Between the Waves

CHAPTER TWO

There are three kinds of silences in Biliran.

The first is the kind that comes before a storm — tense, expectant, like the world is waiting to strike. The second is the kind that follows a funeral — heavy, slow, filled with the weight of things unsaid.

And the third — the one I hate the most — is the silence of a place that remembers everything you’ve tried to forget.

That’s the silence that follows me home.

After the encounter at the court, I manage to buy a few canned goods and instant coffee from Aling Pining’s store. She doesn’t say much, just gives me a long, searching look and mutters something about how much I look like my father. I take that as a warning. Or maybe a curse.

Back at the house, I sit by the kitchen window, staring at the backyard. It’s overgrown, wild, like something out of a forgotten folk tale. The balete tree near the back fence has swallowed up part of the shed. I wonder what’s still buried back there.

I sip the coffee. It’s awful — too sweet, too artificial. But it burns going down, and I welcome the heat. At least it makes me feel something real.

It’s stupid, really. I thought I could come back, clean up the house, sell it quietly, maybe stay a month at most. I didn’t expect to see him — not on day one. Not like that.

He’s still the same, and not. Bigger. Louder. Less of the wiry teenager who used to trip me in the hallway, more of the man who looks like he owns this place now. Maybe he does.

His voice still echoes in my head. Still running your mouth, Mondragon.

I laugh under my breath. I used to call him “that smug piece of s**t” when I was younger. And if I’m being honest, that label still fits. Except now it’s more complicated. He’s hotter now. That’s the part that pisses me off the most.

I shut the window. The silence outside is crawling in.

There’s an old wooden chest in my grandmother’s bedroom, half-hidden under a dusty white sheet. I hadn’t planned to open it today — or ever — but something about being here, being seen, being remembered, makes me restless.

The chest creaks when I lift the lid. Inside: stacks of yellowing letters tied in ribbon, a worn photo album, and a few mementos wrapped in handkerchiefs. Lola Lita was a memory hoarder. She didn’t believe in letting go — not of things, not of people, not even of pain.

I pull out a photo and nearly drop it.

It’s a picture of us. Me and him. We couldn’t have been older than thirteen. We’re standing in front of the school during some festival — probably Linggo ng Wika or something — both in barong tagalog, both grinning like idiots. I don’t remember smiling that much.

But there it is.

Proof.

We weren’t always enemies.

There was a time when we were… something else. Not quite friends. Definitely not lovers. But something. We used to bike around the island together. We used to swim near the falls in Tinago. He even used to come over for merienda — my lola made him suman and mango juice like he was family.

Then something happened. And suddenly, we were throwing punches behind the school building. He stopped talking to me. Started mocking me instead. Rumors spread. Whispers followed. I stopped caring — or pretended I did.

That was the beginning of the end.

Until I left.

Until now.

I tuck the photo back in the box, careful not to bend it.

My phone buzzes. I check the screen: no signal. Of course. Biliran isn’t the kind of place that likes interruptions.

It’s almost dark. The electricity flickers once, then steadies. A rooster crows somewhere, confused by the hour. I should eat, maybe shower, but I just sit there on the bed, staring at nothing.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to the municipal hall to start the paperwork for the house.

Tomorrow, I’ll avoid the basketball court.

Tomorrow, I’ll forget about him.

But tonight?

Tonight, I let myself remember the way he used to look at me — before the hate, before the distance, before the fear of what that look meant.

And I wonder — not for the first time — what would’ve happened if I hadn’t run away.