Falling Backwards Into What Almost Was

The city was never quiet, but Isla Reyes had learned to find silence in the right kind of noise. She sat cross-legged on the rooftop of her best friend’s apartment complex, her laptop closed beside her, her phone face-down, and a half-empty cup of cheap red wine warming in her hands. The sky stretched above her in muted smog-gray, stars hidden behind the glowing haze of billboards and traffic. Manila didn’t sleep. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t, either. “You know you’re going to miss this, right?” Bea said, flopping down next to her, her long black hair tied up in a messy bun. “This weird-ass roof. This air pollution. Me.” Isla smirked. “I’ll miss you. The roof… maybe less.” Bea nudged her with a toe. “Liar.” Isla didn’t argue. She tilted her head back, taking in the hum of the city below them—jeepneys coughing exhaust, laughter echoing from a nearby karaoke bar, a dog barking like it knew something the rest of them didn’t. She took a sip of the wine and let it linger. “You should feel excited,” she told herself. “You got what you wanted. You’re getting out. You’re finally getting out.” But the excitement was dull around the edges, softened by a kind of grief she didn’t know how to name. “Do you think it’s weird?” Isla asked suddenly. “That I’m leaving everything I know, and it doesn’t even feel brave. It just feels... hollow.” Bea’s expression softened. “It’s not weird. You’re human. And humans suck at saying goodbye.” “I didn’t even say goodbye to Carlo,” Isla muttered, tracing her finger around the rim of her cup. Bea raised an eyebrow. “Your emotionally constipated ex? That’s not a goodbye, babe. That’s called... self-preservation.” Isla laughed, but it caught in her throat. Carlo had been a mess, and she knew that. But she’d loved him anyway—quietly, persistently, like pressing her hand against a glass wall and pretending it wasn’t there. “Maybe I’m just tired of leaving pieces of myself everywhere.” Bea was quiet for a moment before replying. “Maybe the next place won’t ask you to.” Isla swallowed hard. She wanted to believe that. She really did. “What if I don’t know who I am without this city?” But she didn’t say that out loud. She just looked out at the skyline, the blinking lights like Morse code for something she couldn't yet decipher. The life she knew was slipping through her fingers, and all she could do was let it. Because it was time. Because she had to. --- The bar wasn’t her usual scene—too many strangers, too much cigarette smoke, too little space to breathe—but Bea had insisted. “One last night out,” she’d said. “One last chance to flirt with danger or at least someone tall with nice forearms.” Isla hadn’t protested much. She didn’t want to spend her final weekend holed up in her bedroom packing and re-packing her life. She wanted to feel something that wasn’t nostalgia or pressure. The bar was tucked into a corner of Poblacion, all amber lights and mismatched furniture, with a live acoustic set playing in the far end by a window. A trio of guitar, violin, and a smoky-voiced singer filled the room with raw, unpolished magic. Every table vibrated with a different kind of energy—first dates, friends reuniting, people pretending they weren’t watching the door. She stood at the bar, fingers wrapped around a glass of rum and coke, shifting her weight from one heel to the other. “Why does everyone else look like they belong here?” “Lost in thought, or just judging the crowd?” a voice asked beside her. Isla turned. A guy in a denim jacket and wire-rimmed glasses smiled at her—Bea’s type, not hers. “A bit of both,” she replied coolly. He laughed and offered a cheers with his glass. She clinked out of politeness, took a sip, and let her eyes wander. A group of travelers in the corner. A girl dancing alone by the jukebox. The bartender laughing at something inaudible. It all felt like a movie she wasn’t cast in. Bea appeared beside her, glowing from the inside out. “There’s a rooftop. Come on.” “Another rooftop?” Isla teased. “This one has fairy lights and strangers who smell like poetry. You’ll like it.” She followed her through a back hallway, then up a narrow staircase to a hidden rooftop bar. String lights were strung above like constellations, the music was softer here—more lo-fi, more space to think. People lounged on couches and beanbags, sipping drinks and talking in low tones like it was sacred not to shout. Isla exhaled. This she could handle. She drifted toward a quieter corner and sank onto a low seat, crossing her legs beneath her. She watched the city hum below them, watched someone sketching on a napkin, another person strumming a guitar absentmindedly. “Maybe this is the kind of night I’ll forget,” she thought. "Or maybe it’ll be the one I remember when everything else blurs.” Her phone buzzed. A message from her mom: Don’t forget your charger and umbrella. Love you. She smiled faintly. Then let her phone go dark again. Noah Liang didn’t know why he said yes to tonight. He hated these kinds of places—too curated, too loud, too full of people pretending they weren’t just a little bit broken. But his friend Leo had begged him to come out. “One night,” he said. “Get out of your cave, get out of your head.” Noah had rolled his eyes and showed up late on purpose, hoping to blend in with the leftover crowd. The kind that didn’t really care about being seen. He climbed the narrow stairs to the rooftop, pausing when he reached the top. The air shifted. Softer. Calmer. The kind of place where someone might tell you their secrets without meaning to. He took a step in, hands in his jacket pockets, scanning the crowd with the casual detachment of someone who didn’t plan to stay long. Lo-fi music curled around conversations. The lights above glowed like dusk caught in a string. He almost turned to leave—until he saw her. She was sitting alone on a low couch in the far corner, drink cradled in her hands, her dark hair tucked behind one ear, her posture relaxed but guarded. She wasn’t trying to be noticed. That’s what made him notice. There was something in the way she stared out at the city, like she was saying goodbye without telling anyone. And maybe it was the way the night had already made him feel too much, or maybe it was the drink already in his system, or maybe—just maybe—it was fate. But he walked toward her anyway. He didn’t have a line prepared. Didn’t even have a reason. Just a quiet ache he hadn’t named in weeks, and a stranger who looked like a pause in the noise. He stopped a few steps from her, waited for her to look up. When she did, their eyes met like neither of them expected it to mean anything. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, gesturing to the empty space beside her. She hesitated. Just a beat. Then nodded. “Sure. It’s a free rooftop.” He sat, careful not to crowd her space. She returned her gaze to the city lights, but now her fingers tapped gently against her glass, like the rhythm had changed. “I’m Noah,” he said. She didn’t turn to face him yet. “Isla” And just like that, something unspoken settled between them.