haerin truther💯

you knew it was her before she even messaged.

not because you were checking the time (though you were — religiously), or because you heard the heavy roll of tires outside, but because your dad suddenly stood up from the couch, glanced out the window, and let out a low whistle.

“anak,” he called, tone laced with amusement, “i think your girlfriend brought a tank.”

you peeked out and saw it — the unmistakable black shimmer of a cadillac escalade, glossy and unapologetically large, wedged along the curb outside your modest gate. it took up nearly a third of your narrow street, its windows tinted dark, the front grille gleaming like something out of a showroom.

a few neighbors peeked out of their windows. one of the toddlers across the street pointed. someone’s tricycle had to scoot awkwardly into reverse to make room.

and there, stepping out with the confidence of someone used to attention, was minji — white shirt tucked into wide-legged jeans, her sunglasses perched on her head, one hand holding a small paper bag of what you immediately recognized as food.

your dad opened the gate before you could even reach it. “minji,” he said warmly, eyes flicking to the gift in her hand, “you didn’t have to bring anything again.”

she waved him off, smile small but sure. “it’s nothing, tito. just some snacks i saw this morning. figured you and tita might want something for merienda later.”

he accepted it reluctantly, chuckling under his breath. “you’re too kind. take care of her, alright? be safe on the road.”

she nodded, gaze flicking to you as you stepped out behind him. “always.”

the passenger seat was already cool when you slid in — her air conditioning set just a little too high, faint scent of new leather and her perfume mixing in the quiet.

she buckled in, fingers moving with practiced rhythm. “comfortable?”

you nodded, still adjusting to how far off the ground you were. “you weren’t kidding when you said it was big.”

she smirked. “they really bought it for me the moment i got my license.”

“your first car, huh?”

“mm,” she said, eyes scanning the rearview mirror. “been dreaming about this since i turned eighteen.”

you glanced over. “so… why today?”

she pulled the gear into reverse with one hand, the other reaching for yours automatically. her thumb brushed the back of your knuckles, slow and steady.

“because i wanted you to be my first passenger.”

you blinked.

“baby, you’re my passenger princess now,” she added, tone light but sincere.

you laughed — not because it was funny, but because it filled something warm in your chest. “okay. princess duties accepted.”

the car pulled out gently, easing onto the main road. she glanced over, lips twitching. “i’ve been seeing binondo dates all over tiktok.”

you turned to look at her. “so this is your plan?”

“mhm. spontaneous binondo crawl. we drive there, eat everything, kiss between stalls.”

“okay,” you grinned. “do you know how to get there?”

she shrugged. “we have gps.”

you raised a brow. “right, but we’re parking in lucky chinatown mall, yeah? or maybe in ongpin — it’s closer. we can bribe the guards there to let us park in front of a gold jewelry store, then walk into binondo from there.”

“what? no,” she said immediately. “we’re parking in binondo.”

you stared at her. “you’re kidding.”

“deadass. do you know how hot it is outside?”

“baby,” you began, shifting to face her more fully, “binondo roads are narrow. like, elbow-to-elbow. and you brought this big-ass car.”

she sighed — the sound half-defeat, half-grumble. “...true.”

“most of the roads are one-way too.”

another pause. another sigh.

you squeezed her hand. “don’t worry. i’ll tell you the way.”

you didn’t use gps.

you didn’t need to.

the route from your house to binondo wasn’t something you learned from a map — it was something absorbed, instinctive. you knew which roads jammed at which hour, which intersections had slow traffic lights, which alleys acted as unofficial detours. and you knew how to talk minji through every turn like you’d done it a thousand times.

“left at the bridge,” you said softly. “then stay in the middle lane.”

“this one?”

“yeah. the right one curves too sharp.”

she followed your directions without question, one hand on the wheel, the other still gripping yours. every now and then she’d glance sideways — a quiet, grateful look. like maybe the spontaneity of it all was starting to wear off, and what was left was just the simple comfort of being guided by someone who knew where they were going.

“you really know this place,” she murmured once, under her breath, as the skyline started to shift into older shapes — tight balconies, tangled electric lines, signs in hanzi.

“grew up coming here,” you said.

“it’s beautiful.”

you nodded. “wait till we park.”

she glanced down a side street. “are you serious about bribing guards?”

“worked before.”

she shook her head, smiling to herself. “i don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.”

you leaned in slightly. “just follow my lead.”

and she did.

you turned into ongpin street just as the sunlight shifted — thick and syrupy now, casting sharp shadows across every uneven curb. the city here felt different. older. louder, somehow. the buildings leaned closer together, signs stacked high and layered like old paper clippings, red and gold everywhere your eyes could land. even from the car, you could already hear the chaos. tricycles squeezing through alleys, delivery men shouting over each other, the hollow clack of mahjong tiles from somewhere unseen.

“okay,” you said, scanning the right side. “slow down. we’re almost there.”

“almost where?”

“see that gold jewelry shop up ahead? right before the lamp post?”

she squinted. “...the one with the hanging rooster cage outside?”

“yep. we’re parking right in front of it.”

she blinked. “that’s not a parking lot.”

“doesn’t matter.”

“what do you mean it doesn’t—”

“just pull over slowly.”

she did, rolling to a gentle stop just past the shop’s iron gate. a security guard leaned lazily against the wall, chewing something and watching the street like it personally owed him money.

you rolled down your window with a smile. “boss, okay lang po ba dito muna?”

he looked over the car — clearly amused. “matagal ba kayo?”

“hindi po. food trip lang.”

his eyes flicked toward minji, then back at you. “may tiwala ako sa’yo. ‘wag lang masyadong matagal, ha?”

you slipped him a folded bill — nothing too big, just enough for goodwill — and he nodded, stepping back with a smirk. “sige. ingat lang sa mga sasakyan dito, masisikip.”

“thank you po, boss.”

as you rolled up the window, minji just stared at you, stunned.

“you literally bribed him.”

“he’s letting us park. and we’re on our way.”

she shook her head, face caught somewhere between horror and awe. “you’re actually insane.”

you grinned, stepping out and stretching your arms toward the open sky. “welcome to binondo.”

the moment her shoes hit the sidewalk, minji groaned.

“how is it this hot?” she whined, already fanning herself with one hand. “it’s like walking into satan’s breath.”

“it’s always like this.”

“this feels illegal.”

you offered her your extra hair tie. she took it without complaint, gathering her dark hair up into a messy ponytail, lips slightly parted from the heat. even flushed and cranky, she looked good — unfairly so. you didn’t say anything, just nudged your elbow into hers gently.

“first stop’s nearby.”

“does it have AC?”

“no.”

“god help me.”

you took her hand again, tugging her gently past a string of fruit stalls that smelled like overripe mango and damp pavement. it was noisier now — the closer you got to the heart of binondo, the more the air seemed to swell with movement. horns blared without rhythm. children weaved between parked tricycles. overhead wires tangled like thick veins across the skyline.

minji’s hand tightened around yours.

“are we getting close?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. her sunglasses had slid down her nose, and she looked seconds away from melting into the sidewalk.

“almost,” you said, steering her around a pushcart full of garlic peanuts.

“define ‘almost,’” she muttered. “because i think my bones are boiling.”

you laughed, slowing your pace a little. “just a few more corners.”

“i can’t believe you’re dragging me into an alley. i watch crime documentaries.”

“it’s not that kind of alley.”

“that’s exactly what people say before something happens.”

you turned to face her as you stepped under a low rusting archway, lips twitching. “what, you don’t trust me?”

her expression cracked — something soft and familiar in the way she exhaled, pulling off her sunglasses completely. “i trust you. just not this temperature.”

you leaned in, brushing your nose against hers. “well, this temperature comes with good lumpia.”

“so does airconditioned chinese restaurants,” she countered, but she let you lead her anyway, her hand never once leaving yours.

the street narrowed again, and the hum of the main road dulled into something quieter, more personal. to your left was a hardware store — buckets stacked to the ceiling, a man asleep behind the counter with a fan aimed directly at his back. beside it, almost invisible, was the turn.

minji slowed. “this?”

you nodded, motioning her to follow.

you ducked into the gap between buildings — more like a sliver than a street — and suddenly, the world felt cooler. not because the heat had faded (it hadn’t), but because the walls closed in tight, creating a pocket of stillness. somewhere up ahead, the faint hum of an electric fan. the sharp, vinegary scent of garlic and peanuts.

you glanced over your shoulder to see minji staring, brows drawn.

