- Ari's POV -
The silence in my Cebu studio had a weight to it today, a thick blanket that muffled the usual comforting sounds of the city filtering through the open windows. Even the sunlight, usually a vibrant companion illuminating the dance of dust motes, felt a little too sharp, highlighting the stillness of the canvases leaning against the walls. They were my children, these paintings, each one carrying a piece of me, a silent scream or a whispered longing given form in color and texture. And lately, the screams felt louder, the longings more insistent, all of them echoing a single name.
Downstairs, I could hear the muffled voices of Leo and Sofia, probably arguing good-naturedly over the placement of labels or the best way to pack a particularly fragile sculpture. They were my anchors in the often-turbulent sea of the art world, their grounded practicality a welcome counterpoint to my more emotional approach. I should probably go down, offer some semblance of leadership, maybe even share a late-afternoon snack of banana cue from the street vendor outside, but the unfinished canvas before me held me captive. It was a chaotic mess of blues and greens, a storm trapped on linen, and it felt achingly close to capturing the knot of emotions that had taken root in my chest – a knot tightened by the bittersweet memory of a hand briefly resting on my shoulder, a casual gesture that had ignited a familiar spark of hope, only to be quickly extinguished by his subsequent radio interview where he'd casually mentioned a new actress he was seeing.
My phone, face down on a splatter-covered corner of my worktable, buzzed with a gentle insistence. Bea. Her texts were always a little burst of sunshine.
"Manila prep in full swing? Heard the gallery's got amazing lighting. Also… any whispers on whether he might grace us with his presence?"
A small, weary smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Bea knew the score, had witnessed my silent, years-long orbit around Miguel Montemayor.
Migs.
Just the thought of him still stirred something complicated inside me, a tangled mix of affection, yearning, and a quiet, persistent ache, now laced with a bitter understanding. We'd been friends for what felt like forever, two unlikely kids finding a strange sort of solace in each other amidst the humid chaos of Cebu High. He'd been the easy laugh, the effortless charm, the one who could make even the strictest teachers crack a smile. And I… I'd been the quiet observer, finding my voice in the strokes of a brush. Somewhere along the way, that easy friendship had twisted on my side, blossoming into a silent, steady affection that Migs, I knew, was aware of, a comfortable fact he seemed to take for granted. I was the constant, the reliable anchor in his often-turbulent romantic life, the one he could turn to for easy affection or a fleeting sense of intimacy when his relationships faltered or when he was simply… unoccupied.
Just yesterday, a breezy text from Migs about a funny wardrobe malfunction on set. My reply had been equally light, a string of laughing emojis, masking the familiar sting of knowing he was likely sharing that encounter with someone he was actually pursuing. That's how it was now – pleasantries exchanged across a digital divide, the easy intimacy of our early years repurposed into a casual affection that kept me tethered without ever offering true connection. Sometimes, a phantom limb of those deeper connections would ache, a memory of whispered secrets under a star-dusted sky, a memory now tainted by the realization that those moments had likely meant something entirely different to him.
I sighed, running a hand through my perpetually paint-flecked hair. The canvas before me seemed to mock my attempts to articulate the precise shade of this persistent longing, a longing now tinged with a growing weariness. It wasn't a dramatic, tear-soaked obsession. It was more like a low hum beneath the surface of my days, a constant awareness of a missing piece, a piece Migs held carelessly in his hand, offering glimpses but never truly relinquishing.
I reached for my phone, opening Instagram, and I snapped a photo of a corner of my studio, a vibrant chaos of color, and typed the caption: "Manila bound soon for the opening! Excited to share this new body of work. See you there!" It felt like a hopeful message cast out into the digital sea, a part of me still foolishly wishing a certain pair of dark eyes would take notice, would see beyond the vibrant colors to the quiet yearning beneath. The blues on my palette seemed to deepen in understanding, tinged with a nascent shade of resolve.