it's scary out here

There aren’t any stars, tonight — just the metropolitan fog clouding the sky and my judgment. The night air is cold and biting on my cheeks as if nipping at me for being out so late. Even I know it’s way too late to go out, and everything I see seems to confirm this; The lonely moon, the ever-present scent of cigarettes and urine that could only be a bad omen. Every street light stands flickering, as if trying to send me a message, why are you here? Why are you here? I hunch my shoulders in an attempt to burrow some of the warmth in. I’m wearing your varsity jacket but it does me no favors against the chill. I keep on walking anyway, towards my beacon, towards you.

I’m here because you need me. 

A man whistles as I walk past, and from behind me, I hear even more cajoles and drunken banter. I have to fight the urge to shout an expletive back at them. To wring their necks, to kick them where it hurts. To punch them bloody, to watch the light leave their eyes as easily as how they scare me with their words. But all of that is just born from a frustrated and overworked imagination; to fight back is futile and impossible. I can barely reach the kitchen shelves and my back hurts from all the freelance coding I do. Add the fact that I am a coward who runs away, at least according to you, then in all accounts — I am weak. Between the two of us, you’re the strong one. And you’re the one that needs help right now. So I force my legs to move quickly. 

Few people can make me do this, by the way. I’d do it for Halle if she didn’t want our mother to find out where she was. Maybe for Eliza, if her boyfriend of the month couldn’t pick her up, and only if it was nearby. The list ends there. Walking in Manila on a Wednesday night, when old drunk men sing their karaoke while a dead cat lies in the corner of the street? It’s scary out here. No woman wants to be outside at a time and place like this. My mother would kill me if she found out I was outside; even my mild-mannered father would protest. Every instinct, every warning in my body is telling me no. 

But I keep walking towards the address you texted Lee, anyway. 

I’d be hurt that you just didn’t message me directly, but that doesn’t matter. I know it’s me you wanted to come anyway. Lee is back home, barely moving from exhaustion because he just came home from working a double shift at the hospital. You know that, and yet you still messaged him, instead of me. Luckily for you, I was still awake. I was waiting for you to come home. And besides, Lee leaves his things all around the common area. It’s why he’s the easiest person to steal from. 

I double-checked to see if you have replied since your last message. You haven’t — and so I walk faster. 

It is strange, how the night can heighten every woman’s instincts. Any slight movement in the street can be perceived as a threat. Any sudden sound can make my heart start pounding. I don’t even want to turn and look if someone is behind me. Shadows creep into the edges of my vision — cars look menacing, and even the trees look like they want to fight me. A plastic bag rustles and goosebumps crawl on my skin. The only way for me to do this is to keep walking forward. Just ignore everything — the bleak moonlight, the noises of the night, the rabbit-like thumping sound of my heart. 

I turn a corner. 

From the distance, I can see the landmark you mentioned — the white drugstore next to the bank. My knees are burning in protest because of the workout I’m putting them through at 1 AM. You always asked me to go to the gym with you when we were together. You wanted to do so many things together — running, gardening, visiting your mother — but always in the morning. And that was my problem, I couldn’t wake up on time. I could never wake up at the same time as you did so easily. In the morning, you would sneak out of our bed and leave me snoring. At breakfast, you would berate me for not joining you and I would snarkily reply that you didn’t wake me up. To this day, even months after we’ve broken up, this argument still annoys me. There’s still a childish voice in me that wants to ask you: Did you even try to wake me up? Or did you just leave without even trying?

The thing is, you wanted me to change who I was for you. And I wanted us to stay the same. 

Things weren’t perfect between us, but I thought that’s why we worked. We were always changing, from high school friends to college lovers to the weird, in-between stage that we both hated and then to affectionate exes. It was like love was a kaleidoscope and you and I were just colors changing shapes. It’s nice, though — I keep knowing different facets of you and you keep knowing different facets of me. And through it all, we keep staying in each other’s orbit. At least — I tried to for you. You kept pushing me away recently, with all the internships you suddenly had and the changes in your schedule. If you didn’t want to see me, you could've just said so. 