“this is real?” she whispered.

“this is new po-heng.”

you stopped just beside a battered wooden cart propped under a sun-stained umbrella. a laminated sign above it read lumpia in fading red font. the air smelled amazing — raw garlic, peanut sugar, soy sauce, and crushed seaweed.

there were no chairs. no real storefront. just a man behind a counter, a cooler beside him, and three trays of freshly prepped vegetables. this was the kind of stall you passed if you didn’t know where to look — the kind you remembered by muscle memory, not google maps.

minji blinked again, lips parted slightly. “...you weren’t kidding.”

“nope.”

“it’s literally a stall.”

“and it’s literally the best lumpia you’ll ever have.”

she gave you a flat look, then softened when you reached for her hand again — your thumb brushing across her warm skin.

“trust me?”

she sighed. “always.”

you ordered two rolls and leaned against the wall beside her, shoulders touching, your gaze tracing the curve of her profile as she stared at the man behind the cart assembling your food — long, careful motions, garlic paste smeared over rice wrappers, vegetables layered in neat handfuls.

she was still pink from the sun. a bead of sweat rolled down the side of her temple. and even then — or maybe because of it — she looked beautiful. out of her comfort zone, but here anyway. with you.

“what?” she asked suddenly, glancing at you.

you leaned over and kissed the edge of her jaw, soft and slow.

“nothing.”

she rolled her eyes — but she was smiling.

the man behind the cart handed over your lumpia wrapped in soft creased paper, each roll slightly warm to the touch. they were hefty — packed thick with julienned turnips, carrots, seaweed, sautéed greens, a thick spread of sweet-savory sauce, and generous crushed peanuts over the top. the scent of raw garlic hit you the moment you peeled the edge of the wrapper down.

you passed one to minji.

“be careful. it’s messy.”

she took it with both hands, eyeing it like it might fight back.

“you’re telling me this is the thing people line up for?”

“you’ll see.”

she eyed it suspiciously. “i’m not a veggie person.”

“just try.”

she bit into it cautiously — a small first bite, teeth crunching through the barely-warmed wrapper, and then a slow chew. the change in her face came gradual. her eyebrows creasing, chewing slowing down, and her hand pausing mid-air as the taste settled.

you waited.

she swallowed, looked down at the roll, then back up at you.

“holy crap,” she mumbled. “this is... this is really good.”

you grinned.

“no, like. what is in this? why does it taste like childhood and garlic bread and something else i can’t describe?”

“magic. and a little soy sauce.”

she took another bite, this one larger, the sauce beginning to smear faintly near the corner of her mouth. she tried to keep eating with one hand, wiping her wrist with the other, until you gently reached over with a napkin and dabbed the edge of her lip.

“messy,” you said softly.

“you did say,” she murmured, not quite meeting your eyes this time.

“do you like it?”

“like it?” she scoffed, then tilted the roll toward you. “i’m in love with it.”

you watched her devour half of it in a matter of seconds, then suddenly slow. she stared at the remaining lumpia in her hand, then glanced at your mostly untouched one.

“i don’t think i can finish this.”

you held out your roll. “want to trade?”

she gave you the most betrayed look you’d seen from her all day.

“you haven’t even eaten yours.”

“exactly,” you said, already accepting her half. “you gave me yours, i give you mine. that’s fair.”

she took it, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like i hate how much i love you.

you didn’t press it. you were too busy taking your first bite — and yeah, it was everything you remembered. soft and crisp, fresh and deeply flavored. the garlic stuck to the back of your throat in a way that made you want to eat faster, but you slowed down, mostly because you didn’t want the moment to end yet.

beside you, minji was licking sauce off her fingers with her eyes closed.

a fly buzzed near her head, and she lazily waved it away.

“this stall deserves a michelin star.”

you wiped your own fingers clean, then leaned in to kiss her cheek — warm and slightly sticky.

“you deserve one for surviving the heat.”

“barely,” she said. “but if the rest of this date is anything like this lumpia…”

she glanced at you again, eyes gleaming.

“i think i’ll live.”

the heat wrapped around you both again as soon as you stepped out of new po-heng’s narrow stall. it hit harder now, like the air had thickened since you first arrived — sweat forming almost instantly on the back of your neck. minji pressed a cold can of water she’d grabbed from the stall’s side cooler against her cheek, sighing dramatically.

“we should’ve done this at night.”

you slipped your hand into hers again, weaving your fingers together. “and miss this authentic binondo suffering?”

she narrowed her eyes, cheeks flushed. “you’re enjoying this too much.”

“maybe. but you’re still holding my hand.”

“that’s because i’m melting. and if i let go, i’ll collapse.”

you leaned in slightly, brushing your nose against hers. “lucky me, then.”

her breath caught, just briefly — enough to steal another quick kiss. her lips were still warm from the lumpia and the sun, her hand squeezing yours tighter when you pulled away.

“you’re so annoying,” she murmured, smiling anyway.

“but kissable.”

“debatable.”

you tossed the empty wrappers in the nearest bin, wiping your hands one last time on the tissue before reaching for hers again.

minji let you take it wordlessly.

her fingers threaded through yours like they belonged there, her hair was clinging to the back of her neck again, and her cheeks were flushed pink from the sun, or maybe the garlic, or both.

“how are you not dying?” she asked, squinting up at the sky like it had personally offended her.

“i am. i’ve just accepted it.”

“it’s literally a sauna. with traffic.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

she glared half-heartedly, then leaned into your shoulder anyway. “you’re evil. i’m too in love to notice most days, but this... this is evil.”

“do you want to stop?”

she looked at you, full lips parted, eyes tired but bright. “no. i want siopao. i want whatever magical fried thing you’ve been hyping up since we left the car.”

“good. because we’re almost there.”

you passed a bakery on the corner where freshly steamed hopia were being stacked into plastic tubs. the air smelled of mung bean paste and paper bags. across the street, you could hear someone chopping something on a wooden board, the rhythmic thuds echoing through a narrow alleyway. everything here felt alive — too alive, almost — like it all existed ten decibels too loud and five degrees too warm.

still, you were used to it. minji wasn’t.

she was trying, though. adjusting. letting the weight of the city settle on her in slow layers instead of flinching from it. and every time she grumbled, every time she muttered a quiet “what the hell is that smell,” or “why is the air wet,” she always kept holding your hand.

and when you pointed ahead — toward a small shop with a line curling around the next corner — she didn’t complain. just tilted her head and said,

“don’t tell me that’s the line.”

you grinned. “quick-stop siopao.”

“quick-stop is a lie.”

“depends on your definition of quick.”

“i want to cry.”

you nudged her playfully with your shoulder. “but you’re still in line.”

she sighed, dramatic and theatrical, but stepped in behind you anyway. the sun bore down on both of you like it had something to prove. sweat rolled down the side of her temple, and she gave up pretending not to care — pulling her shirt slightly away from her back, shaking her collar loose.

you reached over and gently wiped her temple with the edge of your wrist. she gave you a tired look — somewhere between fond and faintly annoyed.

“you’re not even sweating,” she muttered.

“i’m used to it.”

“you’re part lizard.”

“and you’re part princess.”

“your princess,” she corrected, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear.

you smiled.

it took twenty minutes to reach the counter, and the smell had only grown stronger — fried dough, caramelized pork, that faint tang of hot oil from the glass window fogging up behind the steamers. you ordered two buns and stepped aside, pressing the warm bag into her hands.

she immediately bit into hers, then hissed and dropped it back into the paper bag. “it’s boiling.”

“told you.”

“you didn’t warn me enough.”

“give it.”

she handed it over without protest, blowing softly on her fingers. you split the siopao in half, holding out the cooler side for her.

“open.”

“you’re not feeding me in public—”

“open.”

she sighed, but opened her mouth. you popped the first bite in like you’d done it a hundred times before. she chewed slowly, expression unreadable — then let out a quiet, almost betrayed moan.

