didn’t even glance at me to see if I noticed.
Like this was normal.
Like they were undoing me with every whisper.
Like I was the stranger barging in on a life that had already moved on without me.
My throat went dry. My fingers itched to shove the change back into the box, to tell them both to leave, to pack up my frog bowls and my stupid magnets and never come back. But my body stayed put. My hand hovered, useless, while they turned to each other and laughed about something I didn’t even catch.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to grab the ring off her finger and demand to know how she could wear it so easily when she once swore her hands were mine.
Instead, I just sat there, swallowing it whole.
“Coffee for Colet and Stacey!” Sheena called from her cart.
They both stepped away from my table. Stacey gave me a polite smile. “Thanks.”
Colet smiled too, a small nod. “Thanks, Miss.”
Miss.
Again.
At this point just shoot me.
You know, I went to church once. After years of dodging it. Sat in the back pew, tried to follow the prayers. Everyone just seemed sure. Sure about their words, sure about who they were saying them to. I envied that.
Just being able to belong to somebody who might not even be there. To be able to just believe.
I’m not being arrogant. I know I don’t know everything. That’s exactly why I need proof. Why I need something to hold up and say—this is real. This is true.
And now… now what? She’s here. With someone new. And she’s sure again. The same way she was sure with me.
How did she know with me?
And how does she know now?
And if she’s sure now, was she also this sure with me?
And if she was that sure with me, then what happened to all that certainty? Did it evaporate? Did it rot? Did it just get recycled into someone else’s name?
God, I warned her. I warned her about calling me the love of her life. Told her not to say things she couldn’t take back.
But she said it anyway. Over and over. With that look in her eyes like it was gospel. Like it was the one fact in the universe she would never doubt.
And now? She’s standing here again, wearing another woman’s ring, acting just as sure.
How the hell is she this sure again?
“Hoy,” Mikha’s voice cut in, pulling me out of my head. She crouched beside my stall, frowning. “Okay ka lang? Ang putla mo.”
“Oo. Okay lang,” I said, too quickly.
Aiah wasn’t convinced either. She stood there holding a bunch of sunflowers, tilting her head at me. “Maloi, sure ka?”
I forced a smile. “Need ko lang ng water. Init.”
They exchanged a look before Aiah finally sighed. “Sige, but if you faint, wag mo kaming sisisihin.”
They drifted back to their flowers, still glancing at me like I was about to collapse.
And that’s when I saw her again. Stacey. Coming back toward my stall, this time without Colet. She had an easy stride, comfortable, like she’d already made herself at home here.
She leaned over my table, pointing at the sketchpad and pencil. “Can you do a portrait of me?”
I should’ve said no. Should’ve told her I was closing up, or that my hand was cramping, or any of the hundred lies I could’ve pulled from the air. But instead, I heard myself say:
“Sure po. Sit.”
She slid onto the stool across from me, chin in her hand, eyes steady. Waiting.
I put pencil to paper.
The outline came first. Her face—sharp but soft at the edges. And with every line, I felt the ghost of another sketch, another time. I used to draw Colet the same way. In half-light, in stolen mornings, tracing her until the paper remembered her better than I ever could.
The slope of Stacey’s nose pulled me back to the slope of Colet’s, the way I’d press my fingertip against it just to annoy her. The curve of Stacey’s lips was a curve that now owns what I already kissed, already lost.
Every shade was a reminder.
Every line, a memory I didn’t give permission to resurface.
What kind of a cruel punchline was this?
The way my own hand betrayed me. It moved without asking, sketching her smile, her chin, her stupid little dimple—immortalizing my replacement with the same hand that used to trace Colet’s shoulders in the dark.
It felt wrong. Dirty. Like digging my own grave with graphite.
When I reached her eyes, I hated how alive they came out. Bright, mischievous, brimming with the kind of confidence I’ll never have. The kind of confidence Colet once had when she looked at me and said she just knew.
I wanted to stop. To snap the pencil. To tear the page into shreds so small no one would ever know what I’d done. But I didn’t. I kept shading, kept tracing, kept preserving the proof: that she had found someone else to love, and I was the idiot documenting it for free.
And I thought of how clumsy the erasure had been. The way Colet had cut me out of her life like a dull pair of scissors hacking through old photographs—crooked, uneven, leaving jagged white gaps where we used to be whole.
But here, with Stacey, there was no gap. No unevenness. Every trace I laid down of her was clean.
Certain.
Permanent.
My hand hesitated when I reached her left hand. The ring caught the light. A small detail. Easy to skip.
But I didn’t.
I shaded it in, slow, deliberate. Line by line, staring at the solid, tangible, inexcusable evidence, that she had something from Colet I would never get back.
By the time I was done, my chest felt numb. Like I hadn’t drawn Stacey at all—like I’d drawn the absence of myself.
