DR MEMORY UNLOCKED — ᜊᜒᜊᜒᜅ᜔ᜃ

bibingka . a type of baked rice cake in Filipino cuisine that is cooked in a terracotta oven lined with banana leaves and is usually eaten for breakfast or as merienda, most notably Christmas.

The first time Yoongi spoke to me after we collided on the hill at age 10 (because I was chasing a guinea pig), rolled down a great height, bled and cried the little kids we were. Before I was pretty sure he cursed me, he called me by my nickname: “Bibingka.” It rolled out of his tongue oven-lined, not perfect for its first time, thick and coated with his Korean accent. It tipped me over the edge so much that I actually never hated being called bingka by my family any longer—

Whenever my tita or tito calls me over with bibingka or bingka, my cheeks don’t flush with thorny embarrassment, instead, it blooms with rememberance and his voice echoes just as much as the Karaoke machine around one of the rooms.

Yoongi never gets why my family calls me bibingka. (I forgot its origin the moment it rolled off his foreign tongue, my ancestors are rolling their eyes all the way that they are possessed, believe me).

“They use it to tease me,” I told him one time, mid-slurp of his jajangmyeon. The truck passing by muddled over my words, but he managed to hear. (He always does, Yoongi is like that). “Back home, a boy named Leon used to call me all sorts of names, he accidentally called me bibingka in front of my family one day.” I shrug, bowl nearly empty, my chopsticks trying to cling on to 2-inch noodles.

Yoongi brings some of his serving to my bowl and asks with a raised brow, “Why bibingka?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because it was sunset, we were at the beach,” I scoff, bringing the last of my food to my mouth. Yoongi was tapping his fingers away on the table, listening, listening, desperate to know. “My skin looked yellow and all over the place when the sun hit me.” I say, as I looked out the window. “I’m sure it still does now.”

Yoongi’s silent for a bit. I’m sure he’s observing the way the sun is splitting itself from the glass, pouring over my skin and spilling in all the right places. “Not because you’re sweet?”

My chopsticks danced around the bowl as I put it down, my gaze changing as I shrugged. “I was a brat,” A sigh escaped my nose heavily, he was nearly finished with his food. “I’m sure you know.”

Yoongi raises a brow and smiles. That damn, gummy smile. He does that thing—where he’s fixing his helix piercing as he thinks, like it helps him collect his words. It’s endearing, I could watch him close his eyes and hiss, watch the cogs in his head turn and pull over. Yoongi’s endearing, gently so, and it doesn’t help that he’s right in front of me. “Bibingka has a rough edge,” He reminds me.

I scoff, and he stretches from his seat. “Seriously, it’s rough in the edges, soft and texturey on the rest, sweet overall…” He sighs, looking out of the window with his chin resting on his palm. Yoongi’s eyes scan me under the sun. “It seems like you.”

And damn, I had to believe him then.