FORGOTTEN

part 1 chapter 1 extended

Part 1 Expanded: The Extended First Meeting*

The lights died at 3:47pm.

"Brownout, guys," the barista, Ate Liza, called from behind the counter. She was 40, had been working there for 6 years, and knew everyone’s order by heart. "Candles are coming out. Wifi’s down too, sorry."

A collective groan went through the cafe.

Mara was at table 4 with her laptop at 4% and a Google Doc that said _Jeepney Routes: The Human Cost_. She had 42 minutes until deadline.

Across from her, a guy with a camera bag the size of a small dog was muttering to himself. He was 29, damp, and surrounded by gear like he was expecting an invasion.

"You can use this," he said, and slid a charger across her table with one finger.

Mara looked up. "Really? You sure?"

"Yeah. I’m Elias. I’m not doing anything anyway. Shoot got canceled."

She plugged in. The screen stayed alive. "I’m Mara. Thank you. You just saved my job."

"Nah. You saved it. I just have a power strip."

Ate Liza brought two candles and set one between them. "You two look like you need this more than the others. You’ve been staring at screens since you got here."

"We got here at different times," Elias said.

"Still," Ate Liza said, and walked away.

The rain hit the roof like someone was throwing rice.

*The first 10 minutes*

Elias was cleaning a lens. Mara was typing with one hand.

"What kind of shoot?" she asked to fill the quiet.

"Skincare brand. In BGC. Models drinking water like it’s the first time they’ve seen it."

She snorted. "What were you supposed to shoot?"

"Joy. Hydration. The lie."

"And you?"

"Jeepney drivers. People who are about to lose their livelihood and the government is calling it progress."

He looked up. "Heavy."

"Yeah. You?"

"Today? Nothing. Usually weddings. People crying because they’re supposed to."

She laughed. It surprised both of them.

*The next 20 minutes: The regulars*

The cafe started filling with the kind of people who only come out during brownouts.

There was Kuya Ben, 60s, who came every day to read the newspaper and complain.

"Signal number 2 and they still expect us to work," he said to no one. "This country."

There were two college kids at table 2. They’d been on a date that was now just sharing one phone at 12% battery.

"Do you think the rain will stop?" the girl asked.

"I think we’re stuck here," the guy said. He looked kind of happy about it.

A mom with a toddler came in, soaked. The toddler immediately started running between tables.

"Anak, stop," the mom said. "Sorry, sorry."

Elias caught the kid before he knocked over a candle. "Got him."

"Thank you," the mom mouthed.

Ate Liza started handing out free pandesal. "They’ll go bad if the power doesn’t come back. Might as well."

Elias took two and broke one in half. He pushed the bigger piece to Mara.

"You don’t have to," she said.

"I want to. You look like you haven’t eaten."

"I haven’t."

"See."

They ate in silence for a bit. The bread was warm.

*The real talking starts, 4:30pm*

Mara closed her laptop. 1% left. She’d sent the draft.

"It’s done," she said, exhaling. "Thank god."

"Congrats," Elias said. "What’s it about?"

"Drivers. One of them, Mang Rudy, has been driving the same route for 22 years. His son is in college because of it. Now the route’s gone. He doesn’t know what to do."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. What about you? Why photography?"

Elias shrugged. "I liked that you could make people stay still for a second. When everything else is moving."

Mara nodded. "I get that. I write so things don’t get forgotten."

Ate Liza refilled their water. "You two look familiar. Have you been here before?"

"First time for me," Mara said.

"Second," Elias said. "I come when I need to edit and my apartment is too loud."

"It’s always loud," Ate Liza said. "That’s Cubao for you."

The college kids at table 2 started playing 20 questions to pass time.

"Is it a person?"

"No."

"Is it in this cafe?"

"Yes."

The toddler was now drawing on a napkin with a borrowed pen.

*5:15pm: The stories*

Elias told her about growing up. Davao when he was 6. Cebu when he was 9. Iloilo for one chaotic year in high school. His dad would get a contract and they’d pack.

"I learned how to make friends fast," he said. "And how to leave them faster."

"That sounds lonely."

"It was. But also, I saw a lot. I got good at noticing things."

Mara told him about her house. Same one since she was born. Her lola raised her. Her parents sent money from Dubai.

"I never had to say goodbye to a place," she said. "But I got really good at waiting for people to come back."

"Do they?"

"Every two years. For Christmas."

They both went quiet. The rain was softer now.

"You ever think about leaving?" Elias asked.

"Every day. I’m also terrified to."

"You ever think about staying?" he asked her.

"Every day. I’m also terrified of that."

They laughed at the same time.

*6:00pm: The walk*

The rain had slowed to drizzle. The power was still out. People started leaving in groups.

Elias packed his gear carefully. Mara packed her laptop.

"You live nearby?" he asked.

"Cubao. Near farmers."

"Same. I can walk you."

Outside, the street was a mess. Puddles, fallen branches, jeepneys moving slow. They shared his umbrella. It was too small. Both of their shoulders got wet.

They passed a sari-sari store with a generator. It was the only light on the block. Kids were playing in the shallow flood.

"Do you always carry an umbrella?" Mara asked.

"No. Today I did because the forecast said rain. I’m usually wrong about weather."

"I’m usually wrong about people."

"Are you wrong about me?"

She looked at him. "Ask me tomorrow."

At her building, she stopped on the steps. The hallway light was off.

"Thanks," she said. "For the charger. The bread. The company."

"Anytime," Elias said. "You got a number? For next brownout."

She gave it. He typed it in. "Mara - KapeTayo."

"That’s specific."

"In case I meet another Mara."

She smiled. "Text me if you get home safe."

"You too."

She watched him from her window as he crossed. He turned once. She waved.

Inside, she plugged her laptop in and saw her editor’s reply: "Filed. Good work."

Her phone buzzed.

Elias: "Home safe. Floor is wet. 10/10 would share umbrella again."

She replied: "Home safe. Lola’s asleep. Thanks again."

She didn’t sleep until 1am. She kept thinking about the way he’d caught the toddler. And the way he’d given her the bigger half of the pandesal without asking.

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