- Ari's POV -
Back in Cebu, life fell into a familiar, comforting rhythm.
The constant humidity, a warm, damp hug that felt like a second skin, and the city's lively background noise – the happy, steady rumble of jeepneys on the busy streets, the singing calls of street vendors selling everything from fresh mangoes to lottery tickets, the far-off, often off-key singing of karaoke from a nearby house – created a familiar, almost nostalgic feeling. It was good to be back in the quiet safety of my studio, surrounded by the real results of my creative work.
The canvases leaning against the walls felt more like parts of me than just stretched pieces of painted cloth.
Leo and Sofia's easy, often funny talk, mixed with the strong, familiar smell of turpentine and linseed oil, was a welcome and grounding change from the sometimes-fake, showy air of Manila's art scene. I deliberately focused on a new series of paintings, finding inspiration in the green, almost overwhelming beauty of the mountains just outside the city. The colors I mixed were intentionally bright and alive, a conscious, almost defiant pushback against the slight sadness that had threatened to settle in me after coming back from Manila, a quiet fight against the constant ache of unspoken longing.
A month had quietly passed since the Manila opening.
The good reviews and the satisfying sales slowly faded into the background noise of everyday life. Migs had texted a few days after I got back to Cebu, a casual, almost like he didn't care, "When are you heading back to Manila?"
I'd seen the notification pop up on my phone screen, his familiar name an old, ingrained habit. But for the first time in what felt like forever, I hadn't immediately replied. It felt like a small but important victory, a tiny but meaningful taking back of my own emotional and mental space.
For once, I wasn't jumping to answer his digital breadcrumb, wasn't immediately available for whatever small bit of attention he happened to be offering at that moment. The unread message sat in my inbox, a silent sign of a change in how I felt inside.
One evening, Bea, ever the understanding and fiercely protective friend, practically dragged me out of my self-imposed studio hiding place.
"You're starting to look like a studio mushroom, Ari," she'd said with fake seriousness, her voice showing playful concern. "Fresh air, human interaction – now! Before you start growing moss!"
We ended up at this small, simple bar in the lively Lahug area, the kind of unpretentious place where the kinilaw was always reliably good and the beer was cold. Marco, a mutual friend of Bea's from what felt like a past life, joined us. His contagious energy and amazing ability to find humor in even the most ordinary situations were a welcome distraction.
We ordered amaretto sours – sweet and a little tart, a flavor that matched some of my recent, mixed feelings – and just talked, the conversation flowing easily between the three of us.
Bea was telling a hilariously frustrating story about a snobby art collector from Vietnam who kept strangely calling my signature shade of blue "almost cerulean," and Marco was adding his usual witty, often sarcastic comments, with dramatic gestures and exaggerated facial expressions.
Later, a slightly drunk, overly enthusiastic guy from the next table wandered over, slurring some well-meaning but completely cheesy compliment about my "artist's soul" or something equally cliché.
Bea and Marco just exchanged knowing, suppressed smiles, and Bea playfully nudged me with her elbow, trying and failing to hide a giggle.
I just gave the guy a polite, tight smile, the kind that said "thank you," and turned back to the comforting familiarity of my friends. There was no point in encouraging that kind of quick, shallow attention.
Then, as the lively energy of the evening calmed into a comfortable hum, and our glasses were almost empty, the conversation became more personal as Bea's voice softened with real concern.
"So, really, Ari… how are things? I mean… with Migs."
I let out a small, almost automatic sigh, the easy, lighthearted mood taking a subtle, almost unnoticeable dip.
"You know," I said slowly, swirling the remaining ice in my glass, watching the condensation make watery lines down the side. "It's… the usual, I guess. He does his incredibly public, busy thing, and I do my quieter, more alone thing. He reaches out when it fits his schedule, when he needs a familiar safe place in his constantly changing love life. And I… well, for the first time in a long time, I haven't been rushing to reply to those casual digital breadcrumbs."
"Good for you, Ari," Bea said, her eyes meeting mine across the small table, her gaze filled with a real warmth and steady support that always felt like a comforting anchor. "But you deserve so much more than just the 'usual,' you know? You deserve someone who sees all of you, not just as a convenient option."
Marco chimed in, his usual humor briefly replaced by a rare, almost serious tone.
"Yeah, man. You're a bright light, Ari. Don't let anyone dim that shine with their half-hearted attention or their convenient availability."
Migs' name hung there in the humid night air for a quick second, an unspoken presence between us. "It's not really about dimming, I don't think," I said slowly, trying to explain the tangled, often contradictory mess of emotions that still lived inside me.
"It's… a deeply ingrained pattern, a really, really old one. Maybe someday he'll… truly get it. Maybe he won't. Either way, I'm trying, really trying, to focus on what's real, what's right here, right now."
I gestured around the small table, including Bea's steady friendship and Marco's unexpected sincerity.
As the night gently ended, Marco walking us back to my apartment, the humid air feeling a little less heavy, a little less oppressive, a quiet, almost fragile feeling of hope began to settle inside me.
The easy laughter shared with Bea and Marco, the small but important act of not immediately replying to Migs' casual question – they felt like tiny, hesitant steps in a new, self-directed direction. The familiar, almost magnetic pull of that old, comfortable dynamic was still there, a faint, almost ghostly tug, but it wasn't as strong, its power subtly lessened.
The blank canvases in my studio were patiently waiting, and for the first time in a long while, the stories I felt compelled to paint, the emotions wanting to be expressed in color and texture, were more about my own inner journey, my own changing landscape, than about the lingering shadow of someone else's quick presence.
The unread message from Migs sat silently on my phone, a small, digital sign of a subtle but important shift in my perspective, a quiet declaration of a slowly emerging self-respect.