- Ari's POV -
The return to Cebu was a familiar, almost physical relief.
The lively, constant sounds of the city – the happy honking of jeepneys, the singing calls of street vendors, the far-off, steady crashing of waves – felt comfortable and familiar after the constant city noise of the capital. My art studio, a place filled with the results of my hard work, the walls covered in canvases that held so many hours of focus, had a quiet stillness that felt both welcoming and a little accusing.
The memories of the art show opening in Manila – the faces of strangers who had connected with the raw emotion in my work, the good feeling of accomplishment in my chest – were there, a quiet hum of pride under the stronger pull of my long, complicated relationship with Migs.
Later that afternoon, my sister, Elena, arrived. Her usual bright, steady energy was a welcome and needed change from my own quiet, thoughtful mood. She brought a lot of lechon kawali, the crispy, crackling pork belly a familiar, deeply comforting treat that reminded us of our shared past and unspoken understanding.
We sat on the small, sunny balcony looking out at our quiet street. The familiar scene of neighborhood life unfolded below – kids laughing from the nearby park, the far-off, steady sound of a tricycle going down the road, the rhythmic chirping of unseen birds in the mango tree in our yard – a soothing, familiar comfort to the worries I'd had lately.
But even with this comforting normalcy, Elena's sharp eyes, used to seeing my often-hidden emotions, didn't miss the small change in how I was acting, the quiet tiredness in my eyes.
Elena had been a silent listener to my feelings for Migs since college, patiently watching the slow growth of that affection during late-night studying with instant coffee and whispered secrets in our dorm rooms. She'd also been a steady, supportive presence through all the years of quiet longing and those quick, often confusing moments of casual closeness. Besides Bea, she was the only one who truly understood the complicated, often frustrating story of my relationship with Migs.
"Manila was good, noh?" she asked, her voice deliberately casual as she offered me a piece of the gloriously crackling skin, the aroma filling the warm air.
"The opening was great, actually," I replied, forcing a smile that felt a little too bright, a little too fake. "Good turnout, sold a few pieces."
The words felt like facts, almost distant, without the real excitement I knew I should be showing. The quiet success felt somehow lessened by the constant thought of him not being there.
Elena nodded slowly, her eyes studying me with a quiet, knowing look that always made me feel both seen and a little exposed.
"And Migs?" she asked, the single word hanging in the humid afternoon air, carrying the weight of our shared past and understanding.
I took a deliberate bite of the lechon, the salty crunch a familiar, grounding feeling.
"He texted. Work kept him busy. He did stop by the hotel late, though."
A factual telling, said with a carefully casual tone that I knew wouldn't completely fool her.
Elena's eyebrows rose almost without me noticing, a small, clear sign that she understood the familiar, frustrating pattern.
"Stopped by," she repeated, the meaning hanging unspoken between us, a silent comment on what those late-night visits were really like.
I avoided looking directly at her, focusing instead on the ordinary things happening on the street below – a group of kids playing taguan, their happy shouts echoing in the afternoon heat.
"Yeah. Brought some siopao. We just… talked."
The lie felt heavy on my tongue, the unspoken closeness of that brief, late-night meeting in the plain hotel room a weight I didn't want to talk about, even with Elena.
Elena was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the gentle breeze moving the leaves of the old mango tree in our small yard, its familiar shade a constant comfort. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but held a firm, steady belief.
"Ari, you're so incredibly talented, so full of life and passion. Why do you keep… settling for these little crumbs? This… 'friendship' with Migs… it feels like it's always on his terms, when it's convenient for him."
Her words, though definitely painful to hear, felt like a tired truth that had been slowly growing inside me. The late-night, almost secret visit, the casual, almost dismissive apology for missing my important achievement, the easy, almost expected move into physical closeness – it was a pattern we knew well, a frustrating cycle I seemed unable to break free from.
He got what he needed – a quick connection, a moment of simple comfort, a temporary relief for his often-bruised ego – without ever really seeing me, truly acknowledging the depth and complexity of my feelings.
And I… I let it happen, holding onto these small, infrequent gestures like a drowning person to a weak raft, even though the raft was slowly, surely sinking under the weight of my unmet longing.
"It's just… we've been friends for so long," I mumbled, the familiar excuse sounding empty and not good enough even to me, a tired reason for a relationship that always left me feeling smaller.
Elena reached across the small, worn table and placed her hand over mine, her touch warm and grounding, a silent offer of steady support.
"Friendship should be equal, dong. It should lift you up, feed your soul, not leave you feeling… like this."
Her gaze was direct, filled with a love and concern that broke through my carefully built defenses, forcing me to face the uncomfortable truth of my situation.
Later, as the bright Cebu sun began its slow, beautiful descent, painting the sky in amazing colors of fiery orange, soft pink, and deep purple, I found myself back in the quiet safety of my studio.
I picked up a fresh, untouched canvas, the stark white surface feeling both scary and strangely freeing, a symbol of stories yet to be told. The colors I instinctively reached for were darker, more muted than usual – deep, thoughtful indigos, bruised, sad purples, the somber gray of a stormy, unresolved sky.
The familiar longing for Migs was still there, a dull, constant ache under my thoughts, a constant companion. But tonight, it was joined by a faint, flickering spark of something new, a beginning of understanding, helped by Elena's gentle but firm words, that she was right.
I deserved more than these quick, carelessly given moments, these casual bits of affection that left me feeling emptier than before.
The canvas stayed blank for a long time, patiently waiting for a new story to be painted, a story where I was finally the main character, the artist of my own life, not just someone conveniently there in someone else's quick, self-centered story.
The silence in the studio no longer felt heavy with longing, but with a quiet, growing feeling of possibility.