Clenching my teeth, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, as if meditating, trying to calm myself. My system is craving nicotine. Yet, I cannot light a cigarette because Airon is sitting across from me. His lungs are weak. His nose is sensitive. And for this guy, I’d wear neither perfume nor get soaked in the stench of heavy smoke. My coming here is unexpected. I’m edgy because he was hysterical, narrating some bullsh*t, supernatural story from his hometown. For the love of God, I’d flick his forehead for being superstitious. 

This isn’t the first time he recounted supernatural stories from his hometown. Tonight, he must have been emotionally strained because he needed my company. We have common friends but he messaged me. I’d like to believe that they didn’t flake on him.

When it comes to Airon, my schedule is always free. 

The night air is humid. The electric fan is broken. So we settled onto the balcony of his unit on the second floor of an apartment complex located in the old part of the city. Glancing at my watch, it registers at 2:12 AM, Saturday. 

From here, I can see the dimly lit alley below. Some street lamps are flickering, and two of them are dead. So they haven’t fixed the lighting. It’s been five months since my last visit. Stray dogs gather and frolic around a bag of trash, scavenging for food. Some rowdy street kids instigate a shouting match with some passersby. Meanwhile, the karaoke sessions blasting from the next block served as annoying, incongruous background music.

Not gonna lie, I hate his choice of neighborhood. But the talk of his living accommodations is for another day. The way I see it, the bleak state of this neighborhood isn’t a drawback for Airon. The unit is cheap and readily available. Sighing deeply, I couldn’t help but facepalm at his naivety.

My crazy commitment to self-restraint is damn infuriating. 

I wanted to reach out to him and hold him tight. Comfort him in my arms. But now’s not the time for that. I don’t think I can restrain myself once I hold his hands. I don’t take pleasure in taking advantage of someone’s vulnerability. The right thing to do is listen to him ramble on, and stay with him.

After taking a sip of the sugared instant coffee, I sighed. It’s the only beverage he could offer me. I’m not demanding. I’m not picky. But damn! Why is he so stubborn? A cheap room is cheap regardless of the deluxe furniture in your belongings. A year and a half ago, I tried persuading him to stay at my place for as long as he wanted but he still moved out. F*ck self-sufficiency. If he leeches off me, he can suck me dry.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I’m wondering, where do I even begin? 

My right knee is shaking. I’m anxious. I’m getting impatient. I didn’t bother to stop tapping the table with my fingers. 

I’m trying to process the strange story he was rambling about earlier. He said that a senior in his old high school said these cryptic words: One of us is dead. The other is born. And the rest will never be the same again.

Is that a riddle? Why the hell is he affected by that? I held back my foulmouth from saying out loud: What the f*ck is that?

F*ck the TGIF booze with my friends. Call me dumb, but damn it, I have my priorities. And that’s the guy sitting across from me, whose head hangs limply. He’s fidgeting his fingers like a scared kid. His body is tensed but he’s calmer now.  

Airon’s monologue continued. 

“Her name is Allison,” he says with tenderness, like the goddamn woman is some delicate flower, “When I was a first-year high school student at Holy Mercy Academy, she was a senior. She’s my… My… You know—”

His affectionate portrayal of her irritates me. I growl at him, “Beats me—”

He suddenly looks at me, searching for signs of annoyance, assessing if he should continue talking. He has this expression as if wondering if he had offended me. 

I feel guilty. I soften my tone. “Ai—” Those sad, puppy eyes could kill me, “Sorry, okay?”

He nods and says, “She’s my first love…”

F*ck that. I just reply with a lousy okay. 

“A month ago, I accidentally met her while doing some late-night errands. You know…”

“Your insomnia kicked in.”

He nods. He slumps forward, head drooping, since his right elbow rests on the table, he easily props his arm against his forehead to support the weight. He sighs regretfully, and says, “I wished I had never met her because it brought back unpleasant memories of our hometown. Our conversations reminded me of my grandma's passing two years ago.” 

A profound silence follows. Smiling awkwardly, he says, “To be honest, I thought I had moved on from the puppy love of my teenage years. But I hadn't, really…”

Meanwhile, I pray he moves on to the supernatural part. I have no patience listening to his unrequited, juvenile love.