Between the Waves

CHAPTER ONE

They said the sea can wash away anything. That the salt scrubs the past off your skin. That if you stay long enough, you forget. I wanted to believe that. I needed to.

But as the rickety van I took from Naval clattered down the winding road to Caibiran, I felt every damn memory clinging to me like the humidity — thick, stubborn, and sticky as sin.

It’s been nine years since I left Biliran. Not exactly with a bang, but definitely with a trail of burned bridges. I promised myself I wouldn’t come back. Promised I’d never set foot on this island again, not after what happened. But promises, I’ve learned, are just wishes we’re too stubborn to admit won’t hold.

The moment I step off the van, I’m greeted by three things: the scent of wet earth, the sight of overgrown coconut groves, and the weight of eyes watching me.

Biliran hasn’t changed much. The roads still curve like serpents through the hills. The air still smells like crushed leaves and impending rain. But the people? The people remember. And people here don’t forget.

“Is that... Harris Mondragon?” someone whispers from a sari-sari store behind me.

I don’t turn. I just tighten my grip on the handle of my duffel bag and start walking. There’s no use feeding them. I’m not here to explain, apologize, or entertain gossip. I’m here to take care of the house — what’s left of it — and leave.

That was the plan.

My grandmother’s house sits half-hidden behind an overgrown bougainvillea, its petals blood-red against the sun-bleached walls. The gate creaks like an old man complaining when I push it open. The garden is in ruins — or rather, it’s become a jungle. She would’ve hated that. Lola Lita kept everything in order. Even grief had to follow her rules.

I take a deep breath before entering. The house smells like dust and old mangoes. Familiar and strange. Every corner whispers a name. Mine. Hers. And his.

God, him.

I push the thought away. Unpack. Mop. Air out the windows. There’s time for memories later. Or maybe never. I hope never.

But fate’s a b***h with a sense of humor.

By late afternoon, I’m sweating through my shirt and cursing the busted faucet in the kitchen. I decide to head out, maybe get supplies, maybe get drunk — haven’t decided which yet. The heat makes everything feel heavier than it should.

And that’s when I see him.

By the basketball court near the barangay hall. Shirtless. Laughing. Taller than I remember. Tanned. Lean in that way someone gets from working outdoors, not from gym selfies. He’s surrounded by locals, probably friends, maybe worshippers.

I freeze. My chest tightens, not in the poetic way — no butterflies or violins. Just tension. Like a snapped wire vibrating in my ribcage.

He looks up.

And for a moment, I swear he doesn’t recognize me. Then his eyes narrow, just a fraction, like he’s trying to place a smell he doesn’t like.

I should look away. Walk. Run.

Instead, I stare right back.

His smirk returns, slow and cruel, the way it used to when we were sixteen and I still thought hatred was the only way to cope with how he made me feel.

“Look who finally came crawling back,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

And just like that, I’m sixteen again, fists clenched, heart racing, wishing I could punch him or kiss him or both. But I’m not sixteen. And I’m not stupid enough to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

So I smile. Cold. Detached. “Still playing basketball with kids, I see.”

The crowd murmurs. He raises a brow. “Still running your mouth, Mondragon.”

Still Mondragon. Not Harris. Never Harris.

We stand there, ten feet apart, the island holding its breath.

It begins again — or maybe it never ended.