10 Things Before I Do

“This is stupid.” I whispered it into the stillness, my voice barely louder than the click of the front door Jasper had just slammed behind him. The air hadn’t settled yet. His hoodie—the one he always wore on lazy days—was slumped over the armrest of my couch like he hadn’t realized he’d left without it. The room still smelled faintly like his cologne and the ihaw-ihaw we never finished. I hadn’t moved since he left. My phone was still in my hand, my cigarette resting between my fingers, the faintest curl of smoke fading into the air. My shoulders were tense. It felt like I’d frozen mid-breath, waiting for something—anything—to pull me back into motion. My heart was pounding. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I reached up, almost without thinking, and tugged lightly at my earlobe. The weight of what he said, of what I didn’t say, hung in the air like smoke. If I’d known that saying yes would lead me here, I never would’ve agreed. But I always say yes to Jasper. ***** We grew up together. Same barangay, same school, same muddy afternoons chasing ice cream trucks like they were miracles. He used to come to class with grass stains on his knees and pockets full of gummy worms. We shared snacks on the stairs—half a sandwich for him, half a chocolate bar for me. We knew each other’s handwriting and secrets and dumb jokes no one else found funny. Then in our sophomore year of high school, he transferred schools. Just like that, everything thinned out. He made new friends. I stuck with mine. The space between us got filled with people who didn’t know our jokes or that Jasper used to cry when his drawings got crumpled. We still messaged sometimes. Birthday greetings. A meme or two. But we weren’t each other’s person anymore. Then came college. The thread stretched even thinner. ***** Until one night in our final year, when our friend groups overlapped again, and I got invited to a drinking session at Jasper’s house. I almost didn’t go. But I did. It was your usual college party—loud, cramped, with bad lighting and someone crying in the bathroom. I walked in and found him leaning against the counter with a red solo cup, mid-sip, blinking like he wasn’t sure I was real. “You look older,” he said. “You look drunk,” I shot back. We laughed. The awkwardness lasted about thirty seconds. That night, we talked for hours. About nothing. About everything. Childhood memories, who we’d become, who we thought we’d be. He told me about his girlfriend, Tricia. “She’s different,” he said. In a good way. Smart. Sharp. Keeps me on my toes.” He smiled when he said she’d met his family already. I smiled back. “That’s good.” And I meant it. Kind of. ***** We reconnected. Slowly at first. Then group dinners turned into just us. Random hangouts, lazy afternoons, aimless walks. He’d text me “Bored. Ice cream?” at 11:30 PM, and I’d already be slipping into slippers and grabbing my cigarettes from the nightstand. It felt easy again. Familiar. But it wasn’t the same. There are new rhythms now. He talked more. About life. About Tricia. About feeling stuck even when everything seemed okay. And then one night, he showed up at my place with red eyes and a bottle of cheap brandy. “She cheated,” he said before I could even ask. We sat outside on the curb in front of my parent's house. I remember holding my lit cigarette but not using it, like even nicotine wasn’t enough for the weight of that night. He curled into himself, elbows on his knees, head bowed like the words physically weighed him down. “She blocked me. Didn’t even let me ask why.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I told her stuff I don’t even tell my cousins. Introduced her to my mom. You know how rare that is.” “I know,” I said. He looked at me. “You remember when I told you she was it?” “You were sure,” I said. He exhaled like it hurt. We didn’t talk much after that. I just sat and stayed beside him. That was enough. That night, something shifted. Again. He didn’t say it out loud, but from that point on, I became the person he called when things got heavy. And I never said no. ***** Eventually, he healed. And he met Phoebe. She worked with him. Kind eyes. Gentle voice. She remembered birthdays and offered extra napkins before you needed them. The first time I met her, she smiled. No edge, no subtle probing questions. Just genuine warmth. “She trusts me,” Jasper said one night, almost surprised. “Even with you.” I laughed, but it stuck in my throat a little. I kept waiting for Phoebe to hate me. She never did. That somehow made it worse. Because I didn’t have a reason to step back. And Jasper never gave me one. So I didn’t. ***** We kept hanging out. Sometimes to run errands. Sometimes, we drink coffee and complain about work. Sometimes, we scroll through our phones in the same room, not saying much at all. We were just friends. Right? Except sometimes I caught myself noticing the way he laughed. Or how he sat—always leaning just a little too close. Or how he always looked at me first when something happened. I didn’t let myself think too hard about any of it. Not then. ***** Then came today. We spent the entire day saying yes to everything—every dumb idea, every impulsive suggestion. Yes to trying on ukay-ukay outfits that didn’t fit. Yes to street food I couldn’t pronounce. Yes to singing a song way out of my range at karaoke. Yes to taking a tricycle just to see where it would take us. By the time we got back to my place, we were both winded from laughter and slightly sunburned. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My legs were sore from running across a pedestrian bridge because Jasper dared me to. We collapsed in the living room—him on the couch, me on the floor, surrounded by bags of snacks and ihaw-ihaw and sweatshirts. He had his feet propped up on the table, a gummy worm dangling from his fingers. I was looking through the photos from the day—most of them blurry, a few surprisingly perfect. He tilted his head back and sighed. “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.” “Because no one else would say yes to dancing in the middle of a mall?” I grinned. He didn’t laugh. Instead, he looked at me—really looked at me—and asked: "Would it have been different... if it were you?" The air shifted. I blinked. Laughed. Too hard. Too loud. Too fake. “Don’t be stupid,” I said. He didn’t smile. His expression didn’t harden, it just… quieted. He stood up. Took his phone and keys. “Maybe saying yes doesn’t mean much to you after all,” he said. Then he walked to the door. Didn’t look back. Didn’t wait. He opened it—and slammed it shut behind him. ***** Now I’m sitting in the stillness he left behind. The room feels hollow. Like it’s missing a sound it’s used to hearing. We’ve been doing this for months—spontaneous days, whispered memories, unchecked emotions. Acting like time wasn’t running out. But it is. Because in three months, Jasper is getting married. And every moment we spend like this is another one I’ll have to let go of when he says I do. This was supposed to be the easy part. But tonight, something cracked. And I don’t know if we’re going to make it to the end.