He Bought Me Twice

Manila, Seven Years Ago The rain was soft that morning, a drizzle tapping lightly against the glass windows of the school library. It blurred the view of the garden outside, where Callista Reyes stood motionless beneath the narra tree — the same place she and Sandro met every morning before class. But this time, she wasn’t waiting for him. She was trying to find the strength to disappear. Her fingers trembled around her phone, the screen still lit with their last conversation. Just last night, he told her he wanted her to meet his mother. That he’d tell his family about them. That he could see a future — not just in Manila, but beyond. Together. That morning, Callista woke to the sound of car horns, the usual chaos of vendors yelling and jeepneys honking outside their apartment window. But when she drew the curtain aside, her breath caught. A black car — foreign, sleek, and tinted — was parked across the street, unmoving among the rush of Manila traffic. It didn’t belong. Not here. Not in this neighborhood where the streets cracked and paint peeled from signs. Her heart pounded. She didn’t know why, but something in her gut twisted. And then the back window rolled down. A pair of designer sunglasses looked directly at her. Her phone buzzed. An unknown number. One message. “Come down. Let’s talk.” She didn’t ask how the woman got her number. She didn’t need to. She knew exactly who was inside that car. The ride was silent for the first few minutes. Callista sat rigid in the black leather seat, her schoolbag clutched tightly in her lap. The scent of expensive perfume — subtle but intimidating — filled the air. Mrs. Mazandarani was elegance personified: silk scarf, pristine white blouse, red lipstick flawless even in the Manila heat. Her legs were crossed delicately, her hands gloved in cream leather. She didn’t look at Callista. Not at first. Only when the car pulled out of the slums and into the cleaner roads did she speak. “Callista Reyes,” she said finally, as if tasting the name. “Quite a poetic name for a girl with such… humble roots.” Callista said nothing. Her fingers dug into her bag strap. Another beat of silence. “You love my son.” It wasn’t a question. Callista’s throat tightened. “Yes.” “And he believes he loves you,” Mrs. Mazandarani continued, adjusting her scarf with surgical grace. “But that will change — once he sees who you really are.” She turned her face then, removing her sunglasses slowly. Her eyes were dark, unreadable. Cold. “You are nothing but a seasonal fling in a third-world country. Do you truly think this is a fairytale? That a Filipino girl from the gutters of Manila will be accepted into a bloodline that has ruled for generations?” Her words were razor-sharp, delivered with almost gentle cruelty. “You will be devoured.” Callista tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. “I know your family’s debts. Your father’s failed businesses. Your mother’s mental breakdown. And your sister’s condition — what’s her name? Aria?” Callista flinched. “Lovely girl. It would be such a shame if her condition worsened because her sister couldn’t keep her distance.” Tears welled in Callista’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Mrs. Mazandarani leaned in just slightly, her voice a venomous whisper. “You have two options. Stay and watch your family suffer. Or vanish, and they never hear from me again.” The car stopped. Callista looked outside. The train station. GMA-Kamuning. The very place she had met Sandro. The very place where her story with him began. And now, it was ending. Callista stepped out without a word. The car pulled away, disappearing into the traffic like a shadow swallowed by light. She didn’t go to class that day. Instead, she opened her phone… and began deleting everything. The Last Visit Sandro tried calling her twice that afternoon. First, a message: “Hey. You okay? Haven’t seen you. Call me when you can.” No reply. Then again an hour later. Straight to voicemail. He frowned and checked her social media. Nothing. Not even the usual posts she shared about school or her sister. Worried now, he did something he had never done before. He called her mother. “Hello?” a tired voice answered. Background noise—dishes clinking, a baby crying in the distance. “Mrs. Reyes? This is Sandro, Callista’s friend. Is she home?” A pause. “Oh... Sandro, anak. She’s not home. Didn’t she go to school?” “She didn’t come. I haven’t heard from her.” “Oh… Maybe her phone’s broken again?” her mother said