Besides, it was my idea for you to date again, which is why this midnight excursion is even more annoying. We were sitting side-by-side as you swiped left on every guy. I was insistent about this; I could tell you were hesitant and were just doing it because I wanted you to do it. I took the initiative. I swiped right for you! I thought this was what we needed to be friends again. Looking at his profile, bio, and interests, a thought popped into my head: this is the man who can make you laugh. And I was right, he did make you laugh — I saw you giggling in the kitchen when I went downstairs to get a glass of water last week. I started looking for new dormitories at that very moment. I haven’t even told you that yet, but I know that you know that the lease is coming up. We only ever stayed in that dorm because Lee’s internship in the hospital stressed him out so much that he couldn’t possibly deal with finding a new roommate. But Lee is personable and sweet, or so you describe him. Lee only ever leaves me dirty dishes in the sink to clean, which is another reason why we never get along. The fact you took his advice to leave me probably outranks that particular list. He’ll probably befriend another college girl to replace me when I leave. 

I saw you getting ready tonight. You looked very pretty with your pink make-up and your flowy white dress. You even put glittery eyeshadow in the inner corner of your eyes; it’s how I knew you were excited for this date. You always put some when we were going out. And when you put on your perfume and waved goodbye at me, my heart did clench a little. It finally felt like it was the end for us — and while it made me sad, it wasn’t that hard to watch you leave. There’s some comfort in it for me still — I only encouraged you to date men because if you date another girl after me, I think I’d lose it.  

I check Lee’s phone for the last time as I finally come to a halt in front of a dinky, dark chicken restaurant. I could never understand your interest in finding secret spots across the city. But I loved finding them with you. It just sucks that even that isn’t our thing anymore. I put both of my hands on the handle and the glass door squeaks noisily as I push it open. A server, some teenage boy with dark circles under his eyes, comes up to me and I ask him if he’s seen you. He tells me that you left rushing, your plates still full, when he was in the restroom. Then he ran after you, calling your name. He tells me that you were distraught. He tells me he hasn’t seen either of you since.

As soon as I read your SOS message thirty minutes ago, I knew that something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. But I didn’t expect this. My heart plummets to the ground and my body is ice. It feels like my brain is a program that refuses to run because I forgot a parenthesis. Short-circuited, haywire. Some part of my brain arrives at what I find to be wrong — you are not the type of person who leaves their dinner. No matter how bad the date, you will finish your meal. You love eating out. It’s my favorite fact about you. I go back outside and my fingers tremble are they try to call you. 

As soon as I hit the dial, I heard Dancing Queen in the tiny alley beside the restaurant. If it wasn’t for the streetlight conveniently shining at its entrance, I would have completely missed it. It was the kind of alley you don’t want to be in, the kind that hides things in the darkness of the night. You hate those alleys. They scare you. I run to the sound and —

There you were, sitting on the ground with the trash and the dust and the broken things all around you, your hands and pretty white dress drenched in blood. There he was, lying on the ground near you, head bashed, limbs folded like a lifeless doll. I numbingly trace the huge splat of blood on the wall. I quickly imagined it, so fast I could have sworn I was there right with you - the dark alley, the man, and you. The dark alley, a strong push from an athlete, and a man. A woman and a man in a dark alley. 

What did he do to make you push him that hard? A push hard enough to kill. Did you mean to kill him? Or did you just want him to stop? My mind runs in circles and the question I can’t let go remains the same.

What did he do to make you push him?  

There is an equation here that I can’t quite figure out. My brain can’t seem to process it. 

I approach you, eyes flitting between the man who is dead and you who is bloodied. Under the bleak moonlight, the broken things — glass, I realize, as I move closer to you, sparkle around you. I wonder if you are hurt, just sitting near the debris. Even though on the ground, they seem to me like stars and you, the moon. You are incandescent. You are helpless. 

And I am finally here.  

You look up, voice barely louder than a whisper but surer than ever, “He looked at me funny.”