“...oh my god.”

you smirked. “worth it?”

“i’m going to kiss you and cry at the same time.”

“don’t get sauce on my face.”

she kissed you anyway. her mouth was still warm, the faint taste of pork and soy lingering between your lips. it was quick — just a press, stolen fast before anyone could really see — but when she pulled away, she looked dazed in the best way.

“you’re dangerous,” she said.

“you’re dramatic.”

“and yet, you love it.”

you wiped a smudge of sauce off her bottom lip with your thumb. she blinked slowly at the touch but didn’t move away.

“you’re gonna ruin every other date after this,” she whispered.

“good.”

you tossed the last of the siopao wrappers into a bin near the curb, brushing your hands off as minji sighed beside you — one long exhale that somehow captured heat, sweat, love, and slight regret.

“okay,” she said, tugging at her shirt again. “i’m about to start crying.”

you leaned over, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow with the edge of your sleeve. “dramatic.”

“i’m a stem student. not an explorer.”

“but you’re still here.”

“because you’re cute. and you bribed me with carbs.”

“you kissed me after the carbs, just so you know.”

she gave you a tired look. “where’s the next stop?”

“see that purple building with all the hopia?”

“the one with a line halfway to divisoria?”

“eng bee tin. we’re going upstairs.”

“there’s an upstairs?”

“aircon. café. seats.”

“god bless.”

you led her inside, the blast of cold air hitting you the second the doors opened. minji let out a small sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and immediately clung to your arm like you’d just pulled her out of hell and into salvation.

“oh my god. this is heaven. this is—this is what i needed.”

“i told you.”

“no, like—thank you.”

you passed through the aisles of pastel-colored hopia tins and souvenir ube goods, winding your way toward the staircase in the back, where a glowing sign in soft gold script read Great Buddha Café. the upstairs was calm, quieter than you expected — clean marble floors, wooden tables, polished glass, and tall windows that looked out over ongpin street like a secret balcony above the chaos.

the walls were lined with bonsai plants and tiny porcelain buddhas. a faint instrumental guzheng melody played over the speakers. the difference was surreal — like stepping into another world, one where everything was slower and softer, untouched by heat or time.

you took a seat near the window, minji sinking into her chair with a groan so full of relief, you laughed.

“i’m never leaving.”

“we have to.”

“no. this is where i live now. this café. this chair. you can visit me.”

“what about your classes?”

“drop out. become a tea monk.”

you smiled, reaching for the menu. “brown sugar pearl for you?”

“you already know,” she murmured, head tilted back, eyes shut like she was soaking in the cold air. “you’re amazing.”

you ordered at the counter — one brown sugar boba, one wintermelon, and a shared plate of dumplings just for the comfort of it. when you returned, minji had removed her headband and was fanning herself with the hopia brochure, cheeks flushed but slowly cooling.

“you should get a medal,” she said when you handed her the drink.

“for?”

“knowing exactly what to order. and knowing where to take me. and…” she sipped, eyes widening as the cold tea slid down her throat, “…saving my life.”

you took a sip of your own, letting the wintermelon’s syrupy smoothness cool the back of your throat. then, you held your drink out wordlessly.

minji didn’t hesitate. she sipped from yours, nodded slowly. “better.”

“you always say that.”

“because it’s true.”

“you want to switch?”

“yes, but you’re not allowed to complain.”

you passed her the rest of yours and took hers, content. her hand found yours under the table, thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles.

from here, the noise outside was just a low hum. you could see the crowd swarming the sidewalk below — umbrellas bobbing, tricycles passing, someone selling fish balls at the corner — but up here, it all felt far away. the dumplings arrived, steaming gently on a small wooden tray. she leaned over and fed you the first one, carefully holding it by the edge so the soy vinegar wouldn’t spill.

“open,” she whispered.

you did. the flavors were rich and simple — pork and chives, sesame oil, the faint spice of black pepper. you fed her the next one without a word.

for a while, neither of you spoke. just the quiet sounds of the café around you, the low hum of the air conditioner, the slow drag of your fingers across the back of her hand.

then, softly,

“you planned all this?” minji asked.

“kind of.”

“when?”

“the moment you said you wanted to take me somewhere.”

“and i thought i was surprising you.”

you smiled.

“you still did.”

she held your drink with one hand, her other loosely curled around yours under the table. sunlight spilled across the tiles beside you, golden and soft through the tall windows of the café. minji wasn’t saying much — just sipping slowly, eyes on the street below, letting the quiet wrap around her shoulders like a shawl. it was a moment of stillness you rarely got to have with her. not because she was loud or chaotic, but because she was always moving — thinking, solving, fixing, planning.

and now, here she was.

sitting across from you, kissing dumpling oil off your fingers, legs brushing yours under the table like she needed to feel you there.

and you... couldn’t help drifting.

your thoughts circled back the way they always did when you let yourself slow down. to your grandmother.

she would’ve loved this place. the quiet upstairs café, the dumplings, the tea. not for the trend — never for that — but for the stillness. for the comfort of it. she was the kind of woman who made you feel safe just by sitting beside you, the kind who poured her love into small things. the way she cut fruit, the way she pressed a five-hundred peso bill into your hand without saying anything, the way she waited for you at the gate after school even when you told her she didn’t have to.

you were her favorite, they said after she passed — sometimes with warmth, sometimes with quiet resentment. but it wasn’t about being the favorite. it was just... you loved her. and she knew it. she felt it. you stayed when others didn’t. you laughed with her when she repeated the same stories. you listened when she got quiet, because you knew that quiet didn’t mean she had nothing to say — just that no one else had bothered to wait.

so she left everything to you.

not out of obligation. not as some kind of revenge. but as a gift. as love.

and you hadn’t touched most of it. couldn’t. not yet. it still felt too big, too undeserved. so you used it only where it mattered — tuition, school needs, a bit set aside for university. the rest was handled by an accountant she trusted, one who called you anak over the phone and told you your lola planned well. always had. always would.

this school — the one minji went to, the one you never thought you’d set foot in — was her doing. and now minji herself, here across from you in this café, sharing your drink and resting her cheek on her hand like she belonged there — she was part of that gift too.

kim minji had always been a name you’d heard before you ever put a face to it. the kind people whispered about in hallways. smart. beautiful. daughter of a doctor and a lawyer. someone who always had her life together, who seemed to exist on a slightly higher floor than everyone else. not unkind, just... far. too far to reach from where you stood.

you weren’t supposed to be in the same school. not without your grandmother’s will, not without the quiet fortune she left behind like a final, whispered gift just for you. and even then, you never thought your path would cross minji’s, not really — until hanni.

hanni, who’d been your friend since junior high, who shared snacks and borrowed pens and sat with you during club meetings when no one else did. hanni, who waved at you in the middle of your first day of senior high and said, “you remember minji, right? from my strand?”

that was the first time you really saw her — not the name, not the idea of her, but her. walking beside hanni with a coffee in one hand and a neatly folded worksheet in the other. poised. pretty. untouchable.

and then came foundation week.

the marriage booth.

it was meant to be a joke — a lighthearted gimmick, not something serious. a name picked from a box, a five-minute fake wedding, and a fine if you declined. everyone thought minji would skip, like she always did. she’d even pulled out her wallet, ready to pay her way out — until someone mentioned your name had been picked with hers.

and she paused.

not for long. just a heartbeat. then she slipped her wallet back into her bag and stood up, brushing hair from her face as she said, “lead the way.”

that moment — that tiny, blink-and-you-miss-it moment — had lived rent-free in your head ever since.

you remembered the feel of her hand in yours during the fake ceremony. light but steady. how she kept glancing at you when no one was looking, almost like she was trying to figure something out. how, after it all, she didn’t walk away. she stayed. sat beside you at a bench near the gym and said, half-laughing, “guess we’re married now.”

you remembered the way her laughter made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

and then — somehow — things kept happening.

she started asking where you’d be eating lunch. started waiting near your room between classes. texting you at night about review materials she didn’t need help with. and you? you fell into it too easily. answered without thinking. waited without realizing. looked for her in the quiet moments when your phone lit up and hoped it was her.

then she asked you out. awkwardly. adorably. like someone who was used to being confident but found herself entirely undone in front of you.

you didn’t even hesitate.

and now — now she was here. sitting across from you, stealing sips of your drink, fingers tangled with yours under the table like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you watched her lift the straw to her lips again, the gold tint of the windowlight catching in her eyes. and all you could think was,

how did i get this lucky?

how did she go from a name to a girl to the person you couldn’t imagine a future without?

