4. But I guess I failed. (2022)

 I don’t come here every day, just on days when I need to remember. It wasn’t easy but over the years, I found a way to be true to myself, to be proud of myself. But if I’m being honest, all this is is comfort in hell. I remind myself that I should be happy. There are people in this world who barely get by, surviving on much less. I should be proud of this life that I’ve made. But I look in the mirror and in the lines, I see all the compromises I made to buy this life I’m living. On nights when my mind won’t lend itself to sleep, my feet take me to back to him.

I sit on the same bench I sat in years ago. The wood hasn’t aged much but my spirit has. There’s something very comforting about bus stations. I like watching people all rushing to get somewhere. The names and faces change but the profiles have not – there’s still that old lady with way too many boxes. I watch her count her balikbayan boxes wrapped in duct tape, barking orders at the porter tasked to push luggage into the bus’ side. I see vacationing friends in their flip-flops and shorts. They take selfies on the bus because youth is fleeting and you only get so many beach trips with friends before you’re all too old to get on each other’s calendars. I see mothers with their children, tired men with fanny packs, and of course, the young couple eloping at midnight.

“I see you’re back,” says one of the drivers. “Are you getting on tonight?” He’s got a friendly face and perhaps in a parallel universe, we are closer. He fishes out a cigarette from his front pocket and taps it a few times across his lighter. I clear my throat and point to the No Smoking sign.

“Times have changed.”

“Indeed.” He motions towards the vendor outside the station and I follow him. He orders two cups of instant coffee and asks if I have any money on me. I pay the lady and the driver and I sip our coffee on a monobloc bench.

“It’s been a while,” he tells me. He finally gets to light his cigarette. He offers me a stick. I hesitate at first but eventually give in.

“I know. I said I wouldn’t be back here but I guess I failed.”

“Well, you look good,” he says, pausing for thought. “And maybe tonight, you’ll actually –”

“What. I’ll actually what?” I interrupt him, my voice tense, my words terse. 

He sits up straight. 

I ease up.

“Sorry.” I say with a chuckle that sounded a little too forced. I smile at him because it’s not his fault and if I’m being honest, I know he’s one of the few people who actually gives a shit about me.

“It’s okay. I get it.” We sit in silence, sipping from Styrofoam cups. He tells me he’s headed to Laoag tonight. The drive will take all night but he’s got friends in Pagudpud he’s meeting so it’s all good. I could join them if I wanted to. He’s sure they wouldn’t mind. I nod along politely and wait for him to finish his story. 

He tosses his cigarette into his empty cup, a final sizzle punctuating his break, and thanks me for the coffee before disappearing back into the crowd.

♫: Troye Sivan | The Good Side (2018)
Photo: pexels