The sun was already setting behind the towering buildings of Cebu IT Park, casting long shadows on the pavement as Maya Torres checked her watch for the third time in five minutes.
5:42 PM.
She was supposed to have a meeting with the client at six, and she was still stuck in traffic near Escario Street, sandwiched between a sari-sari store and a bakery that smelled of burnt pandesal.
She tapped her foot impatiently inside the jeepney, the rolled-up blueprints clutched tightly against her chest. The driver had turned up the radio, and the tinny sound of a love ballad crackled through the speakers. Maya sighed. She hated being late. It made her feel unprofessional, unprepared—two things she refused to be.
"Relax, miss," said a voice from beside her. "The city moves when it wants to."
She turned her head and spotted him: a guy with a burgundy shirt, messy hair, and a guitar case between his legs. The man didn't look like he rushed for a living.
"I don't have time to wait for the city's mood," Maya said wearily, trying not to let the edges become too sharp.
He chuckled. "Then you're in the wrong place. Cebu is a slow dance, and it's not a sprint."
"And you're the choreographer?" Maya raised an eyebrow.
"Like the soundtrack," he said, tapping the case. "Julian Cruz. Street musician. Colon Street, Ayala underpass, sometimes Fuente Osmeña if the guards don't shoo me away."
She didn't answer right away. She was still figuring out how long it would take to walk the rest of the distance. Yet the sound of that voice—a deep, singing voice with just the trace of a taunt—is what made her hesitate.
"Maya Torres," she finally said. "Architect. And currently, hostage of Cebu traffic."
Julian smiled at her. "Nice meeting you, hostage. Want to hear me play you a tune until our delivery time?"
She raised an eyebrow and rolled her eyes, but a smile rang out despite the irritation in her face. "Only if it's short."
He effortlessly produced the guitar from its case and began strumming a few chords before shifting into a soothing melody. It was not a tune she could place—that was likely an original composition—but the beat was definitely the beat of the city: the rattling of the jeepneys, the chatter of the street vendors, the faint thumping of a karaoke set from an open window.
The occupants of the jeepney turned to listen. Even the driver turned down the radio on the radio set playing music in the jeepney.
When Julian finished, there was a moment of silence before someone clapped. Maya found herself clapping too, amazed.
"That was ... actually good," she admitted.
"Only 'actually'?" he teased.
"Well, I am not easily impressed."
"Right. Then, I will take it as a challenge I have to accept." He grinned.
The jeepney lurched forward suddenly, that nearly made Maya drop her blueprints she's holding. Luckily, Julian caught them before they hit the floor.
"Careful," he said, handling them back. "These look important, I guess."
"They are. I'm going to be presenting a design for a new residential complex. Sustainable, affordable, and modern. If I get this right, it could be my big break."
Julian nodded, but his look changed slightly. "Where's the site?"
"Near the old artist district in Lahug. It's mostly a community of makeshift homes, but the company plans to revitalize the area."
Julian's fingers tightened on the guitar neck. "You're talking about the community that used to revolve around the old cinema?"
"Yes. Why?"
He looked out into the window. "I have connections there. Musicians, painters, poets. It's not a lot, but it's home."
Maya had a twinge of guilt. She hadn't thought about who lived there. Just the design, the budget, and the pitch.
"I didn't know," she said quietly.
Julian shrugged. "Most people don't. They see empty lots, not lives."
The jeepney stopped again, this time near a busy intersection. Maya looked at her watch.
5:55 PM.
"I guess this is my stop," she said, gathering her things.
Julian nodded. "Good luck with your pitch, Ms. May Torres."
She hesitated. "Thanks for the song."
"Thanks for listening."
She got out of the jeepney and into the crowd, her heart racing in ways it shouldn't. It wasn't mere pre-meeting jitters that made it skip a beat. It was something else, rather-something sparked by a guitar, a smile, and a voice that sang like the city itself.
**
The meeting went well. Her client, being a realty developer with the penchant of incorporating buzzwords in any conversation, nodded approvingly at her proposal. He loved the clean lines, the eco-friendly materials, and the rooftop garden.
"Well make a fortune," he said, shaking her hand. "You're going places, Miss Torres."
But as Maya walked home that night, the sound of her heels clicking against the pavement, she couldn't get Julian out of her mind. The way his music had made the jeepney feel like a refuge, a sanctuary. The way his eyes had darkened when she mentioned the word redevelopment.
She walked by Fuente Osmeña Circle, where the fountain shot out its fine mist and lovers sat on the benches, sharing street food and stories. She stopped to survey the crowd.
And there was he—that was Julian Cruz, with guitar in tow, singing for a small crowd of onlookers on the street corner. His voice carried through the traffic hum: smooth and steady.
Maya stood at a distance, watching. She didn't know why she was there, stuck in the observation booth, watching and waiting for something to happen. She could have walked away, gone home, forgotten the whole thing.
But she didn't.
When he finished the song, he looked up and saw her.
"Back so soon?" he called out.
"I wanted to hear the encore."
He smiled. "Then you'll have to stay a while."
"She did."