The house where Sabrina lived always stuck in my memory—a small dwelling in Pampanga that differed from Grandma's or anyone else's. It accommodated two souls, Sabrina and her mother.
Sabrina never willingly shared details about her father or her siblings, although I recall playful days in her house with her younger brother and sister.
One night, the ominous wail of police cars and ambulances filled the air. The next morning, Sabrina appeared at our door, resembling a witch with her tired, black eyes and evident hunger. I cooked her a hearty breakfast, and she devoured it, the hunger in her eyes now replaced by satisfaction.
There was a day I caught her blushing and later discovered her staring at my pictures. Playfully, I teased her about having a crush on me, a claim she fervently denied. But, of course, we were best friends!
