- Ari's POV -
The silence in my art studio in Cebu felt heavy, like a thick blanket that kept out the usual sounds of the city. The far-off talk of people selling things, the sound of a tricycle going by, the happy shouts of kids playing in the street – they all seemed quiet, like the room was swallowing them.
Even the sunlight, which usually streamed in bright gold and showed the tiny dust particles floating in the air, felt still. Its sharp edges made the canvases leaning against the white walls stand out. These paintings weren't just things; they were like silent friends, my visual diary.
Each one held a piece of my feelings, an emotion I had captured with my brush. Some were like silent screams in thick paint, others like quiet wishes that faded into soft colors. Lately, the screams felt louder, and the wishes felt stronger, all focusing on one name I tried to ignore amidst the busy mix of colors on my paint board.
Downstairs, I could hear the quiet sounds of Leo and Sofia talking, their usual friendly arguing a low buzz under my thoughts. They were probably busy with the details of the upcoming art show in Manila – how exactly to hang my paintings on the gallery walls, the best way to light them to show the texture, all the planning that always happens before a big show. They were my steady helpers, my practical guides in the often crazy and emotional art world. Their down-to-earth way of thinking was a good balance to my own more feeling-based way of creating.
I knew I should go down, act like I was in charge, maybe even share a snack of the sweet, fried banana from Mang Roger's cart outside. Its sticky sweetness always made me feel a little better. But the unfinished painting in front of me, a swirling mix of blues and greens, like a storm trapped on the canvas, held me there. Its wild energy felt like the unsettled feeling in my own heart – a tight knot caused by the bittersweet memory of a hand briefly touching my shoulder weeks ago. That casual touch had started a small, silly hope, only to have it cruelly broken by his easygoing radio interview where he'd mentioned a new actress he was interested in.
My phone, lying face down on the corner of my worktable covered in years of paint stains, vibrated softly but insistently. It was Bea. Her texts were always like a little bit of sunshine, a bright spot in my often cloudy mood.
"Manila prep in full swing? Heard the gallery's got amazing lighting. Also… any whispers on whether he might actually grace us with his royal presence?"
A small, tired smile, the kind that didn't quite reach my eyes, touched my lips. Bea knew what was going on, had patiently watched my years-long, silent focus on the bright star that was Miguel Montemayor.
Migs.
Just thinking his name, even now, after all this time and all the careful ways I tried to act like I didn't care, still stirred something complicated inside me – a tangled mix of affection that wouldn't completely go away, a longing that whispered in the quiet of the night, and a quiet, constant sadness that had slowly mixed with the bitter understanding of how things really were. We'd been friends for what felt like forever, two different kids going through the busy, humid days of Cebu High, finding a strange, unexpected comfort in each other during the difficult teenage years.
He'd been the one who made everyone laugh easily, with a natural charm that could even win over strict teachers. He seemed to glide through life without worrying too much about himself.
And me… I'd been the quiet one, finding my voice not in talking but in the silent language of colors and shapes, putting the world onto the waiting surface of a canvas. Somewhere along that shared past, that easy friendship had changed for me, slowly, almost without me noticing, growing into a quiet, steady affection, a deep admiration that I knew, in some way, Migs was aware of – a comfortable, maybe even flattering, fact that he seemed to just expect.
I was the constant, the reliable person in his often messy and short-lived love life, the one he could turn to for a simple bit of affection or a quick moment of closeness when his relationships didn't work out or when he was just… alone, wanting a familiar warmth without having to connect deeply.
Just yesterday, a light, unimportant text from Migs about a funny problem with his clothes on set, a quick story told with the same casualness he probably used with everyone he talked to that day. My reply had been just as light, a bunch of laughing emojis hiding the familiar, almost automatic sting of knowing he was probably telling that same story, that same moment, to someone he actually liked, someone he was really interested in.
That's how it was now – friendly messages sent across the cold, impersonal light of our phones, the easy, open closeness of our early years turned into a casual liking that kept me connected, like a planet orbiting him, without ever pulling me in with real feeling. Sometimes, I would still feel the pain of those deeper, more personal times – a quick memory of whispered secrets under a starry Cebu sky, a shared trust now ruined by the clear understanding that those moments, those close times, had probably meant something completely different, something much less important, to him.
I sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet studio, and ran a hand through my hair that always had paint on it. The rough feel was a familiar comfort. The messy canvas in front of me, with its unfinished storm of blues and greens, seemed to make fun of my clumsy attempts to show the exact, hard-to-describe shade of this constant longing, a wish now mixed with a growing, deep tiredness. It wasn't the dramatic, tearful sadness of a sad love story.
It was more hidden, a low, constant noise under my days, a constant, dull awareness of something missing, an important part of my feelings that Migs held so carelessly, showing me little bits of warmth but never really letting go, never really seeing how empty it made me feel.
With a sigh that carried the weight of unspoken feelings, I reached for my phone, the cool glass a small, temporary comfort against my paint-stained fingers. Opening Photogram, I quickly took a picture of a corner of my studio – a planned, artfully messy explosion of color that showed who I really was – and typed the caption: "Manila bound soon for the opening! Excited to share this new body of works. See you there!"
It felt like a hopeful message sent out into the big, uncaring digital world, a silly, stubborn part of me still holding onto the small hope that a certain pair of dark eyes would actually notice, would truly see past the bright colors to the quiet, aching wish that was woven into my art. The blues on my paint board, reflecting the stormy canvas, seemed to get darker, like they understood, mixed with a new shade of… maybe not hope, but something closer to a quiet, tired determination.