Day and Night

“I knew that was rocky-road, I just didn’t say anything. Only rocky-road has marshmallows like that.” I whispered while putting a wooden scoop of dark chocolate, marshmallow, and roasted pecan in my mouth, after the waiter corrected himself that it was, in fact, not chocolate ice cream. The hotel cafe provided the usual pleasantries you would expect from one- cool air-conditioning, soft jazz, fancy interiors. S sat next to me on the booth for the first time since we started going on actual dates, just the two of us. Paintings hung on the wall. We took turns pointing out what we noticed, what we liked. “Practice for later,” we laughed. It was a gloomy Saturday afternoon in San Juan, we were passing time while waiting for the opening of the gallery that he invited me to.

I’ve never been to this side of Metro Manila before. We drove through neighborhoods that had the kind of charm one may (albeit incorrectly) describe as “a mix of old Manila and Legazpi”. Brutalist buildings, authentic East Asian restaurants with elaborate exteriors to match, creative spaces inside art cafes- just the right blend of indie cool and art school chic. Nowadays, I would expect it to be the place where people who have their lives together go. You know, the kind that says a no-name, family-owned restaurant serves the best dumpling in the city, and you know they’re right. S said his mom remembers San Juan as the place where hip young people gathered back in the day, parking their cars in a row and socializing, as you would see in old Filipino films.

The gallery is inside an unassuming building along EDSA, just a few minutes walk from Santolan MRT Station. Once you park, a small fear of ending up in a ditch somewhere may briefly creep in, considering the darkness and unkempt status of the basement currently serving as makeshift parking. Reaching out to S for safety as we got out of the car, I joked about the day being a sort of field trip for me- walking into old buildings is the cherry on top. Inside, dated wide staircases lead you to the second and third floors, and in perhaps the only part of the building that has been renovated, RIFT is situated, introduced by metal letters drilled on a lime-wash painted wall.

Introductions were made and I could feel myself folding in- it’s different when it’s just the two of us or when we’re surrounded by people we both know. This afternoon felt like I was stepping into unfamiliar territory, not exactly sure how welcomed I should feel. When we were offered the curator’s walkthrough, I had no idea that I had just said yes to feel the most alive, interested, and human I have felt in a while. I’m convinced having a day job that keeps you behind a desk for most of the day does that to people. On the bright side, C noted that I understood her and her partners’ vision for the gallery. They wanted it to be a flexible place for creative expression- one that bridges art and political discussions. I couldn’t help but think about that widely-shared excerpt from Marwan Makhoul’s poem The Quiet Intermission,

In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political,

I must listen to the birds.

And in order to hear the birds,

the war planes must be silent.

What she didn’t know was that I didn’t just understand- it’s something I’ve been praying to find. We kept walking and talking. There were conversations about feminist literature, writing, and eventually, social responsibility. I confessed to feeling inadequate, like I hadn’t done enough. Like I hadn’t put in enough effort to be informed, to be involved. This is unforgivable in the digital age. It was a conscious decision I had to make five years ago in order to preserve my sanity. Somewhere along the way, self-preservation turned into apathy. The world will always be ugly. All I care about is me. As someone who was educated in political science, that might have been my most shameful admission.

C said her favorite out of all the pieces in the exhibit was Callalily Girl. It was an image of a lady holding the captioned flower, painted using different hues of peach, yellow, and a touch of green. “Looking at you, then at the painting, I can see why you gravitate towards it. You give off the same vibe.” I could believe she stepped out of the frame to show us around the gallery. C smiled and agreed. She’s been told she radiated warm energy before.

“You should borrow this book,” she said eagerly. Of course I took it. I will be back here in a month. Please sign me up for the writing workshop. I will bring my friends. We said our goodbyes, and I asked to give her a hug. I was happy, engaged, and excited all at once. I was having the kind of day I didn’t know was possible to be had (in the best way) after the work week I had just endured.

S planned out this entire day. He wasn’t particularly interested in art, but he knew I would love it. True enough, I couldn’t keep myself from smiling as we walked down the staircases and exited into the dark parking lot. I was ridiculously happy. We drove from San Juan to Kapitolyo for a bite of Silantro. “I can see myself living here”, I declared while making a mental note to look for jobs nearby. On the drive back to Makati, he made me listen to his favorite artist of all time, John Mayer. He’s growing on me rather quickly. Whether that’s a testament to his talent or merely because of who introduced it, I will never know. Later that evening, I asked S why he puts so much effort into making me happy. He showed up for me countless times that week, including that one morning I woke up in tears because of a sudden dream about something I thought I had long gotten over. Perhaps no one fully recovers from losing a parent. S said he had no explanation for it. He just liked seeing me happy. I could live with that.

“You made me very happy today. Thank you.” I made sure to tell him about a dozen times. As I drifted off to sleep that night, I realized I was starting to see a place for him in my life.

Makati looks even more beautiful in that peaceful but elusive way at this time of the night. After (most) corporate employees have resigned for the day, the only people still outside are night owls like myself, other than those who are merely passing by with somewhere else to be. Incoming traffic does not allow for more than a couple minutes of silence, but I found relief in my smallness amidst a sea of glimmering light, towering over me, breaching the sky. There’s a particular thickness in the air this evening, one I couldn’t quite place a finger on until that conversation finally took place. After everything we’ve talked about, it was the first time I became nervous over something he had to say. We’re seated side by side, facing the street with a direct view of the art deco lanterns crawling around trees in the middle of Buendia avenue. He asked me about it once before.

“Why would you put me in this position?” I shake my head, almost in disbelief. S has been so good to me from the beginning. Everything came easily for us and things just fell into place. That’s all I wanted. I’m having a hard time grasping the idea that someone out there genuinely believes that this tender thing we share is partially built on another person’s pain. I’ve had my hunches, but I was never brave enough to ask. Is that something I did wrong? When you’re only starting to get to know someone, up to what extent are you entitled to know about their life? Even now that I know, what right do I have to cut off another person for the choices he made, knowing I’ve made my fair share of mistakes?

I wonder aloud if I would rather not have found out, but he made it clear that was never an option. “A ticking time bomb,” his friend called it. This conversation needed to be had. Even with all of his flaws and wrong choices, S has always been an introspective person. We have that in common. Maybe that’s part of the reason I think I can forgive him. We are merely two imperfect people trying our best. I know he’s more than this.

Is the situation shitty and complicated and everything I’ve ever wanted to avoid, all rolled into one? Absolutely. In a self-punishing way, I feel a misplaced sense of responsibility for it too. I’m not arrogant enough to believe I could have triggered it, but I can’t shake the feeling that I unknowingly took away something from them. What it is, I don’t know yet. Perhaps the chance to have a clean ending? A possibility to alter his feelings? I will drive myself insane thinking.

I feel like I need to pay penance for something. I’m ready to do that. But what about me? What about me who protected my peace? What about me who worked on myself so I can pour from a cup of overflow? What about S? What about him who made a few bad calls, but sacrificed a multitude more for others? What about him who had high hopes for the year ahead- his dreams both in career and in love?

Where do we position ourselves in the meantime?