“you spaced out,” she said, voice low and warm.

“i was thinking.”

“about?”

you looked at her for a long second. your heart ached a little — not from pain, but from the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

“my lola,” you said quietly.

minji’s smile softened. “you were close?”

“she raised me, in a way. she was… everything. and she’s the reason i’m here.”

“in this café?”

“in this school. in this city. with you.”

minji reached across the table and took your hand fully this time, weaving her fingers through yours with care.

“then i owe her everything,” she whispered. “because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you blinked back the sudden warmth in your eyes.

she leaned forward, kissed your knuckles, and then, without hesitating, pressed another kiss to your lips — quick, lingering, like a promise. like a thank you. like home.

and somewhere — in the quiet between your heartbeats — you hoped your lola could see it all.

because you were sure she’d smile.

you left the café reluctantly, the air conditioning clinging to your skin like a blessing you didn’t want to give up. the moment the door closed behind you, the heat wrapped around you again — thick and heavy — but it felt a little easier now. maybe because minji reached for your hand instantly, threading her fingers through yours without even looking.

the street outside had softened too. the sharp midday light had mellowed into something gold, touching the brick walls and faded red awnings with the kind of warmth that only shows up when the day is almost over. shadows stretched longer. voices were quieter. even the tricycles seemed to roll by slower.

you walked in comfortable silence, occasionally brushing against her side as you moved down ongpin. you almost missed the stall again — tucked just beside a corner where sunlight pooled like honey, shaded by a sun-bleached umbrella.

it looked ordinary. a plastic table with faded velvet trays, rings and pendants glinting softly beneath the golden light. no name, no signage. just a woman with kind eyes and weather-worn hands arranging trinkets that probably came from a hundred stories before this one.

minji slowed beside you.

you didn’t need to ask. her gaze had already settled on a small silver ring — thin, carved with tiny lotus petals. the metal caught the light like a quiet promise. not loud, not expensive. just... delicate. like something someone would wear every day, even when no one was looking.

“you like it?” you asked gently.

“i mean... yeah,” she said, trying to play it off, though her fingers hovered just a little too long. “but it’s okay. i don’t need it.”

you glanced at her — then at the vendor, who gave you the faintest knowing smile. your chest tugged with something warm. a memory of your lola again — the way she used to say "you can’t bring money to the grave, anak. but you can bring stories. moments."

you reached out and picked the ring up carefully.

“what if i got it for you?” you said.

minji blinked. “what?”

“just because. no reason. you survived the binondo heat. and the siopao line. and... you love me.”

she narrowed her eyes, smile fighting its way through. “i knew there was a catch.”

you handed it to the vendor. “and i want one too,” you added, turning to the tray. you scanned quickly — then found a matching band, similar in style but slightly thinner, its carving more subtle. like a mirrored pair. not obvious, but if you looked closely — they belonged together.

minji watched you, eyes softening.

“you don’t have to,” she said, quieter now.

“i want to.”

you paid in cash, carefully folding the bills into the vendor’s palm. she wrapped the rings in a soft square of tissue, then placed them gently in your open hand.

minji was still staring.

so you held her ring out between your fingers, like a question.

she smiled — small, stunned — and held out her hand.

you slid the ring onto her middle finger.

then she reached for yours.

“your ring finger,” she said.

“seriously?”

“you’re the one who bought them. i make the rules.”

you let her slip it on. her fingers were warm against yours. the ring fit snug, like it had been waiting for that exact spot.

“this doesn’t mean anything, you know,” you told her. “no pressure.”

“mm-hmm.”

“just a ring.”

“a matching one,” she teased.

you rolled your eyes. “it’s for the aesthetic.”

but she leaned forward and kissed your cheek — quick, firm, entirely sincere.

“it’s for you,” she whispered.

and the sunlight caught both rings as you laced your fingers again and walked on.

you didn’t speak much after that.

not because there was nothing left to say — but because something about the rings settled into both of you like a secret. quiet, but there. a warmth at your fingertips. a reminder each time your hands brushed and the metal caught the fading light.

minji held your hand tighter as you walked, your ring snug and faintly cool, hers gleaming faintly on her middle finger. the city had shifted into its golden hour rhythm — slower, easier, like even manila was catching its breath. vendors had started packing up. stalls were closing. the heat was no longer unbearable, just a soft cling to the skin, like steam from a mug.

you passed the same corners again, now bathed in gold. the fruit stand near the corner had dimmed its lights. the gold jewelry shop, where you’d parked, looked almost ceremonial now with how the sunset bounced off the glass.

“i want taho,” minji murmured suddenly.

you glanced at her. “now?”

“there’s always a taho vendor at this hour,” she said confidently. “he walks past ongpin. just give him five more minutes.”

you laughed. “you’re not full?”

“i’m always full. it never matters.”

you squeezed her hand. “that’s not how stomachs work.”

“i’m choosing to ignore that.”

you slowed your pace to match hers, letting her lean against you slightly. she was tired — you could feel it in the way she dragged her feet a little more, how her head dipped when she laughed. still, her hand never let go of yours.

when you turned the corner and saw the car — her ridiculous, gleaming, monstrous car — still perfectly in place in front of the gold jewelry shop, she let out a soft, surprised breath.

“look at her,” she said. “still standing proud.”

“she took up half the road.”

“it’s what she deserves.”

you laughed again and turned to unlock the passenger door. before you could pull it open, minji caught your wrist.

“wait.”

you turned. her face was flushed from the walk, her hair a little messy, eyes soft.

“thank you,” she said.

“for what?”

“today. the shortcut roads. the jewelry stall. that look you had in the café. everything.”

you opened your mouth — but she was already stepping forward, leaning into you. her kiss was slower this time. not urgent, not playful. just... close. just here. her fingers cradled your face like she didn’t want you to forget a single second of this.

“get in before i melt again,” she said, tugging your shirt lightly.

you slid in, and she circled around to the driver’s side. when she settled in and started the engine, she reached for your hand again without even looking, her fingers finding yours easily.

the drive home felt like the world had gone quiet.

windows slightly cracked, the air warm but not hot anymore. her car’s AC humming low. the stereo played something soft — maybe a playlist, maybe the radio. her hand never left yours. she drove one-handed, palm light on the wheel, thumb brushing the side of your hand like she needed the anchor to stay awake.

you watched her fight off sleep.

her eyes blinked slower. her mouth tightened each time she hit a red light. once, she reached up and rubbed her temple gently, then gave your hand a squeeze as if to say i’m still good, don’t worry.

“you should sleep over,” you said quietly.

she blinked.

“what?”

“you’re clearly tired.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re driving with one eye and half a soul.”

“i have at least three-quarters of a soul left.”

you turned your head. “seriously. just sleep over. you brought clothes the last time, right? they’re still in my drawer.”

she was quiet for a beat.

then, “...okay.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. but i get the bigger pillow.”

“we’ll fight for it.”

“i’ll win.”

you smiled and lifted her hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. she didn’t pull away. didn’t even glance over. she just smiled — that soft, exhausted kind — and kept driving.

the streetlights passed in slow blinks across the windshield. your neighborhood was starting to appear in the distance, familiar shapes coming into view.

you sat back in your seat, fingers still laced, and watched the quietest parts of the city pass you by.

by the time you pulled into your street, the sky had dimmed into that deep, velvety blue — not quite night, but past the softness of dusk. minji turned the wheel lazily, her car taking up half the road as always, headlights catching on the familiar curve of your front gate.

you didn’t even have to tell her which house was yours. she already knew.

the engine hummed low as she shifted into park. she didn’t move to turn it off right away — just sat there, both hands now on the wheel, fingers finally letting go of yours after what felt like hours.

