(Cubao — 11:42 PM)
The city had gone to sleep, but Cubao never really did.
You could still hear the faint buzz of tricycles somewhere beyond the trees, the hum of a late jeepney, the occasional bark of a street dog.
And under the bridge — that old bridge, cracked and painted over too many times — a single basketball rolled lazily against a wall.
Riki Dela Peña sat beside it, knees pulled up, hoodie over his head.
He wasn't hiding, just thinking.
The night smelled like rain that forgot to fall.
He spun the ball once in his hands.
"Feels lighter," he muttered.
Maybe it was him that felt heavier.
He didn't notice the footsteps at first.
Then a familiar voice:
"Bro, you seriously didn't think we'd let you mope on your birthday?"
Renz Alonzo ducked under the bridge's beam, holding a plastic bag that leaked grease and smelled amazing.
Behind him came Bornok, balancing two plastic bottles of cola like trophies.
Riki looked up. "How'd you even—"
Kio Navarro walked in, waving a small blue notebook. "Found it here."
He tapped the cover. "Page forty-one. 'Riki Dela Peña — 19 next week, but probably won't tell anyone because he hates attention.'"
He grinned. "Guess Jax was right."
Renz sat beside him, tearing open the paper bag. "Don't worry, we didn't bring candles. Just chicken."
Bornok popped a cola open. "And regrets."
Riki shook his head, but the smile broke through. "You guys are idiots."
Bornok raised his bottle. "Happy birthday, idiot number one."
They ate like they always did — messy, loud, overlapping stories.
Kio tried to hand Riki a napkin; Riki used his sleeve instead.
The concrete still felt cold even through their jeans.
Above them, headlights swept the undersides of the bridge, light fading across their faces in quick waves.
Renz chewed thoughtfully. "Remember when we couldn't even afford chicken?"
Bornok snorted. "Remember when we couldn't even afford a ball?"
Kio flipped through his notebook. "Remember when we thought winning once was enough?"
Riki didn't answer.
He just looked at the river — black and glassy, reflecting every passing car.
"We didn't know what we were doing back then," he said finally.
Renz smirked. "We still don't."
They heard a thump from behind.
Teo ducked under the concrete ledge, carrying a small white box.
He didn't say anything — just nodded once and handed it to Riki.
It was a cake.
Half-melted icing, lopsided letters:
"HBD Riki – Flowstate."
Riki stared at it for a second, then laughed. "Where'd you even get this?"
Teo shrugged. "Convenience store. They had frosting pens."
Bornok squinted. "That's icing, bro, not ink."
Teo actually smiled. "Then I wrote with icing."
Drei showed up next, balancing a guitar case and a take-out bag.
"Sorry. Traffic."
Renz pointed at the case. "You even know how to play that thing?"
Drei shrugged. "Nah. I just like how it looks when I walk in."
Lars came last — hood up, earbuds dangling, still half in his own world.
He didn't say much. Just bumped Riki's shoulder as he sat down.
"Sixteen," Lars said quietly. "Still younger than all of you."
Bornok grinned. "Yeah, but you sound fifty sometimes."
"Old soul," Lars replied. "New shoes."
For a while, no one talked.
They just sat there — the hum of the city above, the steady drip of a leaking pipe beside them.
It was peaceful in a way games never were.
Kio was the one who broke it.
"You ever think about how far we got?"
Renz leaned back, eyes half-closed. "Every day."
Bornok laughed. "Bro, we're still broke, just louder."
Teo smiled faintly. "But not lost anymore."
Riki spun the ball on one finger, slow, wobbling.
"Feels weird," he said. "All this time chasing something... now it's like it's chasing us back."
Drei looked over. "That's what happens when you start winning."
Riki shook his head. "Nah. That's what happens when you stop running."
The night deepened.
A stray cat darted past.
Someone above honked twice, long and low.
They started reminiscing in broken fragments —
Renz talking about his first dunk,
Bornok describing the mud from Pangasinan like it was a training ground from hell,
Teo confessing that he still dreams of his dad watching the finals,
Kio admitting he writes every night so he won't forget what this feels like,
Lars quietly saying that he listens to the echo of their games when he can't sleep.
Riki just listened.
For once, he didn't feel like the captain — just part of something breathing beside him.
At midnight, Kio tore a page out of his notebook and handed it over.
It was written in quick, clean strokes:
"Under the bridge again.
Not the same bridge — the people changed.
Riki turned nineteen.
Teo turns eighteen next month.
Lars already sixteen, still talking like a ghost.
Bornok's jokes older than him.
Renz still pretending he doesn't care but always shows up first.
Thea, sitting just far enough to listen, pretending she's not smiling.
Maybe that's what Flowstate is — the ones who always show up."
Riki folded it carefully, tucked it into his jacket.
"Thanks."
Kio smiled. "Don't lose it."
Renz stood, stretching. "Next year, we throw you a proper one. With beer."
A voice echoed from the slope above. "You wish."
They all turned — Thea was there, leaning on the railing, jacket half-zipped, hair tied back.
She'd been watching quietly for a while, hands in her pockets.
"Happy birthday, Riki," she said, smiling faintly. "Coach Alvarez would've shown up too, but he's asleep in the gym again."
Bornok groaned. "He's like a basketball ghost."
Thea smirked. "And you're all the haunted ones."
Renz raised a cola bottle. "Join us?"
She shook her head. "I already did. I'm just the one making sure no one falls in the river."
They laughed — the sound rising up into the night, brushing the underside of the bridge where the echoes never really left.
As they packed up, Riki stayed behind for a moment, looking up at the bridge beams.
He could still see the faint marks from when they used to hang makeshift hoops there.
The city lights danced in the puddles below.
He spun the ball one last time, whispering to himself:
"Under the bridge again... and still here."
He tossed it gently to Lars, who caught it without looking.
They walked off together, footsteps fading into the hum of Cubao.
No speeches. No music. Just the rhythm of friends who'd learned how to stay.
End of Chapter 6 — "Under the Bridge"