Between the Waves

CHAPTER SIX

Biliran is a place where even the waterfalls have memory.

Tinago Falls — hidden in the folds of the island’s green — is not for tourists, not really. It’s for locals who know which rocks are slippery, who remember which trees have ants the size of fingernails, who know that the water hits hardest when you stand underneath it and dare it to cleanse you.

Camille insisted we go. Said it was “team bonding” for the barangay fiesta volunteers. Translation: she wanted gossip material and i********: photos.

She shows up in an oversized pink rash guard, glittered sunglasses, and a Bluetooth speaker already blasting Moira’s heartbreak anthems.

Elian’s there, of course. In board shorts. Sleeveless tank. Hair still wet from the morning surf.

Luis came, too. In a plain black shirt and that quiet, observant look that tells me he’s not just watching the falls.

He’s watching me.

Camille leads the hike up the rocks like she’s filming a commercial. Miguel tags along, balancing a tub of ice candy on his head like a crown. A few other youth volunteers join — teens I don’t know, but who clearly know of me.

Elian doesn’t walk beside me. But somehow, we end up reaching the top together — that same mossy ridge where we used to sit when we were thirteen, feet dangling over the pool, daring each other to jump.

“Do you remember that summer?” I ask quietly.

Elian doesn’t answer right away. He just stares down at the water.

“You bet me a bag of Boy Bawang that I wouldn’t jump,” I continue. “And when I did, you jumped right after. Hit your knee. Cried like a baby.”

He laughs. Just once. But it’s real.

“I didn’t cry.”

“You sobbed.”

“Shut up.”

“I carried you on my back all the way down.”

“I remember,” he says. And it’s so quiet, I almost miss it.

Then: “That was the last good summer.”

I nod.

We both know why.

Camille’s already in the water, floating like a dramatic telenovela heroine. Miguel’s challenging the others to hold their breath underwater. Luis, surprisingly, is sketching something on a waterproof notepad under a tree.

I sit on the rocks. Elian stands beside me, towel over his shoulder.

He says, “I thought you were brave, back then.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were. You just didn’t know what to do with it.”

I look at him. His face is unreadable. But his voice softens.

“You kissed me.”

I blink. “I… what?”

“That night. The last week before you left. After the junior prom.”

I remember.

The back of the barangay gym. My pulse in my ears. The smell of cologne and cheap ice cream. The way we danced — too close, too long.

“I didn’t think you remembered,” I say.

“I never forgot.”

Silence stretches between us.

“And then you punched me a week later,” I say.

He looks down.

“I panicked.”

“You called me names. Made sure everyone heard. I was humiliated.”

“I know.”

“I left because of that.”

“I know.”

The wind shifts. A bird calls out. Someone splashes in the distance.

I turn to him, voice raw. “You kissed me back.”

He doesn’t deny it.

And that hurts worse.

Later, as we gather to eat beside the water — rice in banana leaves, grilled tilapia, sweet saba bananas — Luis sits beside me.

“I didn’t know you and Elian used to be close,” he says casually.

“We were kids.”

“He doesn’t talk about you.”

I glance at him. “Why are you asking?”

He shrugs. “Just curious. You don’t strike me as someone who comes back without a reason.”

I look out toward the falls.

“Sometimes the past doesn’t stay buried.”

Luis hums. “And sometimes people dig it up on purpose.”

He stands, smiling politely.

“I’ll see you at practice, Harris.”

I don’t say anything.

But I wonder — what exactly is his interest in Elian?

And why does it bother me?

That night, as I lie in bed, the island thunder rolling somewhere far away, I think about that kiss behind the gym.

I remember the way his hands trembled.

I remember the fear in his eyes after.

And I remember how it felt like something that mattered.

Something that should’ve mattered.

And maybe it still does.