Mariella had checked the time so many times that her wristwatch was starting to feel judged.
7:32 p.m.
She was sitting by the window of her small, two-level shared apartment in Sampaloc, legs crossed, phone in hand, nerves buzzing like a live wire. Outside, the street was alive with tricycles, the faint hum of karaoke from the next block, and the smell of barbecue smoke drifting through the December air.
Paul had said he’d pick her up at eight.
Eight.
And every minute before that felt like slow torture.
She’d spent almost an hour getting ready, longer than she cared to admit. After debating with herself for an embarrassing thirty minutes, she’d settled on a blue dress that hugged her figure just right without screaming desperate. Her hair was soft and loose around her shoulders, and
