CHAPTER FIVE
1039 Words
By the time I make it back to the house, my arms ache from lifting sacks of trash, my shirt is damp with sweat and seawater, and my brain’s been replaying Elian’s words like an old cassette stuck on the same verse.
You left.
Yeah. I did.
But that didn’t explain why he never called. Never messaged. Never asked.
The rain comes in thick sheets just after sundown. Biliran rain doesn’t announce itself politely. It barges in like it owns the island — roaring, slapping the windows, flooding the eaves in minutes. It’s oddly comforting. The kind of weather that demands you stop and feel things.
Too bad I don’t want to.
I’m halfway through changing into dry clothes when someone knocks on the door.
Not bangs. Knocks. Three polite raps.
No one polite knocks in this neighborhood. You either yell from the gate or barge in.
I throw on a shirt and open the door cautiously.
It’s a kid.
Skinny, soaked to the bone, holding a Tupperware container wrapped in a plastic bag.
He blinks up at me with big eyes and says, “Are you the one who used to live here with Lola Lita?”
“…Yeah. I am.”
He hands me the container. “My mom said to give you this. She said your lola used to send us biko when it rained.”
I take it, careful not to show how fast my chest tightens.
“Tell her thank you,” I say. “That’s kind of her.”
He smiles — toothy and sincere — then sprints back into the downpour like it’s nothing.
I stand there for a while, rain misting my arms, the container warming my hands.
I don’t even like biko.
But I eat it anyway.
I’m halfway through the sticky rice when my phone vibrates.
No signal bars, but somehow a message slips through.
From Camille.
tomorrow. 10AM. dry run for barangay fiesta. dress nice. and no sarcasm.
also elian’s going. wear cologne.
I roll my eyes. I type: go to hell.
She replies instantly.
ur already here
The next day
The barangay hall smells like varnish, old microphones, and sweaty plywood.
Fiesta season in Biliran isn’t just a celebration — it’s a production. There are dance troupes, spoken word rehearsals, even a minor pageant for kids dressed as fruits and vegetables.
And somehow, I’ve been drafted into helping coordinate a skit.
It’s barely 10 a.m. when I spot Camille directing three teenagers wearing banga on their heads and arguing over who gets to play the carabao. Beside her is a guy I don’t recognize — mid-twenties, buzz cut, wearing a UP Visayas shirt and clearly trying to hide the fact that he hates children.
“Who’s that?” I ask, slipping beside her.
She doesn’t look up from her clipboard. “That’s Luis. Elian’s cousin. Grew up in Leyte but moved here last year to help his mom manage the sari-sari store near the pier.”
Luis glances at me. Offers a brief, polite nod. The kind that says I’m trying not to judge you based on gossip, but I’ve definitely heard things.
“Is Elian coming?” I ask, pretending I don’t care.
“Duh,” Camille replies. “He’s the one handling the Sayaw sa Bangko number. You two should probably talk before someone mistakes your tension for actual stage blocking.”
Before I can answer, a familiar voice cuts through the room.
“Where’s the music system? These kids are counting steps like they’re avoiding landmines.”
Elian walks in, sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, and — unfairly — looking like he stepped out of a tourism ad.
I freeze.
He sees me.
And without missing a beat, says:
“Well. I guess anyone can be a volunteer now.”
I bristle. “And yet you still haven’t learned how to say hello like a normal person.”
Camille mutters, “Here we go.”
Elian walks over, eyes narrowed slightly. “What are you even doing here?”
“I was invited.”
“Pity invite?”
“Nope. Blackmail.”
He crosses his arms. “Look, if you’re gonna help, then help. If you’re just here to sulk and throw shade, we already have Camille for that.”
“Excuse me?” Camille says, scandalized.
“I’m not here for you,” I shoot back. “I’m here to help the kids.”
“Oh, how noble. Saint Harris of Passive Aggression.”
Luis clears his throat. “You guys know you’re arguing in front of the children, right?”
We both shut up.
A ten-year-old in a banana costume blinks up at us and says, “Are you two dating?”
Elian coughs violently. I nearly choke on air.
Camille claps once. “Alright! Break time!”
After the dry run, we spill out into the shade near the basketball court. Camille’s gone to grab turon from the vendor. Luis is showing the kids how to coil speaker cords properly. Elian and I somehow end up sitting under the same tree.
Quiet.
Almost… peaceful.
He glances at me.
“You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“Of me?”
“…Of a lot of things.”
He nods.
Then, like it costs him something, he says, “I didn’t hate you, you know.”
I turn. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I was angry. Confused. Hurt.”
“I was scared.”
We sit in that for a moment.
The wind shifts. Rain again, somewhere distant.
“I thought—” he starts, then stops.
“What?”
“I thought maybe… if you stayed, I would’ve said something. Admitted something.”
My pulse skips.
“What would you have admitted?”
He looks away.
Then quietly: “That I wasn’t just mad at you. I was mad at myself. For feeling… what I felt.”
He stands suddenly, brushing dust off his pants.
“Anyway,” he says, too fast. “See you at the fiesta rehearsal next week.”
Then he walks off.
Leaving me there under the tree, the wind in my hair, the taste of old truths hanging between my teeth.
- Writer
