Anri POV
I stepped out of the airport and immediately regretted all my life choices.
It was so humid.
Not like warm and breezy, no. This was wet-air, sweat-in-places-you-didn't-know-sweated kind of humid. My shirt stuck to my back before I even reached the car.
"Oh my god," I muttered, dragging my suitcase toward the waiting area. "Am I in a sauna or just being punished?"
The driver holding the sign with my name smiled politely like he hadn't just watched me fall apart in real time.
"Ma'am Anri?"
"Yup," I said, already wiping sweat off my upper lip. "Hi. Sorry. It's been a long flight and I'm not built for this weather."
He helped load my bags into the van. I climbed in, grateful for the blast of air-conditioning.
It hit me then: I was really here. In Manila. Alone.
I'd been back to the Philippines a few times since moving to Australia, but only ever to our sleepy little province. Always with family. Always within ten feet of someone I knew. And everyone back home loved to talk about how dangerous Manila was.
"Don't talk to strangers."
"Don't go out at night."
"Manila's not safe."
It was like the city had a warning label.
And now I was here for a month. With no one. For work.
I opened the welcome packet the production team emailed me. It had my full schedule: look tests, fittings, shoots, content days, brand meetings. I was booked. Fully. No time to think. Maybe that was a good thing.
The hotel was nicer than I expected—air-conditioned lobby, fancy elevator with a digital screen, staff who said "Welcome back" even though I'd never been there before. My room had two twin beds even though I was alone, a mini fridge, and more pillows than I knew what to do with.
I stood by the window and looked out at the city. Buildings everywhere. Traffic already backed up. No beach in sight. This was Manila—loud, fast, too much—and I was in the middle of it.
I flopped onto the bed and called Carla on FaceTime.
"Girl, I'm in hell," I said as soon as she picked up.
Carla snorted. "Welcome to the homeland. What's it like?"
"Humid. Overwhelming. There's so many cars I feel like they're gonna start stacking."
"Are you safe?"
"I'm in a hotel. It's nice. There's free fruit and at least seven types of lighting."
"Babe, that's luxury. Are you eating?"
"Not yet. I might order Jollibee."
"Ugh. Chickenjoy. Do it."
The next morning started early.
Call time: 7:00 a.m.
I dragged myself down to the hotel lobby in oversized sunglasses and slippers, hoping they'd feed us before throwing us into glam. They did. Rice, eggs, longganisa, and a paper cup of coffee.
The studio was only twenty minutes away, but traffic made it feel like forever. I stared out the window the whole time, half-awake, half-anxious.
Every billboard we passed looked like it had ten people fighting for space. Skincare, whitening, instant noodles, celebrity faces layered on top of more celebrity faces. I didn't recognize most of them.
The studio looked small from outside but opened up once we got in. High ceilings, fans buzzing overhead, people already taping cables down and rolling racks of clothes across the floor.
The second I stepped inside, someone shouted, "Talent's here!"
And just like that, a full team was on me.
Makeup. Hair. Wardrobe. A woman with a clipboard confirming my sizes. A stylist muttering to herself in Taglish while adjusting the waist of a linen dress I hadn't even said yes to yet.
It was fast. Not chaotic—just sharp. Everyone knew their part. No downtime, no over-explaining. Just: move, prep, shoot.
In Australia, things moved slower. People lingered. Chatted. Ate muffins in between lighting changes. You were either waiting forever or shooting forever. Here, things just... happened.
But surprisingly, I didn't feel out of place.
They spoke to me like I was part of the crew. Not foreign, not special—just familiar. And maybe that was the weirdest part. I didn't feel like a guest.
I felt like I belonged.
The head stylist, Ate Liza, gave me a once-over and said, "Maganda 'to sa skin tone mo, 'nak," while pinning a flowy navy top over my shoulders.
"Thank you," I said, half-laughing. "I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm good at pretending."
She winked. "Then you'll be fine."
We did two looks before lunch—one casual airport outfit and one more "heritage modern," which basically meant wide-leg trousers and gold earrings shaped like suns. I did some B-roll walking through a mocked-up check-in counter and fake laughed with a fake suitcase for about ten minutes.
They seemed happy with it. No one yelled. Someone handed me an umbrella when I stepped out for air. A PA brought me bottled water before I even asked. People actually smiled at each other between takes. It was fast—but not unfriendly.
After lunch, they moved us into headshots.
Neutral background. Simple lighting. A stool in the middle of the studio that everyone pretended was a perfectly normal place to sit and act natural in front of strangers.
I was waiting on the side while they set up the next look—just scrolling through some of the photos they'd already taken, checking if my left side still worked. My makeup was holding. Hair had survived. I looked like the kind of person a national airline might politely let into a billboard. So that was something.
Then I looked up.
And my stomach dropped.
Someone was standing across the studio, just outside the lighting setup, talking to one of the producers. He wasn't even doing anything. Just standing there. Still. Calm. Watching.
Tall. Chinito. Button-down shirt. Sleeves rolled.
I blinked. Stared. Blinked again.
No freaking way.
My brain immediately jumped to him. That him. Melbourne him. The one who basically rewired my nervous system. The guy with the deep voice and hands that knew exactly what they were doing. The one I didn't even get a name from.
There was no reason for him to be here.
Right?
I leaned forward, subtly, like that was going to help clarify reality.
It looked like him. The face. The vibe. The same kind of stillness, like he didn't need to fill space with movement or words to be noticed. But the energy? Way different.
He looked... cold. Reserved. Kind of scary, if I'm honest.
The guy I met in Melbourne had been warm. Intense, yeah—but open. A little bit playful, even. This one looked like he was about to deliver performance feedback and cut someone from the team. His jaw was set. His body language said, I'm not here to make friends.
Same face. Different energy.
Was I being dramatic? Probably. Was I spiraling? Absolutely.
And also—was he even Filipino?
Because when we hooked up, his accent already gave away that he wasn't local. More international boarding school than anything—smooth, neutral, polished. The kind of voice that's lived in multiple time zones.
So maybe it wasn't him.
Maybe I was just jet-lagged. Or heat-stressed. Or projecting. That was totally possible.
I mean, sure, he was Asian. Chinito. Sharp jaw. But I wasn't about to scream across the studio: Hey, sorry, did we sleep together in another country??
"Anri, ready for the next set?"
I blinked. "Yeah, coming!"
When I turned back, he was gone.
Vanished. Like my sanity.
I stood. Smoothed the front of my shirt. Walked onto set like I hadn't just mentally blacked out for a full thirty seconds.
I sat on the stool, looked into the camera, and told my face to relax.
But inside? My brain was having a full-on meltdown.