kindly, but distracted. Sandro forced a chuckle. “Maybe. No worries. Thanks, tita.” But he hung up, heart heavy. Callista wasn’t the kind of girl to just disappear. Not without saying something. And she didn’t show up on the train that afternoon either. So Sandro didn’t go home. He took a detour. By 5:45 PM, he was standing under the GMA train station, asking strangers. “Do you know where I can find someone named Joker?” Sandro didn’t go home after school. He couldn’t. Not when Callista hadn’t replied. Not when she didn’t show up at the train station. Not when her mother said she’d gone to school, but no one at campus had seen her. So he did the only thing he could. He went looking. He got off the GMA station, walked down the sloped street, passed by the vendors calling out prices for isaw and kwek-kwek, and approached a trike driver. “Excuse me,” he said, hesitant but firm. “Do you know someone named Joker?” One of the older boys looked up and grinned. “You mean Baby Long Legs? The tall guy, very white skin?” Sandro’s face lit up. “Yes. That’s him.” A tricycle driver overheard and stepped forward, resting his arm on the side of his roofless trike. His shirt clung to his back from the heat, and he looked like he’d just finished a delivery. “Get in,” the driver said, gesturing to his trike. “I drive you there. Far from here… in Bario.” His English was crooked, but clear enough to understand. Sandro hesitated, then nodded, stepping inside the sidecar, knees pulled in tight. The trike coughed to life, and they took off down a narrow road, weaving through back alleys and side streets that grew quieter and more unfamiliar with every turn. The sky dimmed as they drove, the sunset bleeding orange behind the rooftops. He didn’t know where exactly he was going. But his heart told him he was getting close. The tricycle rattled to a stop in front of a quieter, slightly elevated road lined with low fences and stray dogs lounging in the dusk. The driver tapped the side of the metal frame. “You,” he said, calling over a teenage bystander in flip-flops and a wide smile. “This man looking for Joker. Bring him.” The boy looked at Sandro curiously. He nodded, and without another word, the boy motioned for him to follow. They walked a few alleys deep into the barangay — past a sari-sari store blasting karaoke, through narrow walkways bordered by overgrown plants and laundry swinging in the wind. Sandro’s heart thudded harder with each step. The sun was dipping low now, casting a soft orange glow over the cracked pavement. Then, finally, the boy stopped. “There,” he said, pointing. A pale green gate stood before them — rust curling at the corners, and beside it, a gumamela plant that looked one gust away from collapsing. This was it. Sandro stepped forward, raised his hand to knock— But before his knuckles could touch the gate, the front door opened. Callista. She froze. For one breathless second, they simply stared at each other — like ghosts meeting in the flesh. Her hand stayed on the doorknob, her eyes wide. There was panic in them — unmistakable, raw. But then she blinked… and smiled. Too quickly. Too perfectly. “Sandro,” she said, airy and calm, like a soft gust of wind. “What are you doing here?” “I was worried,” he said, voice thick with relief. “You weren’t at school. You didn’t answer my calls. I thought maybe your phone…” “Ah,” she nodded, eyes shifting away. “Yeah, sorry. It… broke. I forgot to charge it.” He stared at her a moment longer. But she had already turned to open the gate. The house was small and cluttered, but warm — lived-in, alive. The smell of adobo drifted from the kitchen. A worn electric fan squeaked in the corner. Kids’ drawings were taped to the walls. Her mother greeted him with a surprised but sincere smile. “Oh! Sandro, anak! I didn’t know you were coming!” “I just… wanted to check on Cal,” he said politely. Before her mother could reply, a loud voice echoed from the back. “Is that the guy from the pictures?” A tall teen in a faded basketball jersey and socks with holes came out, scratching his head with mock drama. He was lanky, awkward, but walked like he owned the house. Joker. Sandro blinked. “Joker?” “Yup.” The boy smirked, towering over him. “Welcome to our palace, Mr. International.” Sandro chuckled despite the knot in his stomach. Joker gave him a fist bump, tossed him a cold bottle of water, and started talking about their last barangay basketball championship like they’d been teammates forever. They had dinner on the floor, kamayan-style, with