The ground at Banawa Centrale still held the warmth of the day, heat rising gently through the soles of shoes as dusk settled over Cebu City.
In the open-air parking lot beside the mall, a small stage had been set up—nothing fancy, just folding chairs, string lights, and a mic stand.
But it was enough.
A spoken word event was in full swing.
At the center of the stage stood a young poet, heels planted firmly on the uneven pavement.
Her voice trembled, but her words were clear verses about longing, messy relationships, and the painful beauty of growing through heartbreak.
The crowd around her was a colorful mix of people—queer, vibrant, alive.
Some sat on the curb; others leaned against parked motorcycles.
They swayed gently, caught in the rhythm of her voice.
It was the kind of night that felt like it could crack open and spill something real.
Just a few meters away, Kaia Vale stood outside the Pet Store Company, arms crossed, sunglasses still on even though the sun had nearly disappeared.
She wasn't here for poetry.
She wasn't here for connection.
She was here to prove something quieter: that she could stand among people and not fall apart.
Her heart, still healing, beat steadily beneath her ribs.
She had made a silent promise to herself—no conversations, no eye contact, no invitations to remember.
Because remembering could unravel her. And tonight, she needed to stay whole.
Closer to the stage, Solene Elgin stood with glitter on her fingers and the scent of flowers clinging to her clothes.
She had come straight from her flower shop, Out of the Bloom, still smelling of daisies and carnations.
Her eyes were soft but sharp—the kind that noticed everything.
She watched the poet, but she also watched the crowd.
She saw how people held each other, how they let themselves be seen.
Kaia noticed her.
Not because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she seemed calm in the middle of the chaos.
Solene moved like someone who had made peace with herself. Kaia envied that.
She had spent the last year trying to disappear, and here was someone who glowed without even trying.
The poet's final line hung in the air like incense:
"You weren't the heartbreak. You were the lesson I had to survive."
Applause rippled through the crowd. Some clapped, others just nodded, letting the words settle into their own quiet places.
Kaia flinched. The words hit too close. She had come to this event to stay untouched, to observe without absorbing. But poetry had a way of slipping past defenses.
Solene didn't clap, but her eyes held a kind of warmth that said she understood. She looked like someone who had survived her own heartbreaks and come out softer, not harder.
Around them, the night buzzed with low conversation and laughter. Vendors had set up under pop-up tents, each booth reflecting the personality of its owner. Hand-painted signs, fairy lights, and hanging decor gave the place a festive, almost bohemian feel.
The food stalls were busy. Smoke curled up from portable grills. But one cart stood out—a faded red popcorn stand, its glass fogged from the heat.
Behind it, a young woman worked quietly, wearing a beige apron over a worn graphic tee. Her hands moved with practiced ease, scooping popcorn and folding paper bags. The scent of butter and salt drifted across the lot.
Children came first, coins clutched in their fists, eyes wide. She greeted each one with a gentle smile. Adults followed, drawn by the smell and the nostalgia.
Kaia wandered slowly through the crowd, her steps careful, her eyes scanning the booths.
The poetry had ended, but the night wasn't over. The air was thick with grilled meat, popcorn, flowers, and incense.
She stopped at a small booth near a tarot reader's table and a stall selling flower bundles.
To the left of the table was a chalkboard sign: Anik Anik ni Maring. The name felt familiar, like something from childhood. The letters were outlined in bright chalk—yellow, white, lime green—smudged slightly by curious fingers. Around the words were doodles: flowers, swirling lines, and a smiling sun with uneven rays.
The table was a patchwork of handmade trinkets. Beaded bracelets sorted by color. Tiny resin sculptures shaped like cats, moons, and plants. A bowl near the front held polished shells and hand-drawn keychains.
Kaia reached for one of the hanging charms—a small, circular piece, smooth and lightly varnished. It swayed gently on its cord.
Just as her fingers brushed it, another hand reached for the same charm.
Their fingers touched.
Kaia pulled back instantly, her shoulders stiffening, her gaze dropping.
"Sorry," she muttered, barely audible.
The other woman—Solene—didn't flinch. She kept her fingers on the charm, turning it slowly.
"No need," she said, voice calm. "It's just a charm."
But it wasn't just a charm. It was a moment. A quiet intersection. Two strangers meeting not through words, but through presence. For Kaia, who had spent a year avoiding touch and connection, that brief contact stirred something deeper.
Solene didn't press. She didn't step closer or speak again.
Kaia lingered, then stepped aside—not away, just enough to breathe.
The charm still swayed between them.
Solene let go of it slowly, like she was releasing something more than wood and varnish.
The crowd moved around them, unaware of the quiet tension unfolding.
Solene turned slightly, her gaze drifting to the tarot table, then back to Kaia.
Kaia's breath caught.
Then—
Solene reached into her pocket and pulled out a small folded note. She placed it beside the charm, her fingers brushing the edge of the paper.
Without a word, she stepped back.
Kaia stared at the note.
It was folded once, neatly. With a name. No markings.
Just a choice.
She looked up, but Solene was already walking away.
Kaia reached for the note.
And paused.
Kaia's fingers hovered over the note, heart thudding like a drum in her chest. The world around her blurred—the laughter, the music, the scent of grilled food—all distant now.
A part of her wanted to walk away, to leave it untouched.
But another part, the quieter one she'd been trying to silence, whispered: You're allowed to want more.
Slowly, she picked it up.
The paper was warm, as if it had absorbed Solene's touch.
She unfolded it with trembling hands, not ready for what it might say—but needing it anyway.