Jay-Jay's POV
The plane felt too quiet without all of Section E crammed into it. It was just the London crew this time — me, Keifer, Serina, Rakki, Freya, Grace, Felix, Calix, Denzel, Kit, a couple more from our course, and one very dramatic plant in a taped-up box Rakki insisted on calling "our green child." Heathrow had spat us out at the gate with its usual chaos, but walking down that jet bridge didn't feel like a holiday. It felt like closing a door.
London stayed pressed against the windows as we taxied — gray sky, thin line of the Thames, the ghost of our riverside flat somewhere out there. When the engines roared and the plane lifted, my stomach dropped, fingers digging into the armrest until Keifer's hand covered mine. His bracelet clicked against my ring; I focused on that sound instead of the ground falling away.
"Last time we leave this place as residents," he murmured.
"Next time as tourists," I said, trying it on. It didn't hurt as much as I expected.
Once we were in the air, the map on the screen showed our tiny plane icon crawling away from Europe, arrow pointed straight at Manila. Group chat kept buzzing even at 35,000 feet — messages waiting for us when we landed. Ci‑N spamming mango emojis and "HURRY UP," Eman sending photos of trays of lumpia ("Welcome-home merienda ready"), Yuri's short "Security checked. Safe." Angelo's last text sat pinned at the top: Gate driver will meet you. Then home.
Somewhere over the Middle East, most of the others knocked out. Felix snored against the window, Calix pretended he didn't, Rakki drooled onto Grace's shoulder, Freya hogged two airline blankets, Kit sketched clouds. Serina read quietly, glasses low on her nose, looking up every time the turbulence bumped a little too hard, just to check I was still there.
I couldn't sleep. The cabin lights were dim, the hum of the engines steady, and my brain was juggling two lives at once — the girl who'd arrived in London broken and scared, and the woman leaving with a husband, a grief bracelet, and scars that no longer felt like open wounds.
"Scared?" Keifer asked softly, not looking away from the little moving plane on his screen.
"A bit," I admitted. "Philippines used to mean danger. Now it's… everything."
He nodded. "London was our rehab. Philippines is our real life."
Out the window, dawn eventually bled into the sky, clouds turning pink and gold. When the captain finally announced descent and "Welcome to Manila," my heart hammered against my ribs, but not from panic. From something like anticipation.
Heat slapped us the second we stepped out of the air bridge, thick and familiar. The air smelled like jet fuel, coffee, and outside the glass, faintly like rain on hot concrete. As we cleared immigration and walked toward arrivals, my phone buzzed nonstop — We see you on the tracker, No running, Ci‑N put the confetti away.
And then the doors slid open, and the noise hit — shouting, laughing, a chorus that belonged to us.
Yuri by the rail, posture relaxed for once. Ci‑N waving a ridiculous "WELCOME HOME, LONDON LOSERS" banner. Eman in an apron in the middle of the airport, for some reason. Angelo and Serina's eyes both shining.
London was behind us.
Home was waiting.