“we’re here,” she said, voice husky from the ride.

you leaned your head back against the seat and turned to her, hand still resting on her thigh. “you’re staying, right?”

she nodded slowly. “yeah.”

then she looked at you — really looked at you — like she was memorizing your face under the glow of the dashboard lights. her hand found yours again.

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt this tired and this happy at the same time.”

you smiled. “you want to tell my dad or should i?”

“i brought them something again,” she said with a sheepish laugh. “he can’t stay mad.”

you both got out slowly, bones stiff from the long drive. she grabbed the paper bag from the backseat — the one she’d filled earlier that morning with packs of hopia and sweet dumplings for your family. she always said it wasn’t a big deal, but you knew she picked them out carefully each time.

your dad was already opening the door by the time you reached it, wearing slippers and a soft smile.

“minji,” he greeted, stepping aside.

“hi po,” she said, bowing slightly as she held out the bag. “this is for you and tita.”

he took it with a laugh. “you really don’t need to bring gifts every time.”

“it’s the least i could do,” she said easily, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “thank you for letting me stay over.”

he nodded. “just get comfy, alright? you're always welcome here.”

you felt something tight ease in your chest.

your room was dim and familiar. the AC was already on, humming gently as you both dropped your bags and shoes by the door. minji kicked off hers with a tired sigh, walking toward your bed and flopping down face first without a word.

you stood at the edge and looked down at her.

“want to shower first or brush your teeth?”

“no,” came her muffled reply. “i want to be buried.”

you laughed and grabbed her wrist to pull her up. “five minutes, then i’ll join you.”

“you promise?”

“cross my heart.”

she dragged herself to the bathroom, muttering threats about you stealing the better pillow again.

you took her place on the bed, staring up at your ceiling for a while. the soft whir of the fan, the faint scent of mint from her shampoo the last time she stayed — it all felt grounded, easy. like this was your routine. like she had always belonged here.

when she came back, skin damp, face pink from the warmth of the water, you saw she was wearing one of your old shirts again — the navy one that hung past her thighs. she looked at you like you were the answer to a question she'd forgotten.

your heart squeezed.

you stood, gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, and headed into the bathroom yourself. when you returned minutes later, minji had already climbed under the covers. she scooted back wordlessly to make space, lifting the blanket for you.

you slipped in, curling toward her without hesitation. her arms found your waist, nose tucked into your collarbone. she was warm and soft and smelled like your favorite toothpaste.

you kissed the top of her head.

“hey,” she mumbled.

“yeah?”

“thanks for today.”

“you planned it.”

“but you made it easy.”

you smiled and whispered into her hair, “i love you.”

the day starts quiet.

not the kind of quiet that means nothing is happening — it’s the kind that swells beneath the surface, like the air’s holding its breath for something stupid to happen.

you’re sitting under the tarp again, legs tucked up on a monobloc chair that’s slightly cracked in the middle, sipping iced milo through a bent straw. the heat’s a little softer now, sun sliding down just enough to cast long shadows across the pavement. a dog barks down the street. a passing tricycle rattles by, slow and wheezing, its muffler barely holding on. the usual sounds of the barangay hum around you — someone sweeping leaves, a kid crying about something dumb.

you’re not really doing anything. just sitting. just letting time pass in that way it always does when you’re back home — not fast, not slow, just steady. like molasses dripping down the side of a cold glass. the tarp above your head — red plastic faded to a dull pink by too many summers — flutters slightly in the wind, one corner held down by a laundry clip that doesn’t match the others. there’s a crack on the side of the cooler beside you where someone dropped it too hard last christmas. hyein, probably.

it’s peaceful. boring, in the best way.

and then minji shows up.

she doesn’t say anything at first. just pulls up a chair beside you with too much purpose for someone who’s “just hanging out.” you know her well enough by now to clock it instantly — the deliberate way she positions her arms, elbows resting too casually on the plastic table, like she’s trying not to look like she has something to say. like she’s waiting for the perfect moment to drop it.

you don’t even look at her.

you just take another sip of your milo, eyes still on the dusty road, and say, “what is it.”

minji blinks, mock-offended. “what makes you think i’m planning something?”

you glance at her now. just enough to meet the grin she’s barely suppressing. it’s one of her this is going to be stupid but trust me faces — the ones that always mean you’re about to end up involved in something mildly illegal or wildly unnecessary.

“because you only sit next to me like this when you need an accomplice,” you reply, deadpan.

she gasps, hand to her chest. “i’m wounded. i can’t believe you think so little of me.”

you raise an eyebrow, unimpressed.

she doesn’t even try to deny it after that. just leans in a little closer, lowers her voice like she’s about to reveal a state secret, and says—

“let’s throw hanni a birthday party.”

your first reaction is confusion.

your second is a kind of slow horror as you mentally flip through the calendar. you know — you know — it is not hanni’s birthday. her real birthday isn’t even near. you were there last year when she swatted danielle with a throw pillow for trying to sneak candles into her kimbap. she made all of you swear not to make a big deal out of it. she said birthdays were “weird” and “cringe.” she said she didn’t want attention.

and now minji’s sitting beside you, grinning like she just cracked the code to eternal life, suggesting you do exactly the opposite of what hanni wants.

you stare at her. “minji. it’s not her birthday.”

“exactly,” she says, as if this somehow supports her argument.

you blink slowly.

she continues, as if you’ve already agreed. “think about it. she never lets us throw her a real party. so we throw her a fake one instead. no warning. no expectations. full surprise. balloons, tarp, handa, music. ben 10 theme.”

“does hanni even like ben 10?”

“no,” she says cheerfully.

you sigh. “great.”

“danielle has leftover balloons from her cousin’s thing. i found a tarp. we’ll make it work.”

you run a hand down your face, still processing.

“we’ll decorate the storefront,” she adds, “steal some chips. call it a potluck. hyein’s already down.”

you glance at her sideways. “hyein doesn’t even know the plan yet.”

“she said yes before i could explain. i love that kid.”

you let out a long breath, the kind that’s half-laugh, half-resignation. minji’s grinning so hard now her eyes are crinkling. she looks proud. she looks ridiculous.

you glance down at your watered-down milo. the ice has almost melted.

you sigh again, heavier this time.

“…i’m in.”

minji cheers softly under her breath, pumping her fist like she just won something. “i knew you’d say yes!”

“you’re insane,” you mutter.

“but i’m fun insane.”

the wind shifts again. the tarp flaps loud above your heads, one edge nearly pulling free. minji reaches up to clip it back down, then sits back with a satisfied hum. the plastic table between you shakes slightly when she kicks it by accident.

she’s already planning, you can tell. her eyes darting around the block, scanning the sari-sari store, the open street, the empty chairs, the possibility of pulling off something this stupid in broad daylight.

“we’ll need danielle for the setup,” she mumbles to herself. “haerin can bring snacks or something.”

you lean your head back against the wall behind you, closing your eyes for a moment. the sun is lower now, golden light slicing sideways through the street. you can hear a neighbor’s TV playing a telenovela. someone’s boiling water. the world continues — warm and loud and familiar.

this is dumb.

this is so dumb.

but you’ve missed this kind of dumb.

and you’ve missed them.

you peek one eye open, catch minji scribbling something on her notes app, muttering names like she’s building a heist team.

“you know we’re all going to hell for this,” you say.

“worth it,” she grins.

you’re lying down on the floor of her room, cheek pressed against the cool tile, pretending to read the same page of a workbook you’ve been stuck on for ten minutes. her electric fan hums in the corner, spinning just slow enough to be useless. somewhere in the kitchen, her mom is reheating food. and above you, perched upside down on her bed like a cat, haerin is flipping through a magazine that’s two years old but still sacred — dog-eared pages and all.

“you’re not actually studying,” she murmurs.

you hum, noncommittal, then lazily turn a page like it proves something. “i am.”

“you haven’t even highlighted anything.”

you glance at your pen. it’s closed.

haerin’s legs swing above you, tapping the edge of the bed frame. it’s a familiar rhythm — like she’s thinking. like she’s getting comfortable. like she knows you too well to believe the lie.

