The bus to Baguio leaves at midnight from the Legazpi terminal. I sit by the window, bag on my lap, hoodie pulled up, trying to disappear into the seat. Manila feels too close, too loud, too full of memories I’m not ready to face. I tell myself this is for the best—space, air, time to think. I tell myself I’m protecting my heart.
I’m lying.
I’m running.
Again.
The bus is half-empty. An old woman across the aisle prays softly on her rosary. A college boy two rows back snores with earphones in. The driver plays kundiman on low volume—old love songs that make the ache worse.
My phone is off. I haven’t turned it on since the mall.
I don’t want to see his messages.
I don’t want to hear his voice.
I don’t want to believe him.
The bus climbs the mountains. The air gets cooler. Fog rolls
