CHAPTER 14: ARCADE
880 Words
The arcade is tucked behind the old public market in Masbate, the kind of place you only find if someone tells you it exists. Narrow alley entrance between a sari-sari store and a vulcanizing shop, flickering neon sign that says “GameZone” half-burned out so it reads “Ga eZon”. Inside, it smells like popcorn oil, rubber mats, and the faint metallic tang of old machines. The lights are dim except for the flashing screens—Pac-Man beeps, Street Fighter combos echo, a claw machine whirs in the corner trying to grab plush toys no one ever wins.
We come here on a Saturday afternoon, two weeks after we officially started dating. No school. No rankings pressure. No college essays looming like storm clouds. Just a rare free day, and Reagan suggested this instead of the usual library or roof deck.
“I used to come here when I was a kid,” he says as we step inside. “Before the driver started picking me up. Before everything got… structured.”
I glance at him. He’s in a plain black shirt and jeans—no uniform, no tie, hair slightly messy from the wind outside. He looks younger. Less guarded.
“Structured?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Tutors. Schedules. Always something to win. This place was the only thing that didn’t care if I was first or second.”
I smile. “Show me your secrets then.”
He takes my hand. Leads me past the racing games, past the basketball hoops, to a row of older machines in the back—classics that still take one-peso coins.
First stop: a beat-up Dance Dance Revolution pad. The arrows are faded, the screen cracked in one corner, but it still works.
He drops coins in. Selects a song—something upbeat from the early 2000s.
“You first,” he says.
I laugh. “No way. I have zero rhythm.”
“Prove it.”
I step on the pad. The music starts. I try to follow the arrows—miss half, stumble on the turns, laugh when I almost fall off.
Reagan watches. Smiling. Not mocking. Just… happy.
When the song ends, my score is pitiful.
“Your turn,” I say, stepping aside.
He takes my place. Same song. Moves like he’s done it a thousand times—smooth, precise, hitting every arrow. Not flashy. Just clean.
Score flashes: 98%.
I raise an eyebrow. “Show-off.”
He shrugs. “I practiced. A lot.”
Next machine: Time Crisis. Light gun game. Two-player mode.
We stand side by side. Guns in hand. Screen splits.
He covers me when I miss enemies. I cover him when he reloads.
We die at the same boss. Laugh about it.
He drops more coins. “Again.”
We play three rounds. I get better. He lets me win the last one—pretends to miss a shot so I get the final hit.
I elbow him. “You let me win.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t.”
He smiles. “Okay. Next time, no mercy.”
We move to the claw machine. Stuffed animals inside—bears, cats, a small penguin with a bowtie.
I point at the penguin. “That one.”
He inserts coins. Moves the claw carefully. Drops. Misses.
Again. Misses.
Third time, he gets it. The penguin falls into the chute.
He hands it to me.
“For you.”
I hug it. “Thank you.”
He watches me hold it. Soft look in his eyes.
We play more games. Air hockey—he wins. Basketball hoops—I win (he claims the hoop was bent). Racing game—we crash into each other on purpose until we’re laughing too hard to steer.
At the photo booth in the corner—old, curtained, four-shot strip—he pulls me inside.
“Last one,” he says.
We squeeze in. The bench is narrow. Our thighs press together.
First shot: silly faces.
Second: peace signs.
Third: I kiss his cheek.
Fourth: he turns at the last second. Kisses me properly. Slow. Soft. Hand on my neck.
The flash goes off.
We wait for the strip to print.
Four photos. All of us.
He tucks one in his wallet. Gives me the other three.
“Keep one. Give one to Andra. Burn one if you want.”
I laugh. “I’m keeping all three.”
We leave the arcade when the sun starts dropping. Sky orange and pink. Air cooler now.
We walk toward the pier—same one as before. Penguin under my arm.
He takes my hand.
“Today was good,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“No rankings. No essays. Just us.”
I squeeze his hand. “I like just us.”
He stops. Turns to me.
“I love you,” he says. Quiet. Certain.
I smile. Big. Real.
“I love you too.”
He kisses me there—on the sidewalk near the pier, with jeepneys honking past and vendors calling out. No hiding. No hesitation.
We keep walking.
The penguin in my arms.
The photos in my pocket.
The boy beside me.
No chase.
No gap.
Just this.
Just now.
Just them.
Dating.
Living.
Loving.
- Writer