“you just wanted to see me,” she says simply.

and you don’t respond. because she’s right, and she knows it, and she says it with the kind of calm that makes your face warm even when you pretend it doesn’t.

you pick at the edge of her floor mat instead. “i have something to tell you.”

“mm.”

“it’s about hanni.”

“is she okay?”

you tilt your head back to look up at her. she peers over the edge of her bed, her fringe falling into her eyes. the sight makes your breath catch — that soft, quiet concern on her face. you almost feel bad for what you’re about to say.

“minji wants us to throw her a birthday party,” you begin, slowly, “this week.”

haerin blinks once. then again. “...but it’s not her birthday.”

“i know.”

another beat. “so why?”

“because she thinks it’s funny.”

haerin leans back and tilts her head just slightly toward yours. “and you?”

“i think it’s stupid.”

a pause.

“...but i already said yes.”

she lets that sit. then, in the softest possible voice, she murmurs, “of course you did.”

you wait. not sure if she’s humoring you, or judging you, or quietly falling in love with you all over again. with haerin, it could be all three.

you lean closer, chin resting on the back of your hand, eyes tilted up at her. “you in?”

she doesn’t answer. just stares ahead. the ants are gone now. there’s only the quiet, the weight of late afternoon, and the hum of someone else’s tv through the wall.

then — the corner of her mouth lifts. barely. “what do you need me to do?”

your smile stretches wide.

danielle’s house isn’t far — five houses down, right before the corner where the barbershop plays karaoke at full blast every weekend. her gate is slightly open when you arrive, her bike parked askew by the stairs. you knock on the metal frame just once before haerin calls out, “dani!”

“upstairs!” comes the answer, followed by a thud and the sound of rushed footsteps.

a few seconds later, danielle appears, slightly breathless, holding a mug of tea and a spoon. she’s wearing a loose tank top and shorts, one sock on, the other missing. “hey, my favorite couple,” she grins.

“right.” she sips. “what’s the agenda?”

you exchange a look with haerin. she gestures: go on.

you sigh. “okay, so we’re throwing hanni a birthday party.”

danielle blinks. “it’s august.”

“exactly.”

she squints. “but hanni’s birthday is in october.”

“we know.”

“but we’re throwing her a party anyway?”

you nod again.

“does she think it’s her birthday?”

“why would she—”

“no, no, like, is this a psychological prank? like we gaslight her into believing it’s her birthday even though it’s not?”

you blink. “...no? maybe...?”

danielle pauses. “missed opportunity,” she mutters, and then shrugs. “okay, i’m in.”

“just like that?”

“yeah. why not?”

you study her carefully. “you don’t even want to know what your job is?”

“not really,” she says. “but also, if this ends in chaos — which it probably will — i want front-row seats.”

“you are the front row,” you say.

“even better.”

the tarp was awful. that was the consensus, unspoken and immediate, the moment you all unfurled it with the help of a half-broken walis tingting someone found leaning behind the neighbor’s water drum.

bright green. obnoxious. and stiff like it had been folded inside someone’s cabinet since 2019 — which, to be fair, it probably was. “happy birthday!!” was printed in red block letters across the top, complete with double exclamation points and two clip art balloons that had already started peeling. but the worst part — undeniably the worst — was the full-width, high-gloss ben 10 artwork, sharp enough to blind you if it caught the right light. not the newer reboot version either. this was mid-2000s ben. smug expression, arms crossed, watch glowing like he knew he’d been chosen.

“this is perfect,” minji declared, satisfied, as she held the tarp against the rotting plywood wall of your tambayan. it curled at the corners, resistant, like it didn’t want to be part of the plan.

“you’re evil,” you muttered, standing beside her.

“hanni’s gonna love it.”

danielle stood nearby, crouched over a slab of cardboard she’d been using as a writing surface. her brows furrowed in concentration as she carefully traced over block letters in deep blue marker. her handwriting was precise — more refined than it had any right to be for a prank party — with soft curves and an almost calligraphic style that made the name look sincere despite the joke.

she glanced up at you. “straight across the box?” she asked.

“dead center,” minji confirmed, gesturing at the white blank space labeled ‘name of celebrant’ like it was sacred ground.

danielle nodded and stood. with one hand steadying the edge of the tarp, she wrote:

HANNI ♡

the heart she added at the end was unmistakably hers — neat and symmetrical, positioned like a seal of approval. you didn’t miss the faint smile tugging at haerin’s lips as she watched from beside you, arms folded.

“should we’ve spelled it wrong?” you joked, already anticipating hanni’s reaction.

“this is funnier,” minji replied before danielle could even answer. “we’ll let the rest of the tarp do the damage.”

there wasn’t real tape, but someone managed to find flattened strips of plastic inside an old folder, which were peeled and pressed over the tarp like makeshift adhesive. with some squinting and a lot of uneven folding, the tarp was eventually secured to the wall above the long table, where a half-empty pack of cheese rings sat beside a single unopened royal.

hyein arrived mid-decoration, both arms full of mismatched paper plates and a familiar red plastic bag you recognized immediately.

“please tell me you didn’t,” you said.

“it’s for the cause,” she replied, triumphant. “birthday feast.”

“you literally own that sari-sari store.”

“exactly,” she said, as if that justified it. “i stole from myself. selfless.”

she dumped the contents onto the table — five bags of assorted chips, and a bottle of ketchup for some reason?

“we’ll pool for softdrinks later,” she added. “but for now, enjoy the feast.”

“we’re not calling this a feast,” danielle chimed in, balancing a stack of plastic cups in her arms.

“it’s already a feast,” hyein said, tearing one of the chips open. “a banquet, even.”

you were halfway through teasing her when you turned and saw haerin standing again in front of the tarp, head tilted slightly as she stared at the cartoon character printed beside hanni’s name.

you were about to ask what she was thinking when she bent down, picked up a small torn piece of cardboard from one of the snack boxes, and wordlessly positioned it over the zero in “10.”

you blinked.

“wait,” minji said slowly, realization dawning.

with an extra strip of tape, haerin secured the cardboard down, covering the number so that the design now read:

BEN TE

there was a beat of silence.

then minji let out the ugliest laugh you’d ever heard.

“no,” you said, jaw dropping. “you didn’t.”

“i did,” haerin said, voice quiet but proud.

you covered your face.

“this is so stupid,” danielle choked out. “i love it.”

“it’s not even her birthday,” hyein said between mouthfuls. “she can’t even be mad.”

and you — watching haerin casually step back, fingers brushing off invisible dust from her shorts, expression unreadable but corners of her mouth twitching just slightly — felt something warm crack open in your chest. like an inside joke folded inside a prank folded inside the comfort of being with people who just got it.

you caught haerin’s eye across the table. she didn’t say anything, but the way she looked at you — soft and amused, like she’d been waiting for your reaction — made your chest ache in a way that was all too familiar.

you smiled.

and she smiled back.

you leaned into haerin slightly, shoulder brushing hers, and she tilted her head toward you in quiet acknowledgment. her hand stayed linked with yours under the table. not obviously, not for show — just there. soft and still. like she’d forgotten to let go.

the tarp flapped overhead in the breeze, slightly uneven where one corner had been anchored with a piece of twine and a rock. it made a soft, papery sound, the kind that might’ve been calming if it wasn’t paired with ben 10’s cartoon stare looming above the snack table like a forgotten idol.

you stepped back to take it all in.

a folding table with mismatched paper plates. half a roll of table cover. party cups that didn’t match. a tarp with too many fonts and a typo added on purpose. a cake made of nothing but crackers and ketchup packets waiting to be arranged into some kind of vaguely birthday-adjacent pile.

it was absurd.

and yet—somehow—kind of beautiful.

haerin followed your gaze, her expression unreadable. but when her fingers squeezed yours again — just once, quick and warm — you understood what she meant.

this was working.

not in spite of the mess, but because of it.

“we’re not done,” minji said, suddenly back in leader mode. “we still need the drinks. and chairs.”

“wait,” hyein interrupted. “who’s inviting hanni again?”

the group went quiet.

then they all turned to you.

“no,” you said.

“yes,” danielle grinned.

“you’re the closest to her,” minji said, already opening her messages.

