Bryle's POV
Was Alice mad at me?
I swear, I didn't see anything! Even if I could peel these two eyes off my face as proof, I still wouldn't be able to undo what happened. I only went into her room because I thought she was still asleep. Who could've guessed it would turn into such a disaster?
"Augh!" I yelped as her wet hair suddenly slapped across my face. I rubbed my cheek, half-confused, half-irritated.
"What was that for!?" I blurted out, frowning. She glared at me like I'd committed some kind of federal crime.
"Why are you following me?" she snapped, crossing her arms tightly. Her tone was sharp, but her cheeks were still flushed with lingering embarrassment.
"Huh? I'm not following you! Tita said it's time to eat," I lied, trying to sound as casual as possible even though my heart was still racing.
"Why are you eating here anyway? Didn't you eat at your place before coming over?" she shot back, one brow raised.
"I did eat..." I scratched my head. "But Tita cooked my favorite, so I'm eating again."
"Your favorite? Mom only cooked eggs and fried rice," she said, rolling her eyes.
"Well... fried rice is my favorite!" I stammered, feigning confidence. "You just weren't informed."
I tried to brush past her, but she quickly blocked my path with both arms like we were playing a high-stakes game of patintero.
"Move it, Alice!"
"No way, why are you being like—"
"Alice, that's enough! You two are acting like cats and dogs again!" Tita's voice echoed from the kitchen. Alice froze, lowering her arms reluctantly.
"Bryle, come sit down. It's bad luck to keep the food waiting," Tita added.
I couldn't resist—I shot Alice a teasing grin as I walked past.
"Bleee~" I whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.
She clenched her fists, glaring at me so hard I swear my soul almost left my body. I hurried to the dining table before she could throw another hair dryer at me.
We'd known each other since we were kids.
I still remember that day in the park—she was small, fragile, sitting alone on the swing while clutching a teddy bear that looked older than she was. Everyone else avoided her, but I couldn't.
I walked up to her, my knees shaking.
"Hi... what's your name? I'm Bryle." I smiled awkwardly, holding out my hand.
She didn't take it. Her eyes were distant, brimming with tears.
"Are you okay? Why are you crying?" I asked softly. "Do you want some chocolate? I have some."
She didn't answer. She just kept staring—not at me, but at something far beyond, like a memory she couldn't escape.
"My best friend..." she whispered at last, her voice trembling. "She's dead. Because of me. If I hadn't been kidnapped, she wouldn't have died."
My stomach dropped. I didn't know what to say. So I just sat beside her and gently patted her back.
"It wasn't your fault. I'm sure she wouldn't want you to blame yourself. She wouldn't be happy seeing you cry," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.
She looked at me through her tears, uncertain. "Really?"
"Really."
I handed her my chocolate. She sniffled, smiled for the first time, and said softly, "I'm Alice."
That day, I made a promise to myself—to make her smile again, no matter what it took.
A week later, she was taken to the hospital. The doctors said her trauma was too severe—that she'd have to forget certain memories to move on. Including her best friend.
I stayed with her through everything, even when she couldn't remember why I cared so much.
The smell of fried fish pulls me back to the present.
Alice sits across from me, flipping through her book like nothing happened earlier. Her hair is still slightly damp, the morning sun glinting off each strand. I watch her quietly, wondering if she still remembers the boy from the park—or if that memory was one of the ones they erased.
She glances up for a second and catches my stare.
For a heartbeat, something flickers in her eyes—recognition, maybe, or just confusion. I look away quickly, pretending to sip my juice.
"I wonder where Alex is..." she mutters softly, almost to herself.
My hands stiffen around my glass.
Alex. The name hits like a whisper from a past I thought we'd buried long ago.
The rest of breakfast continues with the usual noise—plates clattering, Tita humming, sunlight slipping through the curtains. But in my head, that one name keeps echoing, dragging shadows into the room.
I stand up and move to the window.
Outside, a little boy stands alone under the post-rain glow, clutching a stuffed toy that looks eerily familiar. For a moment, it feels like time folds in on itself—like the past never really left.
And just like that, I realize—no matter how bright the morning gets, some nights never end.