Forgive Me, For I Was His Sin

by aerichxndeszu

Summary:

In a town where prayers echo louder than truth, San is sent to Manila - the arms of religion, rules, and expectations.
He never asked to leave home. He never wanted to be watched, judged, and shaped into someone he's not.

But then he meets Wooyoung - the church's golden voice, the boy whose smile feels like rebellion and whose eyes carry storms he tries to hide. Behind every hymn he sings is a secret aching to be heard.

In a world that calls their love a sin, can two hearts still choose each other? Or will they be torn apart by the very faith that taught them to love?

This is a story about growing up in the shadow of the cross, about first love that feels like both salvation and damnation, about the quiet ways people break when they're told they are wrong for simply existing.
And in the end, when faith and love demand different sacrifices-
Which one will they choose?

Wake up

Notes:

Uhh its my first time here💜

Chapter 1: CHAPTER 1 - HOME

Summary:

𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙧
This story is purely a product of the author’s imagination. It is not based on the real lives or relationships of the members. I do not ship or claim any real-life pairings. Also, English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes. Thanks for understanding

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜
This story contains themes of religious trauma, intense emotional situations, and scenes with shouting and conflict. If you’re sensitive to these topics, please mind first before reading :)

𝙐𝙥𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨
Once a week or depends cuz of busy schedules

𝙐𝙝𝙝 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨
Also, I'mma give out fun facts about this story every end of a chapter 😋
Feel free to drop suggestions anytime :) I’m open to ideas

𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙉𝙆 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙃𝘼𝙑𝙀 𝙁𝙐𝙉 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙄𝙉𝙂

Notes:

hi

“Wake up.”

The voice slipped through the fog, soft yet commanding, like an echo carried by the wind.
San stood in a place he didn’t recognize—endless, pale, and trembling like water under moonlight.
Somewhere in the distance, a hand reached for him, slender and shaking, but every time he tried to step closer, the ground beneath him dissolved into nothing.

“Wake up,” the voice urged again—gentler now, almost pleading.

San’s chest tightened. It was a voice he should know, one his heart leapt to recognize, yet his mind could not name.

Then the world shattered into sound—roosters crowing, brooms sweeping, dogs barking.

 

???

San woke up to the kind of noise only a Filipino Sunday morning could bring.

The neighborhood rooster crowed like it had something urgent to say. Outside, someone was already sweeping the pavement that scritch-scratch sound of a walis tingting echoed through the morning. Sunday mass blared from the downstairs TV, a dog barked like it was chasing away ghosts, and two aunties nearby were already deep in gossip that carried down the street. Kids were shouting over a game of piko, while in the distance, someone was grinding metal, sharp, screeching, like it was slicing the morning in half. The song "If You're Ever in My Arms Again" playing like it's a tradition.

It was barely 8:00AM

But for San’s mom, that was practically noon.

“Hey! Wake up already, it’s already 8:30! You think you're rich or something, sleeping like that? Ha?! Call your brother to wake up, too! Hay na'ko talaga.”

San just listened to her mom's long, long, long morning lecture. It wasn't new to him.

Their house was filled with Santo Niño and an image of Jesus Christ. San's mom came from an overly religious family but San's mom has a sense to not make them such practices she has gone through.

San groaned and sat up slowly. Light slipped through the thin curtains, hitting his face. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, and sighed. Everything smelled like fabric softener, dust, and warm wood. Home. San goes to his brother, Jongho. "Wake up, bro... Mom might get angry." Jongho groaned... "Wait..." San rolls his eyes, "Wake up or I'll steal your money." Jongho immediately got up and ran downstairs.

San started heading downstairs—only for his mom to drop a bomb.

“San,” she said, her tone suddenly softer. “We need to talk about your studies. You’ll be moving to Manila.”

San stopped mid-step. “Ma ano ulam- Wait, what? Are you serious? Why? I mean… I can study here, right? Isn’t it fine here?”

"What about me, Mom?" Jongho asked their mom, only for their mom to give them a threatening glare.

Their mom held a steaming mug of coffee and looked at him with a tired smile. “There are better opportunities in Manila. A better university. More chances. Your aunt is willing to take you in. You’ll stay with her while you study.”

