Althea lay on her thin dorm mattress, hands folded over her stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan doing the slow, struggling and wanted to give up. The moonlight spilled through the slatted windows, painting weak stripes across the floor.
She hadn't changed out of her uniform. Her hair was still damp from the rain. She told herself she was just too tired to move.
But that wasn't true.
She could still feel the weight of his gaze, the soft clink of utensils scraping plastic, the sound of Maalaala Mo Kaya's dramatic violins in the background. And worse—his words.
"Because I needed to remember what it feels like to be a person. Not a product."
She turned to her side, face squished against her pillow. "Nope. Not thinking about it. Lights off. Brain off. End scene."
Her phone buzzed.Jihoon.
Jihoon: "Still awake?"
She stared at it for a long moment. Then tapped out a reply.
Althea: "No. I'm sleep-texting."
Jihoon: "I have soju. Leftover mango float. And MMK part 2. Come."
She groaned.
"Putangina."
But two minutes later, she was tiptoeing barefoot across the staff hallway, hoodie zipped up halfway to hide her soaked uniform shirt. She didn't knock this time. Just opened the door and peeked in.
Jihoon was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing the same ridiculous soft pajamas, his hair flopping into his eyes. He grinned when he saw her.
"I knew food would work," he said, lifting a paper cup like a bartender offering sin.
One Cup
She sat on the floor beside him, taking the cup with narrowed eyes. "One," she warned. "One lang, okay?"
He nodded solemnly. "One."
They clinked paper cups.
"To… being poor and tired," she said.
"To mango float and people-who-are-not-products," he added.
They drank.
One became two. Then three. And somewhere between the fourth pour and her second bowl of leftover sinigang, Althea forgot to guard her words.
She told him about her almost-teaching career. but he couldn't enroll due to her family not having enough money.
He told her about the time he escaped a fan meet by climbing out a bathroom window and hiding in a garbage truck for three blocks. She didn't believe him—until he showed her a blurry photo of the truck and his manager screaming beside it.
By the fifth cup, they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, back against the bed, watching old teleseryes with no subtitles. Jihoon mimicked the dramatic Tagalog monologues with exaggerated sobs. Althea howled with laughter.
The Broken Language
"Kumain ka na ba?" she asked, nudging him with her elbow.
Jihoon blinked. "Kumain… yes. I eat. I… not brain. No. I don't know."
"Bro, what?"
"I mean, I'm not thinking now. Just… feel."
She stared at him.
"Wow," she said. "That's either the worst English or the deepest wisdom I've ever heard."
They both cracked up.
He passed her another tiny pour of soju. Their fingers brushed.
She felt it then—that shift. That pause.
The drunk kind of quiet where nothing is actually quiet. Just heavy.
"Are you okay?" she asked, voice small.
He nodded. But his gaze didn't leave her.
"You?" he asked softly.
Althea opened her mouth to say I'm fine. But nothing came out.
Instead, she leaned in. Just a bit.
He leaned in, too.
Their kiss was slow. Awkward. Slightly sour from sinigang. He tasted like mango float and something gentler. She didn't know how long it lasted, or who deepened it first.
All she knew was: it didn't feel like a mistake at the time.
Clumsy, Quiet, Real
They didn't undress each other. Not really.
It was more like—things slipping off between fits of laughter and shy glances and mumbled excuses. Her hoodie tangled in his arm. His pajama top refusing to cooperate.
The fan kept spinning. The teleserye still played.
No romance. No music swell. Just something warm, accidental, aching.
At one point, he kissed the inside of her wrist and said something in Korean she didn't understand.
At another, she whispered, "Don't read into this," and he replied, "Can't read at all right now."
They both laughed.
And then they didn't.
Fade Out
Later, Jihoon pulled the thin blanket up over them and curled protectively around her. Althea murmured something half-asleep in Bisaya.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he smiled anyway.
She was out cold.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, his mind didn't scream.