“she doesn’t suspect you,” hyein added. “you’re the perfect bait.”

“and she won’t kill you,” haerin murmured, barely above a whisper — but the corners of her lips were lifted, her expression openly amused now.

you groaned, already regretting everything.

“fine. but someone owes me barbecue after this.”

“deal,” minji said, already lying.

you’d barely stepped back from the table when minji nudged your side.

“text her,” she whispered, chin tilted toward the alley entrance. “you said she was just buying bread, right?”

you glanced down at your phone and typed fast, keeping your message vague.

can you come here real quick? just for a second. important.

“she’s on her way,” you said, heart already racing.

beside you, danielle crouched to light the candle on the tub of gelatin — one of those cheap ones with food coloring, not even flan like you'd originally planned. minji had argued that it was funnier this way. hyein, who had been quietly rearranging stolen chips on a plastic plate, stood up straight and rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

“positions,” she declared, like she was a director about to yell ‘action’.

you heard her before you saw her — soft footsteps scuffing against the concrete, the light slap of slippers against skin. and then: hanni turned the corner, a paper bag clutched to her chest, confused before she even saw anything.

“y/n?” she called.

and that’s your cue.

you straightened up, took a deep breath, and said it with a smile.

“happy birthday!”

hanni stopped walking.

she looked at you. then behind you. then up.

her face slowly transformed from blankness to sheer disbelief.

“what.”

above you was the tarp. the now-infamous tarp.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HANNI, written in a chaotic mix of sharpie strokes and leftover paint pen. danielle had handled the letters with what little calligraphy knowledge she could recall from an old bullet journal phase, but the marker bled in a few places, and the uneven surface of the tarp made the lines jagged.

and behind the birthday greeting? the unmistakable green and black of ben 10 — repurposed from a used tarp minji had bought off marketplace. except now, at the end of the number 10 was a small but deliberate add-on: a carboard cut out of “TE” squished into the corner.

benTE.

hanni blinked.

“what is this?”

“your surprise birthday party!” danielle chimed in, springing up from behind the table like she’d been waiting her whole life to deliver that line.

“…it’s not my birthday.”

“yes it is,” hyein said without missing a beat, voice flat like a school secretary confirming a schedule.

“no,” hanni insisted, voice rising slightly, “my birthday’s in october.”

“you guys. you can’t just—”

“you can’t just pretend it’s not your birthday when it obviously is,” haerin added calmly from her spot by the monobloc chairs, her tone so neutral it nearly convinced even you.

“haerin,” hanni said, gesturing wildly toward the tarp. “did you write that?”

“i only added the ‘TE,’” she said.

“to complete the pun,” you clarified.

“it’s a pun?”

“bente. as in twenty,” hyein said, holding back laughter.

“you’re twenty. and it’s ben ten. so. benTE,” danielle said, spelling it out like it made perfect sense.

hanni looked genuinely overwhelmed now.

she opened her mouth. closed it. looked at the tarp again.

“…did i hit my head this morning? is this a prank? am i forgetting something?”

you couldn’t take it anymore.

you burst out laughing — the kind of sharp, doubled-over laugh that made your shoulders shake and your eyes water. the rest of the girls followed in a wave. hyein dropped the bag of chips she’d just opened. minji leaned against the wall, laughing into her sleeve.

danielle waved her arms. “it’s fake! we made it up!”

“there is no birthday!” minji shouted.

“we bought that tarp for seventy pesos!” hyein cried.

haerin, who hadn’t stopped looking at hanni, quietly added, “you looked so confused. i almost felt bad.”

“almost,” you echoed, still catching your breath.

hanni stood still in the middle of it all, surrounded by chaos and mismatched balloons and the scent of too-sweet powdered juice.

then, finally — she laughed too.

“you’re all insane,” she said, walking toward the table. “like actually out of your minds.”

you handed her a cup of juice. “happy birthday.”

she sipped. made a face. sipped again.

“…this tastes like diabetes.”

“that’s how you know it’s made with love,” danielle said.

and just like that, she pulled up a chair — not for a real party, not for any celebration that made sense — but just to sit with you all, right under a tarp, under a sun that was starting to lower just slightly in the sky.

hanni looked around. then back at you.

“i hate you guys,” she said, smiling. “i really do.”

the laughter hadn’t stopped. even after hanni had recovered from the shock of seeing a ben 10-themed tarp with her name on it—even after she had gone around the table slapping shoulders and muttering “you guys are insane” between breathless wheezes—the giggles came in waves, rolling through the group like the heat clinging to the walls.

“you’re not even grateful,” hyein sighed, reaching for the chips she stole from the sari-sari store. “people throw you a whole birthday party out of the goodness of their hearts and this is the thanks we get.”

“you stole those chips.”

“out of the goodness of my heart.”

hanni opened her mouth to argue and closed it again with a huff, collapsing into one of the monobloc chairs with both hands over her face. “this is actually unbelievable.”

you were still laughing when danielle suddenly clapped her hands once, loud and sharp, like a preschool teacher about to start a lesson.

“okay,” she said cheerfully. “program time.”

the table quieted just enough to blink at her.

“there’s a program?” minji asked.

“of course,” danielle replied, pulling out her phone. “we made a whole outline in case the tarp fell apart too early. or if hanni cried.”

“i didn’t cry.”

“you sniffled.”

“because i was laughing!”

“and touched,” danielle added. “anyway, moving on. opening remarks… haerin.”

everyone turned to haerin, who had been quietly chewing through a pack of clover chips she hadn't even opened herself. she looked up, wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights, then calmly placed the chips down and said, “no.”

“okay. fair.” danielle nodded, scrolling. “guest speaker. y/n.”

you straightened. “guest what?”

“guest speaker,” minji echoed, already grinning. “logistics officer. emotional glue. get up there.”

“say something inspiring,” danielle said. “about community. love. hanni.”

you groaned as you stood, pretending to brace yourself like you were facing a room full of strangers and not five girls who had watched been your friends since seventh grade.

you cleared your throat. “good afternoon.”

“it’s evening,” hyein whispered.

“good evening,” you corrected. “we are gathered here today… to celebrate the birthday of someone who is very dear to us.”

“even though it’s not actually her birthday,” minji stage-whispered.

you nodded solemnly. “especially because it’s not her birthday. this is an act of love. and a prank. but mostly love.”

hanni groaned again, sinking lower into her seat.

“we may not have cake. or spaghetti. or a working karaoke machine.”

“we were supposed to bring karaoke?!” danielle hissed at minji, scandalized.

“but we do have each other,” you said quickly, “and an astounding amount of juice powder. and… two tubs of chips that hyein technically committed a crime to get.”

“petty theft,” hyein shrugged. “it’s fine.”

you smiled. “so here’s to hanni. who might be turning twenty-one eventually. but is currently, definitely, sort of twenty. and who—despite her complaints—is sitting at the head of a very badly planned birthday party surrounded by people who absolutely adore her.”

there was a beat of silence. hanni was quiet, her eyes suspiciously shiny as she looked down at the table. her shoulders rose with a breath she wasn’t quite sure how to let out.

danielle stood up and banged the back of a spoon against the side of an empty pitcher like she was about to start a barangay meeting. the hollow, tinny clang rang once, then twice, and all at once, everyone groaned.

“program time,” she said, proud. “you all agreed.”

“no, we didn’t,” hyein said immediately.

“your silence earlier counted as consent.”

“you never asked.”

“okay, moving on,” danielle steamrolled.

hanni, still sitting with her arms crossed and a suspicious squint in her eye, pointed an accusing finger toward the tarp behind her. “this is literally criminal.”

“what is?” minji asked, sipping soda through a straw.

“first of all, the banner says i’m turning twenty. i’m not. i’m twenty-one in two months.”

“are you twenty right now though?” you said without looking up.

hanni frowned. “...yes?”

“then technically,” minji said, nodding solemnly, “it’s correct.”

hanni turned toward haerin. “you’re quiet. you agree with this?”

haerin looked at her for a second, then shrugged. “it’s the thought that counts.”

“what thought?! it’s not my birthday!”