rice piled high and tinola in a cracked bowl. Sandro sat between Joker and Callista, surrounded by warmth and noise and love. It should’ve felt like home. But it didn’t. Because Callista — she was smiling, laughing, talking. But her hands never touched his. Her eyes never held his long. And her voice never once said his name the way it used to. He looked at her. Really looked. And he saw it. That quiet, aching distance. Like she was already on the other side of a goodbye she couldn’t say out loud. But he didn’t ask. And she didn’t tell. That night, as the neighborhood quieted and the moon climbed higher, Sandro stood by the street waiting for his car. Joker patted him on the back. Her mom offered to pack him food. Callista walked him to the gate. He hugged her gently. “I’ll text you when I get home.” She nodded. “Okay.” One last smile. One last look. Then the gate shut behind him. By 3 AM, he was gone. His mother said nothing except: “The plane leaves in two hours. Milan is waiting.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t ask. He just boarded the private jet, sat by the window, and watched as Manila — the chaos, the color, the love, the pain — disappeared into the clouds. Somewhere down there, she was sleeping. FLASHBACK: Rush Hour Hearts How It All Began – Buendia Station, Manila Manila was a city that never stopped moving — and neither did its trains. It was 5:37 PM when the MRT doors screeched open at Buendia Station. The crowd surged like a wave, everyone scrambling to squeeze inside before the doors slammed shut. Sandro Mazandarani, tall and broad-shouldered with a quiet foreign air, didn’t usually take the train. But that day, his driver was stuck in traffic, and he figured it would be faster to ride like everyone else. It was hot. The kind of sticky, body-pressed-against-body heat that made you second-guess all your life choices. And that’s when he saw her. She was in front of him — petite, with long black hair tied in a messy ponytail, her white blouse slightly wrinkled from the day. Her eyes were focused, determined to squeeze in, just like everyone else. Then the crowd pushed. Hard. She stumbled backward — right into him. He caught her instinctively, arms tightening just enough to keep her from falling, though it left them nearly chest to chest. “Sorry!” she blurted, cheeks instantly flushed. Her voice was soft but edged with embarrassment. He nodded quickly, eyes wide. “It’s okay. Not your fault.” He could barely breathe — partly because of the crush of people, mostly because of her scent: light, floral, something like jasmine and ink. The train lurched forward. Another push. Sandro shifted, putting his arm up on the pole behind her so she wouldn’t be squished against the glass. He used all his strength to lean his body weight away from hers. Callista noticed. She tilted her head slightly, studying the boy with the strange accent, sweat beading on his temple, jaw clenched in effort. “You don’t look like you do this often,” she said, teasing lightly. He gave her a small, crooked smile. “Is it that obvious?” She chuckled. “You’re wearing a school uniform… but with Italian leather shoes.” Sandro looked down, then grinned sheepishly. “They were a gift.” She raised an eyebrow. “From your fashion consultant?” “No,” he said with a chuckle, “from my mom.” That made her laugh — and the sound of it stirred something in him. The train was already near Cubao, his stop. He glanced at the approaching station sign, then back at her. She wasn’t watching the stations. She looked content in her own little bubble — until her eyes flicked toward the door. “I’m getting off at GMA,” she said softly, as if sensing his thoughts. Sandro hesitated, looked again at the blinking sign. Cubao. The door opened. He didn’t move. The bell rang. The doors slid closed. He stayed. Callista looked up, puzzled. “Wasn’t that your stop?” He shrugged, eyes steady on hers. “It can wait.” She looked at him longer this time. Really looked. And for one moment, in a sea of strangers and sweat and steel, there was something warm. “I’m Callista,” she said. “Sandro.” And just like that, in a train full of noise and bodies — time slowed. When she got off at GMA station, he waited until the doors shut again. Then he smiled to himself, got off at the next stop, crossed the platform, and rode all the way back. She didn’t know it yet, but from that day on, Sandro started taking the train more often. Always at 5:30 PM. Always from Buendia. Just in case she was there again.