- Ari's POV -
Stepping out of the air-conditioned taxi and into the thick, humid Manila evening felt like walking into a damp embrace. The city's relentless energy, the constant hum of traffic and distant chatter, was a stark contrast to the more languid pace of Cebu I'd left behind that morning. My stomach churned with a familiar mix of nerves and a fragile kind of excitement as I made my way towards the gallery, its sleek, modern façade glowing invitingly against the twilight.
Tonight was a big deal, years of solitary communion with paint and canvas culminating in this public unveiling. Friends were flying in, collectors I'd only ever corresponded with online were expected, and critics whose words could either elevate or deflate a career would be milling through the crowd. And then there was Migs.
He'd sent a text earlier, a breezy, almost offhand message amidst the flurry of my pre-opening jitters.
"Congrats on the opening, man! Sounds like it'll be huge. Might try to swing by later if I can escape the filming vortex."
The "if" hung there, a familiar, flimsy thread of hope that I knew better than to clutch too tightly. This was the well-worn pattern of our interactions – a casual promise, a possibility dangled, rarely fully realized when it truly mattered to me.
Inside, the gallery buzzed with a controlled kind of chaos. The bright spotlights illuminated my paintings, each stroke and color choice laid bare for scrutiny. The air was thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume and nervous anticipation.
Bea was a radiant force beside me, her genuine pride in my work a warm, steadying presence. She navigated the room with effortless grace, introducing me to people whose names swam in my overwhelmed brain, her enthusiastic praise for my art a comforting buffer against the critical gazes I occasionally caught.
I found myself talking about the inspiration of certain pieces, the emotions that had driven their creation – the turbulent blues of a restless sea mirroring my inner turmoil, the vibrant oranges and yellows a fleeting glimpse of a hope I often struggled to hold onto.
It was a strange kind of intimacy, sharing such personal fragments with complete strangers.
As the initial rush of arrivals subsided, and the crowd began to settle into smaller clusters, I found my gaze drifting towards the entrance with a regularity that bordered on the obsessive. Each new arrival sparked a fleeting surge of hope, quickly followed by a familiar pang of disappointment.
Migs' face wasn't among them.
Later, Bea gently steered me towards a quieter alcove, two delicate glasses of sparkling wine clinking softly in her hand.
"You're positively radiating, Ari," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners, a genuine smile gracing her lips. "Your work is… it's breathtaking. You must be so incredibly proud."
"I am," I replied, the words feeling a little hollow despite the genuine swell of accomplishment within me. "It's… a good feeling. Surreal, almost."
Bea's smile softened, a hint of that familiar concern creeping into her expression.
"Any word from our elusive actor friend?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral, laced with years of witnessing this same cycle of hope and disappointment.
I took a slow sip of the wine, the bubbles tickling my throat.
"He texted. 'Trying his best.'"
The words felt flat, devoid of any real expectation. It was the standard Migs protocol – a vague promise that allowed him to remain in the periphery without truly committing.
"Ari," Bea began, her voice taking on a more serious edge, the warmth in her eyes replaced by a quiet determination. "Look around you. Look at what you've created. People are genuinely moved by your art. You deserve someone in your life who shows that same level of genuine appreciation for you. Not someone who offers you the crumbs of their attention when their own world allows."
Her words, though a familiar refrain, hit with a renewed force tonight. Surrounded by the tangible evidence of my passion and dedication, Migs' casual "maybe" felt like a dismissive flick of the wrist. I was pouring my heart and soul onto these canvases, and the one person whose deeper understanding I craved seemed content to remain a distant admirer, offering fleeting praise while reserving his genuine presence for other, seemingly more important, aspects of his life.
As the evening wore on, the gallery began to thin. The gallery owner, a flamboyant man with a booming laugh, gave a heartfelt toast, his words praising my talent and the undeniable success of the opening night. I offered a polite smile, my gaze still flicking towards the entrance with a stubborn, almost embarrassing persistence. But Migs' familiar face never appeared.
Another "maybe" that had dissolved into the ether of his busy life. Another quiet disappointment settling in the familiar hollow in my chest.
As Bea and I finally made our way out of the gallery, the Manila night air still clinging to us like a damp shroud, the sounds of the city a relentless hum, a familiar ache settled within me.
My art had found its voice, had resonated with strangers, but the one voice I truly longed to hear, offering genuine celebration and unwavering presence, had remained silent. The fleeting warmth of Migs' earlier text felt like a cruel tease, a reminder of the casual affection that kept me orbiting his world, a convenient fallback when his own star felt momentarily dim.
Tonight, bathed in the glow of my own artistic achievement, the weight of that realization felt heavier than ever.