Elise placed a hand on my arm, and I flinched at her touch. She looked equally shocked, I almost wanted to ask her if we're seeing the same thing: An apparition.

But apparitions don't grow and transform into devilishly good-looking blokes in the finest-looking suit I'd ever seen. No. This is real. He is real. And now, he's staring right back at me, unblinking, from the other side of the hall.

"That's—that's Thomas," I said in a hushed whisper. The moment I uttered his name, I felt my throat constrict and the blood rushed to my head. I took my sister's hand and tightened my grip. "Ate, that's Thomas."

"Feeling severely under-dressed yet?" Ate muttered, her voice slightly shaking.

I looked down at my shirt. I felt sticky as all hell, and the party hasn't even started yet. I could feel the sweat seeping out from every pore of my body, and I'm positive there are dark sweat stains underneath the armpits of my shirt.

I blinked, still not completely sure what I was seeing. But then, the crowd parted and the man who looked like Thomas Padua walked towards me. My vision swam, the rest of the world blurred before me, with this man's face the only thing in focus.

I took him in for a moment. He's changed a lot. And he's handsome. So painfully handsome. There's no other word to describe him. Gone was the pale, ashen gray complexion; now replaced by a slightly tanned, pinkish color of health. His thick, dark-brown hair was cut expertly, parted and combed neatly to the side with a few strands dancing on his forehead. His face was lightly peppered with stubble, with a faint shadow of a beard and mustache. From where I stood, I failed to find a single blemish on his skin, and his sharp jawline shaped his face as though he were a sculpted masterpiece.

He'd filled out and muscled up, too—no longer the thin, lanky boy he'd been over a decade ago. He's broad-shouldered, the suit almost hugging the muscles in his chest and shoulders. He's gotten taller too, or I've gotten smaller. I'm easily a 5'10'', and I used to be taller than he was. But now, he's got a few inches and a dozen kilos on me; with a lean and muscular build, the kind of body that says he works out at the gym regularly. And those gold-flecked brown eyes, which was reflective of his European heritage, was for a moment so emotionally charged.

This is really happening. How is this even possible?

Thomas came closer and then, he was suddenly right there, just within my reach. He stepped close enough that when our gazes locked, I could see his eyes gleam, like a fire had been stoked inside him. I felt as if I'm being burned alive by those eyes.

But then, it was there one moment and gone the next, like a candle that's been snuffed out.

A chaos of emotions raged inside me, making me disoriented and blurred my vision. So many feelings, some I hadn't felt in a very long time—a mixture of shock, happiness, anger, sorrow, and hope.

It's him...It's definitely him!

I wanted to touch him. Prove that he's real. But when we were almost within arm's length of each other, he suddenly broke our gaze, walking past me as if I wasn't there.

In that moment, I felt an icy steel against my neck, my blood running cold.

"Well if it isn't Kate from next-door!" he gasped in delighted surprise. The sound of that deep voice next to me made my heart somersault. Yet something's not right here. I couldn't really tell, but my heart suddenly started to sink.

I slowly turned around to see Thomas reaching out his hand to my sister, wrapping her in a tight hug. I hope it's not unreasonable, but I felt a little hurt and confused.

The look of surprise on Ate's face was almost comical. "Uhm, hey!" she squeaked. "Thomas? Thomas, is that really you?" She returned the awkward embrace and patted him on the back as we exchanged a quick glance of confusion.

"Of course it's me," Thomas said as he broke the embrace and dropped a light kiss on Ate's cheek. "How have you been, Kate? I'm sorry I haven't come over to say hello, but hey, here we are."

"Uh yeah, that's totally fine. No worries. But, uhm..." My sister's gaze turned to me, reaching out to grab me by the arm and pull me close. "Look, Miggy's here too. Do you remember Miggy? You must remember Miggy."

I almost wanted to scoff. Of course he'll remember me. It's not like he has amnesia. Besides, how could he forget when we—

"Yes. Yes, I do remember Miguel," Thomas said tonelessly. His attention shifted to me and I will never forget the look in his eyes—dark, cold, and devoid of feelings. His lips lifted into a tight smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hello, Miguel. It's been a while. How are you?"

My heart lurched as he called my name. But why does he keep calling me Miguel? He never calls me Miguel—I've always been Miggy.

I was lost for words. There were a lot of things I wanted to say, yet at the same time, I don't. What do you even say to a person you hadn't seen in years?

