Rich stood on the rooftop of his apartment, gazing up at the night sky. A glass of amber drink in hand, he allowed himself a rare moment of peace. The city below hummed softly, but his mind wasn't focused on it—his eyes wandered toward the horizon. In the distance, a faint wisp of smoke rose into the air. At first, it was thin—just a dark ribbon against the glow of the city. But curiosity pricked at him. How big was the fire? Was it something serious? He was intrigued but felt the pull of sleep. Sighing, he set his drink down and went back inside, leaving the smoke behind, his thoughts swirling.
The next morning, Diego stepped into a hot shower, steam rising around him as the cold air of Baguio seeped in through the window. After drying himself off, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand. His fingers flicked across the screen, scrolling through messages. A familiar name popped up—Wes. Diego's heart skipped when he read the urgent message: "Place burned down. Need help." Wes, someone Diego had met just the day before, was now asking for help—his home, his possessions, everything, gone. Diego's brow furrowed in concern. How ironic that he, too, was still searching for a place to stay. Without hesitation, he quickly typed back: "Come over. You can stay with me."
A few hours later, Wes entered the same coffee shop where they had first met. But now, he had nothing with him—just the clothes on his back. His face was tired, hollowed from the fire that had taken everything. He moved slowly, his shoulders slumping, eyes lost in thought. Diego spotted him instantly and approached with a smile. "Wes?" he said, his voice warm with recognition.
Wes looked up, relief flashing briefly in his eyes. "Hey, Diego."
The two exchanged brief pleasantries. Wes explained everything—how his home was gone, how he had nothing left. Diego's sympathy deepened. "You can stay with me—at least for now," he offered without hesitation.
Wes nodded gratefully. "Thanks."
They soon made their way to Diego's small apartment, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It wasn't much—just a modest space with a single room, a small bed, and worn-out furniture. But it was enough. As they entered, Diego introduced Wes to his grandfather, Lolo Tomas, who was seated by the window, tending to a few potted plants. The elderly man, with silver hair and kind eyes, welcomed them with a warm smile.
"Well, well," Lolo Tomas said, glancing at Diego. "Never thought you'd bring anyone home, hijo. I was beginning to think you'd keep to yourself forever." His eyes twinkled with amusement. "But who's this? I was expecting a girl, not a young man."
Both Diego and Wes laughed awkwardly. "We're just friends," they explained at the same time. "He needs a place to stay because his place burned down," Diego added.
Lolo Tomas chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, well, the more the merrier!"
Inside Diego's small room, Wes looked around—simple but enough to make him feel comfortable for the short term. There was a worn-out guitar leaning against the wall. Diego picked it up and handed it to Wes. "Here, you can play this if you want."
Wes took the guitar, strumming a few notes hesitantly. It had been a long time since he played. His real passion was painting—something he hadn't been able to do since his materials were lost in the fire.
"Do you sing?" Diego asked curiously.
Wes shook his head. "Not really. I'm more into painting, but... everything I had was gone."
Diego smirked. "Well, maybe you can try. Just for fun."
Wes thought for a moment, then glanced at the guitar again. Suddenly, a song came to him—one of his favorites, a classic OPM hit from Rivermaya: "You'll Be Safe Here." It had been a nostalgic song from his youth, and though he wasn't a singer, he decided to give it a shot.
To his surprise, his voice wasn't bad. It was steady, with a raw emotional quality that lingered in the air.
Diego listened, smiling as Wes sang. His voice blended naturally with the melody, and they sang together—a harmonious moment that filled the room with light.
Meanwhile, in another part of Baguio, Rich strolled through the busy afternoon streets. The city's lively energy surrounded him—vendors shouting, street performers playing, and the hum of life in motion. His camera hung loosely around his neck, but his mind was elsewhere. He searched for someone—a subject to capture in that fleeting moment when everything slowed down. His eyes scanned the crowd, waiting for the perfect person.
And then, he spotted her—a petite figure sitting alone at a café, her bright, colorful hair catching the sunlight. She had a boyish aura but exuded confidence, her piercing gaze steady. Rich raised his camera, ready to frame the shot.
But she noticed him. Mid-bite, she paused and glared straight at him, narrowing her eyes. Tension grew between them as she stepped outside.
"What are you doing?" she asked sharply, her voice cutting through the air as she approached him.
Rich swallowed, his heart racing. His mind raced—how to explain without offending her? He didn't panic, but the nerves were creeping in. The girl's presence seemed to demand more than just a simple apology.
"I—I didn't mean to disturb you," he said quickly, holding his camera in his hands as if offering it as proof. "I was just capturing moments of people alone. Nothing harmful."
She looked him up and down, scrutinizing him—his camera bag, the equipment. For a moment, she seemed to believe him, though her expression remained guarded.
But then, without warning, she turned away—quickly and sharply, disappearing back into the café.
Rich let out a slow breath, relief washing over him—when suddenly, the sound of a motorcycle speeding down the street caught his attention. The girl, unaware, stepped briskly across the busy road. Before Rich could react, the motorcycle hit her.
Time seemed to freeze. The sound of the collision echoed in his ears—people screaming, the motorbike skidding to a halt. Rich stood frozen in shock, watching as the girl crumpled to the pavement.
He couldn't move. His mind raced, unable to process the sight—the girl lying motionless, her colorful hair spread out on the concrete.