San looked at her, stunned. As if the wind had been knocked out of him. San asked his mom. "But when mom? Why didn't you-"

San's mom interrupted him and said, "Tomorrow, then you'll arrive there at Tuesday. So make sure to be ready, you'll live a new life to begin again. Do not disappoint me."
𝘿
San has no choice. He cannot dare to not follow his mom. He has 1 days to get ready...
𝘿
And just like that, his world started to tilt.

Will he be alright?

Later that morning, he stepped outside to the tindahan. His slippers scraped lightly against the warm cement. He handed a few coins for a sachet of 3-in-1 coffee, nodding at the lady at the counter who didn’t even look up, too busy eavesdropping on her neighbor’s love life.
𝘿
The world spun on like normal, little kids playing piko as always, tricycle horns blaring, someone yelling at their kid. Dogs barking, gossip flying. All of it is familiar. All of it is loud.
𝘿
He stirred the coffee into hot water and sat down on the front steps, hugging the cup with both hands.

“Manila…” he whispered.

“What’s it gonna feel like over there?"
𝙎𝙙
San heard about things in Manila. Rich kids all over, aesthetic fashions, expensive foods and polluted air.

San was still outside, stirring his coffee with a plastic spoon, letting the neighborhood sounds fill the silence in his head—barking dogs, distant TV cartoons, someone welding in the background,  echoing from the sari-sari store.

Then suddenly a familiar voice was heard

“PREEEEEE!”

A loud voice made him flinch. He turned and saw Mingi running toward him in worn-out slippers, hair messy, and holding a half-eaten pandesal.

“San! I heard you're going to Manila for college, ha! Nakz naman!” Mingi grinned as he stopped in front of him, catching his breath dramatically. “When you get there, call me right away, okay? Tell me how it feels. Like, what’s it like to breathe Manila air? Does it smell like dreams and pollution?”

San blinked, confused. “Huh? Wait, who told you?”

Mingi gave him a look. “Bruh. Your mom told her friends a while ago sa tindahan while buying eggs. She said, 'Ay nako, San, is going to study in Manila! For a better future, of course!' Like, word for word. Of course, the whole neighborhood knows by now."

San groaned and laughed at the same time, sinking deeper into his seat. “Why am I not even surprised…”

Mingi nudged him. “Hey. I know you’re probably nervous and all, but… you’ll do great. And don’t forget to send me Manila pics or whatever. I need to live through you.”

San didn't respond and just looked at Mingi.

“Luh?? You better call me when you get there, okay?” Mingi said, half-serious. “Pag ako nakalimutan mo…”

San just nodded, lips pressed to his cup to hide the sad little smile forming. But before he could say anything, they both heard it—

The taho vendor.

“Tahoooo!” The taho vendor shouted.

The kids playing immediately ran to their mom and asked to buy them taho.

Mingi’s head shot up. “Hoy pre! Taho oh!” He elbowed San, grinning. “Come on, your treat! Since you’re leaving and all, may remembrance ka dapat.”

San snorted. “What? I’m the one leaving, and I have to treat you? Can’t you be the one to treat me for once?”

Mingi gasped dramatically. “Wow, San. After all these years… Ha.. After all these years.”

San rolled his eyes but reached into his pocket anyway, fishing out coins and handing them over. “Here. Is it ten or five pesos?”

“Make it ten!” Mingi chirped, already turning to chase the taho vendor. “Kuya might disappear like bubbles! Bilisan mo!!"

And just like that, he was off—tsinelas slapping against the pavement, yelling after the vendor like his life depended on it.

San stood there shaking his head, smiling to himself. Typical Mingi.

Then, out of nowhere, he glanced up at the sky, as if realizing something.

“The weather is mesmerizing, right...?” he said softly, then laughed at himself. “Drama ko naman.”

He was going to miss this.

Mingi returned a few moments later, two steaming cups of taho in hand. He handed one to San with a wide grin. "Thank you, pre!"

Before San could sink deeper into his thoughts, Mingi nudged his arm.

“Hoy, let’s go to the computer shop. Its your last day here anyway, let's go play Crossfire.”

San frowned. “Huh? No, Im not in the right mood—”

“Eh you don’t have a choice.” Mingi grinned, already standing up. “Come on, treat me.”