I forced a smile. "I'm...I'm fine." I couldn't keep the shaking out of my voice. "It's been a long time, Thomas. I didn't expect you'd come home." I held out a hand, but he didn't shake it, digging his hands in his suit pockets and giving me a curt nod instead.

"Yes. That's what happens when life's so busy, you can't be bothered to go home. Then again, Norway is just as much my home as any other." And then, he clapped his hands and turned to Elise, who looked stunned and speechless. "Oh wow, Elise? Elise Licauco, is that you? My god, you've gotten prettier!"

And just like that, he'd dismissed me. I could feel my face burning with shame and confusion.

I felt like I entered a trance of some sort. I gazed, unseeing, at the people around me. Voices muffled, movements slow and languid, as though I'm submerged underwater.

"...there. It should loosen you up a bit." My best friend's voice snapped me from my trance. I watched as Thomas called to a passing waitress, grabbing a glass of wine and swirling it gently before lifting it to his lips. The waitress smiled politely and carried on walking.

Thomas made a curious little humming sound and frowned a little as he took the first sip. "You know, wine takes a little while to get used to, but I prefer it chilled. This one's a bit...warm. Would you care to try?" He offered his glass to Elise, which she politely refused.

"I'm so sorry," Elise said contritely. "I should probably go and check with the caterer—"

"Oh no, please don't bother. It's probably just me being picky." He took a second small sip, set the glass on a nearby table, then straightened his jacket. "And hey, I'm sorry but I can't linger for a long chat. 'Don't want to get kicked on the shin for abandoning the gang, you know." He tilted his head toward the group he'd been with earlier: Father Sosa and Father Macallan, my lovely friend, Bianca, and a couple more familiar-looking faces whom I think were his batchmates. "It's really good to see you guys. I'll be around 'til next week, so... We should catch up soon, yeah?" He regarded the girls with a smile. But he pretty much avoided looking at me, never mind speaking to me.

I might as well have been invisible.

We watched in dumb silence as he went to rejoin his companions. I have a sneaking suspicion these are the batch coordinators—the very people I needed to suck up to. But now, I couldn't even take a step forward. All the adrenaline had drained out of me.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout. I wanted to go home.

Instead, I bristled and glared at Elise and my sister, once Thomas was out of earshot. "Have you guys known all along?" They both answered with a shake of the head, still looking rightly dazed. "Ate, how can you not know that he's coming? You were batchmates!"

"And we're neighbors too, yet I didn't know!" she said pointedly. "I swear I've no idea, Miggy. Besides, we weren't exactly in the same clique, and I'm not a committee member."

My eyes darted to my best friend. "Elise?" My voice came out a pitch higher than I'd intended.

"Of course I didn't know, Miggy!" She turned her attention back to the paper in her hands, squinting in confusion. "I...I don't get it. His name isn't in the list of batch coordinators. I can't find his name here," she said finally. And then she gasped, eyes widened in horror. "Oh fuck, what if I screwed up? I've probably missed a few other names, too. Shit!" All the color drained from her face, and she looked like she was about to pass out.

"Oh. Hey, calm down. I wasn't—take a deep breath, Elise," I said, but she quickly turned away and darted off to the staff room.

"I'm just gonna' check on something. And Miggy? The host is already onstage, just waiting for your cue." She pointed to the tall, soberly besuited man standing behind the stage curtain, scanning the audience.

Fuck. I needed to get my head back in the game and get back to work. To be honest, I'm not sure it's a game I can play anymore. Not after that—whatever it was.

What the hell was that all about, anyway?

And just like that, my hurt and disappointment turned to anger.

Mr. Nancy, from my favorite novel, 'American Gods', once said that anger is good. Anger gets shit done.

Well, I couldn't have said it better. The problem with ghosts from the past can wait later.

Definition of Terms:

* Filipino Time - Being minutes to hours late compared to the standard/agreed time. For many Filipinos, being late and starting things late have become part of the culture, and others seem to either practice it or accept it, so much that it's been given a term.

*Cura Personalis - Jesuit education emphasizes the view that each person is a unique creation of God. Cura Personalis (meaning 'care for the whole self' in Latin) is demonstrated by personal attention in the classroom, a deep respect for diversity and difference and an emphasis on holistic care for the mind, body and spirit. [Source: xavier.edu]