I tore the page clean from the pad, though what I really wanted was to rip it to pieces. I slid it across the table, keeping my hand flat until the last possible second.
“There you go,” I said, my voice was unrecognizable. “Libre na po.”
—
I used to be so good at predicting things. Always observing, always calculating probabilities. It was my superpower. My curse.
I’d wake up in the middle of the night just to check if Colet forgot to charge her phone again—and ninety percent of the time, I was right. I knew the exact tilt of her head that meant she was about to fake a laugh. I knew when she was going to pretend an offensive joke didn’t sting, only to beat herself up about it in silence until she fell asleep on my shoulder.
I could read her moods from the smallest cues. The way she stirred her coffee clockwise when she was restless. The way she’d chew the inside of her cheek before a fight she hadn’t decided if she wanted to start yet.
I knew how she’d answer if I asked what she wanted for dinner—kahit ano, always. Until I picked the wrong thing. Then she’d smile like it didn’t matter, but I’d watch her push food around her plate, take three polite bites, and leave the rest. Later, she’d sneak into the kitchen, thinking I wouldn’t notice, to fry an egg or make noodles.
I knew how she’d act when she was about to cry but didn’t want me to notice—she’d tilt her head back like she was stretching, blinking too fast, swallowing hard like she could force the feeling down. Then she’d excuse herself to the bathroom and come back with wet lashes, claiming she just washed her face.
I knew how she’d respond if I said something stupid in front of her friends. A quick, brittle laugh, followed by a squeeze of my hand under the table that meant we’ll talk later.
Patterns. Predictable. Reliable.
At least, that’s what I thought.
But then she left, and suddenly the equation didn’t add up anymore. The patterns broke. The system failed. And all the probabilities I trusted became worthless, because how do you calculate someone deciding you’re no longer enough?
And now, here she was. Laughing, ordering coffee, holding someone else’s hand. And I realized: the one variable I never accounted for—
What I never saw coming
was her changing her mind.
And I should have seen it coming. I should have predicted her leaving. Getting tired. Because I didn’t know what she knew.
Looking back, the signs were all there. Like that sketch she once made of our 'future kitchen'. Messy doodles on the back of her physics notes, little shelves with mason jars, a window above the sink. She showed it to me, waiting for me to match her excitement. And all I did was laugh. Said the cabinets looked crooked. Said she forgot the rice cooker. She smiled, but I could see it fade, just a little.
Or the nights she’d start talking about marriage—not a proposal, just…wondering out loud. Wondering what kind of dress she’d wear, who she’d ask to stand beside her, what song she’d want for the first dance. I’d always redirect. Make a joke. Change the subject to something safer, smaller. Like what movie we’d watch that night. Like where we’d eat tomorrow.
I told myself it was harmless. That she knew me enough to understand I wasn’t ready. That love was enough to buy me time. But maybe every laugh, every deflection, every let’s not talk about that yet was me laying down the bricks of the exit she’d eventually walk through.
And now she was here. Sure again. Certain again. With someone else.
I should’ve known the proof I was searching for was already in front of me.
I should’ve seen it in the way she always bought two siopaos, even when she only wanted one, because she knew I’d steal a bite and then complain I didn’t get my own.
I should’ve counted the way she memorized my schedule better than I did—showing up with coffee right when I needed it most, walking me home even when it meant missing her last jeep.
I should’ve treated the nights she stayed up quizzing me before exams as evidence. The mornings she tied her hair back with one hand while texting me good luck with the other. The little notes she’d tuck into my notebooks, the ones I sometimes forgot to answer.
I should’ve realized that love wasn’t waiting for a grand revelation, some undeniable proof. It was already there. In every stupid, boring, ordinary thing she gave without asking for anything back.
But I didn’t. I kept looking for something bigger, louder, something that would make me sure. While she was already sure, and already exhausted from waiting for me to catch up.
And now it was too late.
“Baby, look! Kamukha ko ba?” Stacey beamed, holding up the sketch for Colet to see.
“Wow.” Colet smiled, that same bright, unabashed, crooked smile that showed her one chipped bottom tooth from opening beer bottles back in college. “Ang ganda!”
And then she looked at me. Just for a second. “Ang galing mo, miss.”
Miss.
Again.
And just like that, they walked away. Hand in hand, laughing about something I couldn’t hear.
—
After a while, it got quieter.
Sheena started packing up her coffee cart. Mikha and Aiah gathered the flowers into crates, their laughter soft, already winding down from the day.
So did I. Slowly. Carefully.
And just as I was about to pick up the frog bowls, one hand beat me to it.
“How much for this one?”
I froze. Then smiled, automatic. Looked up.
“Free na. All yours.”
A pause. A voice I hadn’t heard in two years, softer now.
“Thank you, Maloi.”