Chapter Text
“Alyanna po?”
Alyanna quickened her pace towards the delivery guy waiting in the lobby of her apartment building.
“Sir Kevin po?” she asked, confirming if the man was indeed her delivery person.
“Yes po. Eto po, pahawak lang muna,” he said, handing her a small box while he began untangling a larger, bulkier package from his motorcycle. “Naku, napakabigat po nito. Ano po bang laman? Anong floor po kayo?” he asked, struggling with the ropes securing the package.
“Second floor lang po,” Alyanna replied, scrolling through her phone to check the payment amount.
“Gusto niyo po ba tulungan ko na kayong iakyat ito? Nagde-deliver naman po talaga ako ng door-to-door dito sa building,” he offered, eyeing the cumbersome box. The apartment building only had four floors and no elevator, and Alyanna’s petite frame didn’t seem up to the task.
Alyanna gave him a polite smile but declined. “Hindi na po, kaya ko na po. Ibaba niyo na lang po muna diyan sa tabi,” she said, gesturing toward the designated parcel area in the lobby.
“Sigurado po ba kayo? Ang payat niyo pa naman. Wala ba kayong kapamilyang lalaki o boyfriend na magbibitbit niyan pataas?” the man insisted, his tone more curious than helpful.
Her shoulders tensed at his comment. She knew he likely meant no harm, but the persistence made her uneasy. “Pauwi na rin po yung boyfriend ko. Papabitbit ko na lang po mamaya,” she lied, fumbling in her wallet to maintain an air of nonchalance. “‘1420 po lahat noh? Eto po,” she said, handing over a one-thousand and five-hundred peso bill. “Keep the change. Salamat po.”
“Sige po, salamat din po, Ma’am,” the driver replied, finally letting it go.
Alyanna smiled briefly before sitting in the lobby, pretending to scroll through her phone as the delivery guy drove off. Once the sound of his motorcycle faded, she stood and approached the heavy box. It loomed over her like a challenge she was only now realizing she had underestimated.
“Kaya ko ‘to,” she muttered under her breath, crouching to lift the box. But the truth was, she wasn’t sure. She’d lied about the second floor, about having a boyfriend, and even to herself—convincing herself earlier that this wouldn’t be so hard. Now, the weight of her decision—both literal and figurative—pressed down on her.
With the smaller box balanced precariously on top, she mustered all the strength her three months of inconsistent gym sessions could provide and heaved. The trek to the fourth floor was agonizing, punctuated by frequent breaks on the staircase, beads of sweat rolling down her temple. By the time she reached her unit, her arms and legs felt like jelly.
Setting the box down to unlock the door, she checked the hallway, her eyes darting left and right. Empty. She pushed the box inside, only for it to snag against something. A pair of men’s shoes lay near the doorway—props she’d placed there for her safety charade. She nudged them aside, finally managing to push the box in and close the door.
After grabbing a cold bottle of water from the fridge, she opened the windows to let in some air. Her fan had broken days ago, and she was reluctant to use the air conditioner, worried about her electricity bill. Ironically, the heavy box contained the fan she’d just bought along with a heavy duty outdoor tent—the reason it had been so heavy. Still unsatisfied with the meager airflow, she stepped onto the balcony, moving a drying rack aside. Men’s boxers hung from it, another layer to her illusion of not living alone.
Alyanna’s gaze drifted to the street below, watching the passersby. Living alone in Manila wasn’t easy. Her family was in Cebu, and she’d come here chasing better job opportunities. As a multimedia arts graduate, the limited prospects in her hometown had driven her to the capital. But Manila was no paradise; competition was fiercer, and the city often felt just as unforgiving.
Safety was her biggest concern. Her apartment, though spacious and affordable, had lax security—a single guard, a few questionable CCTV cameras. To counter this, she’d devised her own measures: men’s shoes by the door, boxers on the balcony, and a consistent narrative about a nonexistent boyfriend.
Her friends often teased her about her singlehood.
“E kung mag-boyfriend ka na lang talaga, sis,” Sandra suggested during one of their hangouts.
“Bading ‘yan,” Sasha quipped.
“Edi masc lesbian ganern,” Sandra countered.
“Grabe ka naman, hindi ginagawang boyfriend ang jowang babae, ha,” Misty reminded her.
“Hindi naman ‘yon ibig kong sabihin! Argh, namimisinterpret na naman ako,” Sandra groaned.
“Joke lang, gets ko naman, HAHAHAH,” Misty said, teasing her. “Pero bakit nga ba ayaw mo mag-jowa, Alyanna? Hindi ka naman naghihirap, hindi ka rin pinapressure ng parents mo na magbigay ng financial support sakanila. Pinapadalhan ka pa nga nila. Ang tagal mo nang walang jowa. Hindi ka ba natitigang, mih?”