San sighed but followed anyway. The two of them walked down the narrow street, dodging a tricycle squeezing past and sidestepping laundry water trickling from a gutter. The computer shop was small, its glass door fogged from the air-conditioning inside. As soon as they entered, the familiar scent of dusty keyboards and pancit canton hit San’s nose.

Kids filled almost every row of computers—some shouting “Uy, pa heal ako!” in the middle of a Roblox game, others hammering keys in Evade. In the far corner, three little girls were giggling over a fashion game—Royale High, a dressing up pixelated avatars in sparkly gowns.

They found two empty seats near the back, sat down, and logged in. The hum of CPU fans and rapid mouse clicks surrounded them. San adjusted his headset, the faint static making him nostalgic already.

Halfway through their second match, a small boy in a faded AlDub shirt approached them.

“Ya, can I borrow 10 pesos oh,” the boy said, leaning on Mingi’s armrest.

Mingi chuckled. “We don't have money right now kid.”

“What about 5 pesos, oh,” the boy persisted.

With exaggerated reluctance, Mingi dug into his pocket and pulled out a single one-peso coin. He dropped it into the boy’s palm.

“Lah, ang damot… Okay na nga ’to,” the boy muttered before darting back to a group of kids crowded around a Roblox server.

San tried not to laugh. “One peso, seriously?”

“Hey, at least I gave something,” Mingi said, eyes glued to the screen as he sprayed bullets at an enemy.

They kept playing—Mingi constantly yelling “Cover me!” while San tried to snipe enemies from the high containers. Every so often, they’d exchange playful trash talk, their voices rising above the chaos of the shop. In the background, the Roblox kids screamed about surviving Scary Larry, while the girls in the corner gasped at a drama occurring Royal High.

For a moment, San forgot about Manila, about leaving, about the heaviness sitting in his chest. It was just the two of them, in the same noisy computer shop they’d been coming to since they met, pretending time wasn’t running out.

The game timer on their last match hit zero, Mingi slapped the mouse down with a victorious grin. “Told you, pre — I still got it.”

San groaned, leaning back in his chair. “You only won ’cause that kid distracted me.”

From across the room, the same boy who had begged for coins earlier shouted, “Lah, excuses!” before returning to his Roblox Build a Boat game. The air in the shop buzzed — bursts of laughter from the girls huddled around a fashion game, smooth parkours calls from the Evade players, and the constant tapping of keys.

Mingi stretched his arms and let out a yawn. “Alright, I need to bounce.”

San raised an eyebrow. “So soon?”

“Yeah,” Mingi said, grabbing his cup of now-cold taho and tossing the rest in the bin. “If my mom finds out I skipped chores to play, patay ako. You know how strict she is.” He made the familiar belt-whip motion with his hand, making San laugh despite himself.

They stepped outside, the blast of noon heat hitting them instantly. The pavement shimmered, tricycles zipped by, and the air smelled of grilled pork skewers from a nearby vendor. Mingi shielded his eyes with one hand.

“Anyway,” he said, giving San a light punch on the arm, “don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous in Manila, ha?”

San scoffed, but there was a strange tightness in his chest. “As if you’d let me.”

Mingi started walking backwards, grinning. “Good. See you later, pre!”

Before San could even react, Mingi was already sprinting down the street again, yelling, “Salamat ulit! Ingat ka sa Manila!!!"

Then, as if remembering something urgent, he called out, “PRE! My mom said, penge daw ulam ha? Sabihin mo kay Tita!”

San just chuckled. He will miss Mingi's playful personality.

San stayed under the late afternoon sun, letting the wind brush against his skin. The usual sounds of the neighborhood had softened, like even the world was slowly preparing to say goodbye.

The grinder had stopped.

No more barking from the neighbor’s dogs.

The rooster had finally gone quiet.

And the TV that once blasted cartoons was now switched off, replaced by a stillness that felt unfamiliar.

Only the kids remained, playing tumbang preso with a tin can and old slippers, their laughs echoing faintly down the road. A distant tricycle engine purred before fading away again. The breeze carried the smell of someone's tinolang manok from two houses down.

It was still the same street he’d walked a thousand times.

And yet… it already felt different.

“San!”

A familiar voice broke through the quiet, not loud, but enough to pull him back.

