The jeepney’s brakes screeched like a cat fight, and we hopped off near Escolta, your Converse slapping the pavement. You laughed, tugging my wrist. “Paunahan sa tulay,” you said, but we both knew neither of us would run. Our pockets held exactly ₱33—enough for two sticks of fishball and a shared RC in plastic. The vendor’s cart sizzled in the humidity, grease popping onto your forearm. You didn’t flinch.
“Kikiam?” you asked, squinting at the menu.
“Too expensive.”
“Right. Fishballs, then.”
We leaned against the Pasig’s railing, the water below slick with rainbow oil stains. You stabbed a fishball with too much force, sauce dribbling down your thumb. I didn’t tell you. Let it dry there, sticky and sweet.
Your phone buzzed—your mom again. You silenced it, jaw tight. “Think she’ll ever stop?”
“Doubt it,” I said. The unspoken thing hung between us: her demands, your brother’s hospital bills, the call center job you’d start next week. Nights would turn into shifts, your voice strained from apologizing to Americans about their cable bills.
We walked. Past the ukay-ukay stalls on Recto, past the old man selling balut who always winked at you. Your hand brushed mine. Didn’t hold it.
“Remember that time we slept on the LRT station bench?” you said suddenly.
“Security kicked us out at 3 AM.”
“You cried.”
“You hiccup-cried. Sounded like a dying frog.”
You shoved me, grinning. For a second, you were 17 again, stealing lumpia from your tita’s fridge. Then your face dimmed. You kicked a crumpled Coke can. It clattered into the gutter.
The fight started over nothing. A missed call. A ₱100 bill I’d borrowed and forgotten. Your voice cracked. “You don’t get it. You never fucking get it.” The words hung, sharp as the tanod's whistle. You walked away. I counted to 87—your lucky number—before following.
Found you on the overpass, staring at the traffic below. No tears. Just that hollow look you’d worn since your dad’s funeral. I stood beside you. Your pinky hooked mine, cold and familiar.
“Job starts Tuesday,” you said.
“I know.”
“Might not see you much.”
“I know.”
The city hummed—jeepneys, trisikad bells, a karaoke bar murdering Whitney Houston. We didn’t move. Your head tilted onto my shoulder. Light as a moth.
We never said the big things. Not when your kuya died. Not when my scholarship fell through. Not now, as the streetlights flickered on, painting your cheeks orange. Somewhere, a siren wailed. You exhaled, shaky. I memorized the weight of you.
We bought one last RC. Split it on the jeepney ride home, silence thick between us. Your stop came. You hesitated, half-standing. For a breath, I thought you’d say it—the thing we’d choke on for years. Instead, you squeezed my hand too tight and vanished into the crowd. The jeepney lurched forward. I held the plastic until it crumpled.
Manila blurred past. Somewhere, you were still walking. Somewhere, I was still counting.