“Totoo! Magiging Mama Mary ka na for real,” Sasha added.
“Baka naman kasi may inuuwi na sa unit niya, hindi lang nagsasabi,” Sandra teased further.
“Dami nong alam, guys,” Alyanna laughed, holding back the slight embarrassment triggered by her friends’ playful jabs. Yet, deep down, their words gnawed at something she didn’t often acknowledge. It was true—she craved companionship. She longed for a partner to greet her at the door after a grueling day with a warm "Honey, I'm home," someone to cook meals for her, or to run their fingers through her hair until she fell asleep.
But not all longings were that innocent. The truth was, Alyanna had devised a way to quiet her more primal needs. She wouldn’t dare share it with her friends—not because they’d judge, but because admitting it aloud would make it too real. “Hindi ko pa naman ‘yan naiisip,” she quipped, brushing the conversation off. “Focus muna ako sa career ko. Pag nakausad na ako, then maybe I’ll add that to my to-do list, HAHAHAH.” She reached for a shot of tequila, its fiery burn a welcome distraction from the heat her own thoughts stirred.
As the alcohol spread warmth through her chest, it mingled with the latent sensations awakened by the earlier discussion of relationships. The tension hung in her like a thread stretched too tightly. “Anyway,” she said, steering the conversation toward lighter topics. She laughed along with her friends, but behind her smiles lay a quiet resolve to keep her yearnings safely out of sight—for now.
The night stretched on, and Alyanna was thoroughly tipsy by the time she reached her apartment building. Her heels, abandoned in the Grab car, dangled loosely from her fingers as she struggled to climb the stairs barefoot. She hummed a familiar melody, her lips curling into a tipsy grin. “Paikot-ikot lang mula ng mailang…” she snickered, the lyrics resonating in her spinning head due to drunkenness.
It was a song by Burning Red, her favorite band. Their music wasn’t just a pastime—it was a lifeline for her. Back in college, she’d attended every gig they played, from small campus events to packed bars. When the band moved their base to Manila, it wasn’t just a coincidence that she followed.
Her studio apartment bore silent testament to her obsession. Posters of Burning Red adorned the walls, one of which was signed by the entire band—a prized possession she’d framed with care. A shelf near the window displayed an array of merchandise: limited-edition albums, concert wristbands, and even a mug with the band’s logo. A battered ticket stub pinned and a polaroid picture of her and their bassist, Maddie, pinned to the corkboard, served as a reminder of the night she’d first seen them live.
But the cost of being a devoted fangirl had taken its toll. This year, she made a conscious effort to cut back—not because she wanted to, but because her finances demanded it. The decision felt like tearing a piece of herself away, but she reasoned it was necessary to focus on her real goals.
“Miss ko na sila,” she murmured under her breath. “Pero tama na. Time to grow up.” Yet as she tossed her heels aside and let the melody of Burning Red’s music play in her mind, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing—for the band, for their songs, for everything they represented during a simpler time in her life.
As she reached her the door of her unit, she froze. The lock cover for pass key was slightly ajar. Her heart began to race. She distinctly remembered using her key to lock the door before leaving and she also only uses her pass key when she's too tired to look for her keys. Swallowing her rising fear, she tried to rationalize it. Maybe a neighbor had mistaken her door for theirs. But she couldn’t shake the gnawing anxiety.
With one hand clutching her purse and the other gripping her heels like weapons, she pushed the door open and reached for the light switch. The studio unit’s layout allowed her to scan most of the space in a single glance. Nothing seemed amiss. Still, she left the door ajar for a quick escape and began checking every corner: the bathroom, the closet, even the balcony. Nothing.
Finally, she turned her attention to the space beneath her bed. As she stepped closer, her breath caught in her throat. An inexplicable dread coiled in her chest, an instinctive warning that made her hesitate. Her mother’s bedtime tales of shadowy hands lurking below surged into her mind—the very stories that kept her feet tucked safely under blankets as a child. She remembered crying in bed, too terrified to retrieve a stuffed toy that had fallen to the floor, afraid something might seize her hand.
Now, she stood frozen, grappling with the remnants of that childhood fear. Her hands trembled as she reached down, clutching the edge of the sheet. Mustering every ounce of courage, she crouched and slowly lifted the fabric.
The void stared back, empty.
A wave of relief washed over her, leaving her light-headed. She sat back for a moment, allowing the tension to go away. It was nothing—just her overactive imagination playing tricks. With a final glance under the bed, she let the sheet drop and double-locked the door and ensured the balcony was secure before collapsing onto the bed, exhaustion winning over the lingering unease. Her makeup remained smudged, her outside clothes still on, as sleep claimed her.