I’ve only read about moments like these in books. We were drinking our beers, telling our stories, laughing at our mishaps. The night was young and everyone was enjoying each other’s company. Then, we found ourselves walking to the parking lot. We were bound to Tagaytay.

On the road, we played a game. Giving the most baduy terms of endearment, looking out the window in search of brands of cars, describing colors metaphorically. Facebook blue. Shit brown. Smiley Yellow. Period red.

Songs were sang. Oooohhh were added to the lyrics, meant as an inside joke. The original bulalohan place we intended to go to was closed, so we looked for one which was open 24/7. No one was prepared for the coldness in the mountains.

Coffees were shared. The bulalo was served. The steam coming from the pot was a homely sight. We ate, filled our bellies and warmed our bodies.

I slept during the drive back home. I woke up to the empty streets of the city, still groggy from the sleeplessness.

Friends bid their goodbye one by one, until it was my turn.

I’ve only read about these moments in books. I was glad and thankful I was able to live one.


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