The bar tucked in a narrow street in Malate, the kind of place that looks like it’s been here since the 90s—dim red lights, cracked leather booths, a jukebox that still plays OPM classics on vinyl. The air smells like spilled beer, cigarette smoke that sneaks in from the smoking area, and the faint sweetness of spilled cocktails.
It’s Mia’s birthday—my coworker from the publishing house. Twenty-seven. Single. Loud. She booked the back booth for ten of us, ordered buckets of Red Horse and a tower of San Mig Light, and declared “no sob stories tonight, only shots and bad decisions.”
I came because I said yes when she asked. Because saying no would mean going home to my quiet apartment, staring at the upside-down crown necklace on my dresser, and thinking about Reagan again. Five years of n