“exactly,” danielle grinned. “which is why today’s program will be a celebration of your not-birthday.”

before hanni could protest again, danielle pulled out her phone. “first game. classic rules. we go around in a circle and say ‘happy birthday, hanni,’ but we hold the last vowel as long as we can. i’ll be timing everyone. longest one wins. no do-overs.”

“oh, this is serious,” hyein whispered, already stretching her neck like an athlete.

“haerin, you go first,” danielle said, tapping her phone screen.

haerin blinked. you could tell she hadn’t been expecting that, but she stood up anyway, calm as always. she glanced at you before she spoke, and there was a flicker of a smirk in her eyes — quiet, playful.

she took a breath.

“happy birthday, hanniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—”

one mississippi. two mississippi. three mississippi.

she stopped at ten seconds.

“ten flat,” danielle said, impressed. “queen behavior.”

everyone clapped half-seriously. haerin sat back down beside you, tucking her hair behind her ear. her expression was unreadable, but you nudged her knee with yours anyway.

“is that your world record?”

“you’ll see,” she said softly.

you stood up next.

“please note,” you said with a hand on your chest, “this is dedicated to my love for hanni.”

you inhaled dramatically. “happy birthday, hanniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—”

seven seconds. eight. nine.

you were swaying by eleven.

you hit twelve seconds before you dramatically collapsed onto your chair like an exhausted opera singer.

“twelve,” danielle confirmed. “slightly unhinged. i respect it.”

“thank you,” you wheezed.

hyein jumped up next. no warning. just a burst of energy and a crooked grin.

“happy birthday, hanniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—”

eleven seconds.

“what the hell,” you muttered.

“i’ve trained for this,” hyein said, completely serious.

minji took her time. she stood like she was preparing for a public speech.

“happy birthday, hanniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—”

nine seconds. she stepped down with a small bow.

“danielle?” minji asked.

“i’m the judge,” danielle said. “i go last.”

finally, it was hanni’s turn.

everyone stared.

hanni stood up very slowly, like she was being forced to audition for a role she didn’t want.

she looked around at all of you — soft drinks on the table, paper cups already curling at the rim, juice mix sticky on everyone’s fingers, and that ridiculous tarp flapping behind her.

then she sighed.

“happy birthday, hanniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—”

fourteen seconds.

dead silence followed.

“wait,” minji said, stunned. “did she just win?”

danielle stared at her phone. “...by two seconds.”

everyone screamed.

haerin leaned toward you again, voice quiet over the noise. “should we start taking her seriously?”

“never,” you said, laughing.

hanni sat back down and crossed her arms again, cheeks pink from holding her breath too long. “i hate it here.”

“happy birthday,” danielle said sweetly.

after the vowel showdown, the games only got weirder.

haerin won "trip to jerusalem" — surprisingly fast on her feet and unbothered, gliding into the last chair like she’d planned the whole thing. hyein protested the results loudly until haerin offered her a leftover gummy bear, and all was forgiven.

you played "bring me", which quickly devolved into yelling and accusations when danielle shouted “bring me... proof of your first heartbreak” and minji actually pulled out a crumpled movie ticket with a straight face. she definitely won that round.

in the next, hyein won when danielle asked for “a strand of someone else’s hair” and she casually plucked one from your head without permission.

“psychopath,” you told her.

“winner,” she corrected.

“wait,” minji said, standing up from the monoblock chair like she was about to deliver a presidential address. “before we clean up, group photo.”

everyone groaned.

“no,” hanni said immediately, clutching a half-empty plastic cup of soda like it could shield her. “i look insane.”

“you always look insane,” hyein muttered.

“exactly,” minji nodded.

danielle was already dragging the tarp back up, taping the corners to the wall again with shaky strips of packaging tape. the wind immediately peeled one side off, but no one cared.

“can we do it fast?” haerin asked quietly from beside you, already halfway to sleep with how her head leaned on your shoulder. you gave her hand a quick squeeze.

danielle was already dragging the tarp back up, taping the corners to the wall again with shaky strips of packaging tape. the wind immediately peeled one side off, but no one cared.

but instead of the usual group shot, minji had another idea first.

“solo pic muna. birthday girl.”

“could we drop it already? it’s not even my birthday,” hanni deadpanned.

“tell that to the tarp,” danielle grinned, gesturing to the lopsided sign that read happy birthday hanni in uneven blue marker “besides, we made this with love.”

haerin reached into her pocket and handed hanni a lone party hat they’d forgotten to pass around earlier — slightly crumpled, printed with cartoon aliens. “just wear it,” she said gently, trying not to smile.

hanni groaned, but she put it on. “this is so stupid.”

minji had already pulled a plastic chair forward and pointed to it like she was staging a debutante photoshoot. “sit. smile. make it count.”

hanni, resigned to the bit, slumped into the chair. danielle adjusted the party hat on her head while hyein held up the tarp as straight as she could manage behind her, arms outstretched and barely reaching both corners. haerin stepped back beside you, her head lightly leaning on your shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips.

“say bente!” minji sing-songed.

“bente…” hanni muttered flatly as the photo snapped.

“okay,” you said. “group photo time!.”

the group stumbled into frame — minji setting the self-timer on her phone and sprinting to the front. you took the usual smiling one. then a wacky one. then one where you all pretended to cry for no reason.

the photo came out blurry, overexposed, one of danielle’s eyes was half-closed and someone’s foot was visible in the corner.

it was perfect.

and just when they thought the chaos was done — the wind blew again and took the tarp with it.

“ben ten!” hanni screamed as it flapped away like a giant plastic bird. “my birthday!”

everyone ran after it. except you and haerin, who watched the chase from the shade, her hand still laced with yours.

“should we help?” she asked.

“nah,” you said, smiling. “let them earn it.”

plastic chairs were stacked unevenly beside the gate, a few paper cups still rolling around on the concrete like they hadn’t realized the party was over. the streets had dimmed into their usual hush — a few porch lights still on, a dog barking once in the distance, a motorbike passing without urgency.

you and haerin had offered to help clean up, but minji had waved you off with a tired grin and a teasing look that made hyein giggle. "you've done enough," she'd said, but you suspected it had less to do with the decorations and more with the way haerin had been quietly watching you all evening, like she was just waiting for the moment you'd leave together.

so you slipped out. quietly. just two shadows walking side by side down the narrow street, the warmth of the party still clinging to your skin.

for a while, the two of you didn’t speak. your footsteps fell into rhythm. your arms brushed once, then again. and slowly — almost imperceptibly — your hand found hers.

she didn’t look at you, but you felt the way her fingers curled back.

you walked like that for a while. hand in hand. wordless.

it was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken. something soft and glowing nestled between the spaces of who you were and who you were becoming — a calmness that only existed when she was beside you.

“tonight was fun,” she said after a while, her voice just above a whisper.

you glanced at her, the curve of her cheek caught in the faint light of the streetlamp.

“yeah,” you said. “it really was.”

“thank you for pulling me into it,” she added, quieter this time. “even if it was ridiculous.”

you smiled. “especially because it was ridiculous.”

she let out a small breath — not quite a laugh, but close.

the walk to her house was short, but tonight it felt longer in the best way. like time had softened its edges, stretched itself just enough to let you stay here with her a little longer.

when you reached her gate, she stopped. you did too.

the light from her porch was warm and golden, pooling across the concrete.

she turned to face you fully. your hands were still clasped between you, gently, as if neither of you had remembered to let go.

“thank you,” she said again, quieter this time. her voice was steady, but there was a softness behind it — like something unspoken sat just beneath her words.

you looked at her, your gaze steady. “you’re welcome.”

and then, after a beat, you stepped closer.

not rushed. not dramatic. just enough.

her gaze didn’t waver.

you leaned in, slowly, giving her the space to meet you there. and she did — eyes fluttering shut as your lips met hers in a soft kiss.

it was brief. careful. but it lingered in its own way — in the way her hand tightened slightly in yours, in the way your noses brushed when you pulled back.

“goodnight,” you whispered.

she looked at you for a moment longer, then nodded.

“goodnight.”

and just like that, she turned toward the door, her fingers slipping from yours like a thread being gently tugged away.

you waited until the light clicked on behind her window before you walked back down the street.