He turned to see Jongho, standing near the road, wiping his damp forehead with a towel slung around his neck. He was still in a faded pambahay shirt and shorts, eyes squinting against the sun.

“Mom said to go home.” Jongho said, his voice relaxed. His attention was more directed to his phone.

San sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jongho, wait for me okay? I’ll just buy SkyFlakes at the tindahan,” he called to his younger brother, who was standing there, phone in hand.

The tindahan had been glowing in the dim streetlight when he arrived earlier, its wire mesh counter lined with candy jars and instant noodles stacked like miniature towers. Ate Seulgi, the tindera in her early 30's, leaned forward with her elbows on the counter, her voice dropping to that unmistakable chismis register—half-whisper, half-theatrical.

“I’m telling you,” she said, eyes widening as if the weight of the news could only be supported by their full circumference. “That girl from the corner house? Pregnant.”

The other woman—Irene, standing beside San gasped so loudly it could’ve been rehearsed. “No! The one with the red slippers?”

“Yes! That one!” Seulgi’s voice trembled in mock outrage. “And you know who the father is?” She paused for effect, her gaze darting around as though the wrong ear might be listening. “That new tricycle driver. The one with the—”

“—the tattoo on his arm!” Ate Irene finished, her tone almost triumphant, as though identifying a criminal on a wanted poster.

“Exactly,” Seulgi said with a knowing nod. “And guess what? He has a wife. In the next neighborhood.”

San had stood there frozen, his coins already warm in his palm, caught between the urge to laugh and the need to disappear. He slid the money across the counter and muttered a thank you, trying not to picture the alleged lovers riding that tricycle through the narrow streets, the whole neighborhood watching.

Now, outside again, he made his way back to Jongho.
“Done,” he said, lifting the Skyflakes slightly as proof.

San nodded slowly. “Hey, let's gow now”

Jongho just nodded since he was obviously glued to his phone.

But before San moved, he looked around once more — at the kids laughing barefoot on the cracked cement, the power lines tangled like spaghetti above, the sari-sari store half-closed, and the golden hour light turning everything into honey.

The noise was gone.

But it wasn’t empty.

It was… peaceful.

He took a quiet breath. Then, without another word, he walked home beside Jongho, their footsteps light against the soft ground.

San and Jongho reached the gate just as the sky turned pink. The air smelled faintly of diesel, fried chicken, and somewhere down the road — adobo.

San stepped through the gate, SkyFlakes in hand, when a faint meow made him pause.
Near the base of the tree, a chonky siamese cat sat, tail curling tightly around its body.
It looked up at him with sparkling eyes, meowing again like it was complaining about the world.

He crouched down, opening his skyflakes pack. “Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered. “I’m not the one who forgot to feed you.” Still, he broke off a small piece and slid it across the ground. The cat sniffed it, then quickly devoured it, crumbs scattering on the ground.

For a moment, San stayed there, watching the cat lick its paw as if it had just eaten the grandest meal of its life. Then his mother’s voice called faintly from inside, the sound of utensils clinking against plates following right after.

He stood, dusted off his hands, and pushed the gate closed behind him. The cat meowed again, softer this time, almost like a goodbye.

Inside, the smell of reheated sinigang greeted him, mixed with the faint scent of laundry soap from clothes hanging in the living room. The TV was already on, flashing the bright colors of the early-evening news. His mother sat cross-legged on the couch, her eyes half on the screen and half on the steaming pot on the table.

“Ma,” Jongho called out. “We’re home.”

Inside, their mother was setting down plates on the table, her back to them as she called out, “Wash your hands first, ha!”

“Did you go far?” she asked without turning. “Ay nako, I was about to send your friend to look for you.”

“Just around,” San answered.

His mother looked over her shoulder, eyes softening the moment they met his. “You should rest early. We're going to start packing tomorrow.”

San nodded and quietly made his way to the sink, washing his hands under the trickle of water, letting it run through his fingers like something slipping away.

They ate in calm silence — San, Jongho, and their mother. The sinigang was slightly too sour, but it reminded him he was still home. Their mother kept sneaking glances at San between bites, like she was memorizing him before he could vanish.

After dinner, she didn’t ask them to wash the dishes. Instead, she wiped her hands on the towel, looked at San, and said, “Come. Sit with me a while.”

He followed her to their living room. The electric fan hummed low, and the candle on the small table flickered gently.

