Before the time the sun could taste the sea, Matthew had already swept through the sleepy barangay—his feet stomping against asphalt and gravel, his breath synced to the rhythm of birdsong and distant roosters.
The air still still had that cold of the night, familiar like a coat passed down through generations. Jogging like this calmed him. It reminded him—of him and Dad cutting through Hyde Park in the misty dawn, the sound of their sneakers beating in unison.
His father wasn't the best to him. His deathbed could only be described as scornful yet around him were people laced with much regret.
Matthew never knew why his dad was easily taken away from him, nor did he ever composed himself to feel mournful after the fact—it seemed unnatural to grieve for someone who only knew how to yell or when to yell at you.
Eventually, he slowed to a stop by a bench carved from aged driftwood and thick concrete, the kind local carpenters made without blueprints. It sat like a relic just a few meters from the shore—overlooking the waves, which sang like old lullabies. He collapsed onto it with a satisfied grunt, unscrewed the cap of his energy drink, and took a long swig. The tangy flavor clashed against the scent of the ocean.
"Go fuck yourself, old man!"
"Go ahead, ruin your life!"
Those words—his father's last words may have stemmed from a place of love, but his expression, the way his lips pursed accompanied by the fury in his scalding gaze... Well, it wasn't as if anything would change. It was a fact Matthew despised, he hated the very existence of the man, but he never tried to do anything to change it.
A thing we all lose to because of pride or fear that takes the form of a deep void, taking root once the chance is gone. The very thing that made Matthew feel like everything around him seemed like a mistake.
His fingers tapped against the bottle. The quiet was pulling thoughts out of him like weeds—memories of home, of pain, of the scent of old books and Indian takeout—but also of longing, deep and stinging. But then, without warning, his mind veered—away from London, away from Dad—and into the soft image of last night.
Felix.
That guy.
They'd only spoken for what—twenty minutes? Thirty, maybe? But it busted something open. Not much. Just enough to let something in. Just enough to make it hurt a little less to stand here on this odd island, breathing someone else's history.
It was strange. Illogical, really.
For a man he'd only just met—barely met—Felix had a frustrating way of slipping into the mind like a recurring lyric. Last night had been… oddly grounding. Just the two of them on the steps, talking about nothing and everything. About the places, the cold and how this country was beautiful in a way that demanded your exhaustion. Talking to Felix hadn't fixed anything. But it made standing on its soil hurt a little less.
The sputtering growl of a tricycle rattled through the morning calm like someone coughing up the last of their sleep. Matthew flinched, breath caught halfway between memory and whatever this moment was supposed to be. Gravel cracked under tires. A child's laughter echoed faintly, a radio in the distance playing some soft kundiman, the words floating like ghosts.
He turned.
Speak of the devil...
Standing just off the path, framed by wild gumamela shrubs and uneven sunlight, like a scene from a slow indie film no one had the patience to finish watching except for the people who really needed it. His lockes were still a mess, maybe from a spirited search for the best sleeping position or the humidity attaching itself to everything.
He wasn't smiling, not exactly—but there was something open in his face, like he hadn't decided yet what expression to throw.
"Matthew?" Felix said, squinting a little. "What're you doing here?"
And suddenly everything in Matthew's chest folded in on itself.
He stood—too fast, like he'd been caught doing something embarrassing. Like he was sixteen again, caught sneaking a smoke behind school, except the smoke now was memory, and the school was grief.
He glanced down. His energy drink sat half-finished beside the bench, but what caught his eye were Felix's hands: a flimsy bayong tucked under one arm, and in the other, a carton with half a dozen eggs, still warm. There was a small crack in one of them, a glimmer of yolk peeking through. Somehow, it made Matthew's throat tighten.
"None of your business," he said, and instantly regretted it. The words came out wrong—tinny and defensive, like a car alarm going off when no one was touching it.
Felix just rolled his eyes, sharp and clear, like he'd done it a hundred times before without apology. He didn't bother softening the expression. Didn't hide behind laughter. He wore his irritation plain, the same way some folks wore tsinelas that had long given up their soles.
Matthew's brow furrowed. Defensive. Confused. A little wounded. Like he'd misstepped in a dance he didn't even know he was dancing.
"I was just asking," Felix muttered. Not loud, not kind. His voice carried the sting of a papercut—a tiny, bleeding offense. And then, almost like a dare, he started walking. He didn't look back. Just turned on his heel, sneakers scraping lightly against the gravel, and let his quiet anger trail behind him like sizzling firecrackers an hour after new year's eve.
Matthew clicked his tongue. "Blast it," he whispered to himself, not quite cursing at Felix—more at the situation. At himself. At how easy it was to get pent up on something that's just as simple as a greeting.
He sighed, scooped up his drink, and started walking too. Not following, exactly. Their houses were in the same direction anyway—down the path past the fourth sari-sari store he saw in the area, under the halo-halo sign that hadn't lit up since fiesta three years ago. He didn't want to walk beside Felix so he stayed back—two bus-lengths away. The kind of vehicles that wheezed from Sinait to Vigan, their windows held together by faith and wire.
Felix slowed, glancing back a few times like he expected Matthew to close the gap, maybe even offer an apology for his tampo, but that development doesn't come off in a span of ten minutes, and Matthew was too clever for that game. He stayed where he was, letting the distance stretch between them like a last text seen on a messenger app. He knew what would happen the moment he got too close. His chest would loosen in ways it shouldn't, his mouth would start saying things he hadn't given permission to. Not now, not with him—again.
So Felix played his next card: stopping abruptly to "fix" his shirt, adjusting his bag strap, couching like he just spotted a spider on his sandal. Twice. Thrice, and whatever is it that goes ten times. Each pause pushing Matthew's patience thinner until it was practically paper. It drove him nuts. Because he knew what it meant. And also, because he didn't know what to do with it.
"This guy..."