Jeepneys are the closest thing to confession booths in this city. All that rattling metal, strangers pressed knee-to-knee, the way the wind yanks secrets out of your mouth. Today, his shoulder knocks into mine when we hit a pothole. He doesn’t pull away.
“Ang sikip,” he laughs, elbow bumping my ribs. His arm stays there, a warm line against mine. I stare at the graffiti on the seat in front of us—“Gian loves Joy 4ever”—and wonder what forever costs these days.
We’re supposed to be studying at the library. Instead, we’re here, squeezed into this jeepney, headed to nowhere. He picks the routes no one takes—“Para adventure”—like the time we ended up in a barangay where dogs chased us for half a kilometer. Today, he’s quieter. Keeps adjusting his glasses like they’re slipping, but they’re not.
At the stoplight, he points to a stray dog napping on a stack of tires. “That’s you,” he teases. “Tamad mag-review.”
“Ikaw rin,” I shoot back. “Puro drawing sa notebook.”
He grins, all crooked teeth and sunlight, and my stomach does that thing. That stupid, hopeful thing.
Thursdays are for turon and truth bombs. We buy the bananacue from Aling Nena’s cart, the ones dripping with caramelized sugar. He licks his fingers, unashamed, and says things like, “Ang sarap mabuhay, no?” like he’s just discovered oxygen.
Today, he’s sketching me again. “Chin up,” he orders, pencil scratching. “You look like isda when you slouch.”
“Bakit, may kasing ganda ko bang isda?”
“Oo,” he says, not looking up. “Goldfish. Mga malulungkot ang mata”
The paper slips. His drawing isn’t a fish—it’s me, mid-laugh, with a turon in my hand. He tears it out, crumples it. “Pangit,” he mumbles.
I rescue it later from the trash. Fold it into my wallet, right next to my student ID.
His house smells like mothballs and sinigang. His lola thinks I’m his “study buddy” and force-feeds me biko every time I visit. Today, we’re sprawled on his floor, textbooks abandoned. He’s teaching me guitar chords I’ll never remember.
“Hawak dito,” he says, adjusting my fingers. His touch lingers. "Ganito.”
The chord rings sour. He winces. “Wala na, hopeless ka.”
"Magduet na lang tayo,” I joke.
He hums “Harana” softly, staring at the ceiling fan. I mouth the words, too afraid to sing. “Sasabihin sa iyo… na ikaw… ang tangi kong…”
His voice trails off. The fan creaks.
The heartbreak starts small. A missed meetup. A text left on “seen.” His sketches get darker—storm clouds, broken bridges, eyes with no pupils.
One night, he calls. “Tara,” he says. “Sa overpass.”
He’s shivering in a threadbare hoodie, even though it’s 30 degrees. “Naiinis ako sa sarili ko,” he says, kicking a pebble into traffic. “Parang… ang dumi ng hangin dito.”
I joke about buying him a mask. He doesn’t laugh.
When he leans his head on my shoulder, I stop breathing. “Ang gaan ng buhok mo,” he murmurs.
Say it. SAY IT.
But his phone lights up—a reminder for “Therapy 9 AM.” He jerks away.
A jeepney ride to Antipolo. He’s quieter, but his knee stays glued to mine. At the summit, he points to the city below. “Parang ang liit natin,” he says.
“Oo nga,” I reply. But you’re my whole sky.
He hands me a folded paper—a sketch of two boys on a jeepney, shoulders pressed, the words “Salamat” scribbled in the corner.
“Para saan?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Wala. Just… thanks.”
-
They find his backpack on the Antipolo overpass three days later. No note. Just his glasses, cracked, and the half-finished Harana lyrics in his pocket.
His lola gives me the sketchbook. Pages and pages of storms, shadows, and one crumpled drawing of a goldfish with my eyes.
I ride the jeepney alone now. At night, when the city’s half-asleep, I press my palm to the cold metal where his shoulder used to be. The drivers all know my face—“Yung laging nakaupo sa dulo”—the boy who stares at graffiti like it’s scripture.
Today, someone’s scribbled over “Gian loves Joy 4ever.”
It now reads: “Gian loves Joy 4ev—”
The last letter’s gone.
I laugh until my ribs crack.
Then I scream.
-
(Play Sa'yo by Munimuni)