I always wake up before the sun.
Not because i want to. It's more of a curse than a habit. My body just… jerks itself awake before it's supposed to. Like it's trained to be on edge. Like it's scared to rest too long.
And this morning is no different.
4:47 AM. That cruel in-between hour where the sky is neither black nor blue, and everything feels like it's holding its breath.
I drag myself out of bed, barefoot, and cold tiles greet me like an old enemy. Walang tunog sa paligid. No screams, no chants, no echo of lights or cameras. Just quiet. Dead quiet.
The kind of quiet i used to beg for.
My fingers find the pack of cigarettes i keep by the small kitchen window. I take one out, light it, and push the sliding door open to the balcony, our sad little slab of concrete on the third floor of this forgettable building in a town no one really talks about. Perfect.
I inhale.
The burn is familiar.
Ugly.
But honest.
Then i hear it, faint click of a door opening. Katabing unit.
Ken.
Just like yesterday. Parang alarm clock siya ng universe na wala sa oras. Nakapolo siya ngayon, sleeves rolled up. Dark jeans. Isang laptop bag ang hawak niya, saka isang tumbler. Tila araw-araw siyang ganon. Simpleng lalaki. Walang keber kung sino ako. Walang tanong, walang sulyap.
"Good morning," he says, casually, like it's just another thing you say to someone you live next to.
I don't answer.
Not even a glance.
Just another inhale.
Because i'm not interested. I've seen people like him before. The nice ones. The polite ones. The ones who eventually ask for something.
Besides, I didn't come here to make friends. I came here to disappear.
By 6:15, he's gone. His car, a gray secondhand sedan with a barely visible scratch on the rear bumper, rolls away and takes his energy with it.
And the silence returns.
I finish the stick. Crush it into the ashtray i bought from a ukay-ukay two streets away.
Then i go back inside.
No cameras. No stylists. No choreo.
Just… my face. My voice. My mind.
By 10:00 AM, my phone starts buzzing. Again.
Ma: Anak, kumain ka na ba?
Pa: Board meeting with management was moved. Can you call back today?
Manager: Cass, let's review the schedule for Japan leg. Producers want a concept update. Your stylist also needs to discuss your look.
Delete. Delete. Ignore.
I mute everything.
Because i know how this goes.
"Magpahinga ka," they say.
But "pahinga" means fixing your face for media updates. It means replying to emails even if your hands are shaking from overwork. It means saying thank you to fans when you're dead inside. It means smiling when all you want is to sleep.
It's been 12 years of this. I've forgotten what it's like to be normal.
That's the thing no one tells you about becoming a star too early, you're worshipped… but never known.
And now, for once, I want to know myself. No spotlights. No tight corsets. No fan service.
Just… me.
I lose track of time.
The clock says 5:24 PM.
I'm in the same oversized shirt, hair tied up messily, bare-faced. No one here cares, and I love that.
I step out to the balcony again. Same lighter, same cigarette, same stillness.
And like clockwork—
Ken's car pulls in.
He steps out, stretches his neck like he's been in traffic for hours. His shirt's a little wrinkled now, and his ID lanyard bounces on his chest. Something about how ordinary he looks makes me stare for a second too long.
And then he sees me.
He waves once, almost hesitant, like he doesn't want to disturb.
"Hey," he says, walking toward the building entrance, "That's bad for your lungs."
I don't answer. Again.
But this time, I look at him.
Just a little.
He slows down.
"I mean, I'm not judging or anything," he adds. "Just… stating facts."
"You're stating the obvious," I say, finally. My voice, dry. Low. Not inviting.
He grins a little. "Touché."
He doesn't move. Just stands there with his keys in hand. "I never got your name," he says.
"You don't need it," I reply.
He raises an eyebrow. "Harsh. What if i wanted to bring you free food next time i cook?"
"You won't."
"I'm a pretty decent cook."
"And I'm not interested."
He lets out a soft chuckle. Not the kind that offends. The kind that just… accepts things as they are.
"Well, just in case you ever change your mind—I'm Ken."
I say nothing.
But i see it in his eyes, the flicker of recognition he's trying to find in me.
And it never comes.
He doesn't know me.
Not as Cassandra Alcantara. Not as the face of NOVA5. Not as the girl on every LED screen in Asia.
Just… as some moody woman next door who chain smokes on balconies and won't even smile back.
And for a strange, messed up reason, that makes something in my chest loosen. Just a little.
"Cass," I finally mutter.
He turns back. "Huh?"
"That's my name," I say. "Cass."
He smiles again. "Nice to meet you, Cass."
I don't smile back.
I don't even nod.
But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like disappearing.
The night is slow.
I try to write a song, but the words don't come.
I try to sleep, but my mind replays the dream again. The same one. The stadium. The light. Him.
Was that really him? Or just a projection of my exhaustion?
Because in that dream, it wasn't this Ken. It wasn't gray car, rolled sleeves, tired eyes Ken.
It was glowing Ken. Center of the universe Ken.
And yet… he looked at me the same way.
Like i was something he'd been waiting for.
Like he'd known me before i even knew myself.
What the hell does that mean?
1:02 AM. Still no sleep.
I step out to the balcony one last time. The wind is cooler now. Less forgiving.
His apartment lights are off.
But i look anyway.
And i whisper, just for myself, just for the night.
"Who are you, Ken Villafuerte?"
No one answers.
But something inside me shifts.
And for the first time in weeks, I go back inside and fall asleep without medication.