The walk home from school was a sensory journey through the heart of Nasugbu. The late afternoon sun cast a golden, hazy glow over everything, painting the world in warm, lazy strokes. The streets were a symphony of life: vendors calling out "Taho!" and "Ice candy!", the sputtering roar of tricycles weaving dangerously past, their sides painted in vibrant colours and religious icons, and the laughter of children kicking a worn-out soccer ball down a narrow side street. The air was thick and humid, carrying a familiar mix of smells—the pungent smoke from uling (charcoal) grills, the sweet and savoury scent of frying fishballs and kikiam, and the underlying dampness of cement from the last rain.
I was following my usual route, my mind still replaying that brief, haunting classroom encounter on a loop, when a flash of navy blue and pristine white caught my eye. Luna was walking a few steps ahead, her same notebook held tightly against her chest like a shield. She moved with a purposeful yet unhurried grace, her steps light, seemingly untouched by the dust and chaos that swirled around her.
My feet moved before my brain could concoct an excuse. I quickened my pace, my school shoes scuffing against the pavement, until I fell into step beside her. "Hey. Luna, right?" I said, trying to sound casual, like I wasn't actively seeking her out.
She turned, and that same fleeting smile appeared, a little brighter this time in the sunlight. "JM."
Hearing her say my name, so clear and sure, felt like a small, unexpected victory. "Heading home?" I asked, immediately feeling the lameness of the question as it left my mouth.
"For now," she replied, her tone light but cryptic. Her eyes scanned the bustling street, not with annoyance, but with a curious appreciation, as if she were seeing it all for the first time. We walked in a comfortable silence for a block, the sounds of Nasugbu forming our soundtrack. I gestured to Aling Nena's sari-sari store, its entrance a colourful cascade of packaged snacks and bottles of soda dangling from strings. "Ice candy? My treat. It's too hot not to."
She nodded, a genuine spark of pleasure in her eyes. "I'd like that. Thank you."
We bought two ice candies—mine was orange, hers was buko—and leaned against the store's cool concrete wall, watching the world go by. We talked about nothing and everything: the impossible difficulty of Mr. Santos's math problems, the ridiculous rumour that our class president had a crush on the volleyball captain, the best place to get halo-halo now that Manang Ising's cart was gone. Her laughter was light and genuine, a sound that seemed to blend perfectly with the jingle of a passing tricycle. For a moment, the overwhelming sounds of the street faded into a distant backdrop. In that small, shared moment, sucking on our melting ice candies, the bustling streets of Nasugbu didn't feel small or ordinary. They felt like the center of the universe, existing solely for us.