We met on a Thursday night, the kind of night that hummed with loneliness even though the bar was loud.
I wasn't supposed to be there. A friend had dragged me out, claiming I worked too much and smiled too little. She said I needed a drink. I think she meant a distraction.
The bar was tucked along a narrow corner in Poblacion, somewhere between a sari-sari store and a Korean BBQ joint that smelled like burnt garlic and smoke. The sign outside flickered. The floor was sticky. And the music—'90s R&B remixes that made you nostalgic and sad at the same time—blared over the crowd.
We sat at a plastic table dressed up with candles in empty beer bottles. I ordered a gin tonic, my go-to when I didn't feel like explaining myself. My friend, already two cocktails in, nudged me as she pointed with her lips.
"Look who just walked in."
Daniel.
Messy hair, a slouch that didn't care, tattoos on his forearms that peeked past the rolled sleeves of his linen shirt. Rings on both hands. The kind of man who looked like he lived in stories he never bothered to write down. The kind of man who smelled like secondhand smoke and sandalwood, who made "unavailable" look like a dare.
He caught my eye and didn't look away. Just smirked. Lifted his beer like a toast.
"Careful," my friend leaned in, already grinning. "He looks like trouble."
And maybe it was the wine, or the heat, or the fact that I hadn't been looked at like that in a long time, but when he came over and said,
"You look like someone who always keeps control,"
I smiled back and replied,
"And you look like someone who likes to break it."
I should've walked away.
Instead, I leaned in.
He spoke Taglish the way only Manila boys do—confident, a little too fast, peppered with "eh" and "naman" like punctuation.
"San ka galing?" he asked, sipping his beer.
"Work," I answered. "You?"
He shrugged. "Life."
We laughed. It was easy.
He flirted like it was sport, and I played along like I hadn't already googled his first name just in case. He asked questions that landed perfectly:
"What scares you?"
"What did you want to be when you were seven?"
"Do you ever let anyone really see you?"
I should've said yes.
Instead, I said, "Sometimes. If they earn it."
He made me laugh, which was rare for a man who hadn't earned it.
By the end of the night, I'd already saved his number under "Daniel 🌙."
The texting started fast.
And it didn't stop.
Good morning, beautiful.
What are you wearing?
I miss that laugh.
Thinking about you.
Thinking about that night.
The messages came like tiny jolts of dopamine. I checked them between emails, in the middle of BGC traffic, while waiting for sisig at a 24-hour lugawan. He became a presence in my day, like background music you didn't ask for but started dancing to anyway.
He said things like, "I've never met anyone like you," and I told myself not to believe it—while secretly hoping maybe, this time, it was true.
We didn't define anything.
We didn't need to.
At least, that's what I told myself.
Because we were "vibing."
Because labels were "too much pressure."
Because this is how people connect now—right?
We'd meet after 9. Never before. Always after work, after he "wrapped things up," after he was done being someone else for someone else. We shared siomai and secrets at street corners, made out under dim lamps outside 7-Elevens, and once danced barefoot at 1 a.m. to a karaoke machine belting "Bakit Pa?" from someone's terrace nearby.
He'd disappear for a day or two, then return with fire:
"Sorry, babe. Crazy day. Let me make it up to you."
And he did.
With kisses that felt like confessions.
With nights that blurred into mornings.
With hands that held me like I was something to be kept.
But even then, I could feel it—the hollowness between highs.
The silence that followed the sparks.
The ache of waiting to be wanted again.
One night, curled in his sheets that smelled like cologne, cigarettes, and the faint scent of hotdog cooked in the morning, I asked,
"What are we?"
I was staring at the glow-in-the-dark sticker stars on his ceiling like they might answer for him.
He laughed. "We're having fun, aren't we?"
I nodded like that was enough.
But later, alone in the bathroom, I saw our toothbrushes in a cup—mine pink, his green.
And I felt something slip.
The mirror had water stains, and the fluorescent light made me look older, more tired. There was a single strand of my hair caught in the bristles of his comb. It felt like a metaphor.
I scrolled through Instagram while sitting on the toilet, the fan humming overhead.
Couples on beaches in Batangas. Anniversaries with balloons spelling "Babe." Smiling girlfriends holding hands with men who looked like they knew how to stay.
And me?
Still waiting for his text.
Still wondering if almost was better than nothing.
Still convincing myself that chemistry was enough.
Outside, the city didn't care. Jeepneys still roared down the streets. Stray dogs still barked at passing motorcycles. My phone buzzed.
It was him.
Miss you.
Come over?
I stood up, flushed, looked at myself in the mirror again.
He doesn't look like trouble, I thought.
He looks like my type.
And that scared me more than anything.