I avoided her for a day. It was cowardly, but the weight of what I'd discovered was a physical pressure on my chest. How do you look at someone and know they are dead? How do you have a conversation with a memory?
But Friday came, and the pull of the plaza, of our promise, was stronger than my fear. I found myself at the fountain, the neon lights of the i saw stalls painting the water in garish colors.
She was already there, waiting. She looked… diminished. Fainter, as if the vibrant energy of the plaza was draining her. She smiled when she saw me, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"You've been quiet," she said softly, not as an accusation, but an observation.
"I've been thinking," I replied, my voice hoarse. We sat in silence for a moment, watching the children play. The joyous shrieks felt like they were coming from another planet.
I took a deep breath. The question I'd rehearsed a hundred times finally fought its way out. "Luna," I began, my voice barely a whisper. "What year is it?"
She turned to me, her head tilted in confusion. "What do you mean? It's 2023."
A wave of cold washed over me. She didn't know. She truly had no idea.
"No," I said, my voice gaining a sliver of strength. "Luna… what year do you think it is?"
The smile finally vanished from her face. The sounds of the plaza seemed to mute, as if someone had turned down the volume on the world. Her expression was one of dawning, terrible confusion.
"It's…" she started, then stopped. Her brow furrowed. "It's… the year after the big storm. The one that washed out the old bridge…" Her voice trailed off. The old bridge had been rebuilt in 1999.
She looked at her hands, then at the glowing smartphone in a teenager's hand across the plaza. She looked at the modern jeepneys driving past. The confusion in her eyes deepened into something like panic.
"The cars…" she murmured. "The clothes… I thought they were just… new." She looked back at me, her eyes wide and frightened, finally seeing the world through a new, horrifying lens. "JM… how long?"
I couldn't say it. I couldn't form the words. Twenty-five years. You've been gone for twenty-five years.
The secret was out. And the look of utter, world-shattering devastation on her face was a price I hadn't been prepared to pay.