She patted the space beside her on the couch. “Listen, anak. I know this is all big. And sudden. But you can do this.”

San stared at his knees. “What if I mess up?”

“You will,” she said simply. “That’s part of it. But you’ll learn.”

She reached for his hand, squeezing it.

“Be polite to your tita, ha? You know her, she's different from me and more strict. Help out around the house even when she's not telling you to. Don’t skip meals, even if you’re busy. And stay close to God. Even when you feel far from us, He’s near.”

San felt the lump rising in his throat again, that same heaviness from earlier.

“Also…” she smiled. “Try not to be too quiet. Make friends. Good ones, ha? Not just anyone.”

He let out a small laugh. “Ma, I’m not that awkward.”

“You are a little,” Jongho called from the kitchen.

Their mother chuckled, then turned serious again.

“I want to pray for you,” she said.

She stood and lit the small candle again, the one reserved for special intentions. Then, kneeling before the small table, she made the sign of the cross. San knelt beside her.

“Lord,” she began, voice steady and soft, “I place San into Your hands. Watch over him. Guide his steps as he leaves home, as he starts something new. Surround him with people who will treat him kindly. Give him strength to resist what is wrong and the courage to follow what is right.”

Her voice cracked slightly.

“Don’t let him forget who he is. Don’t let him forget where he came from.”

She reached for his hand again.

“Remind him that no matter how far he goes, he is still loved. Still prayed for. Still my son.”

San swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

“Amen,” she whispered.

They stayed like that for a moment — in the glow of the candlelight, in the stillness of the home that raised him.

Then she turned and brushed a hand against his hair. “Sleep now, anak. Big day tomorrow.”

He was halfway to his room when Jongho’s voice came from the living room.

“Kuya! Wait!”

San turned, one hand on his doorknob. Jongho was just standing there, phone in hand, hair sticking up in odd directions like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Pa hotspot,” Jongho said, pushing himself up.

San frowned. “Why?”

“Si Mama, she turned off the Wi-Fi again.” Jongho groaned, tossing his head back like the world was ending. “All because I ‘forgot’ to wash the dishes. I was in the middle of a game, tapos na-disconnect ako. Sayang ’yung kill streak ko, Kuya.”

“You should’ve just washed the dishes.”

Jongho gave him a flat look. “Kuya, priorities.”

San snorted, shaking his head. “What makes you think I’ll waste my data on you?”

“Because you love me,” Jongho said with a grin, already scooting closer like he’d won the argument.

San sighed, unlocking his phone. “If my data runs out, you’re paying for it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jongho grabbed the phone, typing in the hotspot password. “Thanks, Kuya. You’re the best.”

Before San could reply, Jongho was already flopped back on the couch, eyes locked on his screen, fingers tapping furiously as faint gunfire sounds came from his game.

San slipped into his room. The floor creaked under his feet, and the small desk by the window was still cluttered with pens, loose paper, and his old sketchpad.

He sat down, opened the drawer, and pulled out a thin, slightly bent notebook — the one with doodles on the cover. He flipped to a blank page.

The electric fan whirred quietly behind him. Outside, a dog barked.

He clicked his pen.

August 10
Monday night
8:43 PM

Today was noisy. The usual noise.
Kids running, dogs barking,neighbors gossiping.

It felt annoying at first, but then I realized… It’s part of me.

I’ll miss it.

Mom told me I’m going to Manila. I’m not sure what I feel. It’s fast. Unexpected.

I’m scared, but I think I want to try.

Jongho walked with me today. Didn’t say much, but it was enough.

Hung out with Mingi. It made my day.

Ate sinigang for dinner. Kind of too sour but still good. I love it.

Mom prayed for me. She held my hand. I almost cried.
I think I’ll cry more tomorrow.

Two more days until I leave.

-San

He set the pen down, closed the notebook, and leaned back in his chair.

The room was small. The bed was slightly uneven. His posters were curling off the wall.

But everything in it… was his.

The TV bled through the walls—news reports, commercials, the occasional sharp laugh from his mother.
Then came the inevitable: the neighbor’s videoke machine roaring to life. Someone was singing with the kind of confidence only alcohol could give, every note missing its rightful place.

🎤“IM DONE HIDINNNN NOW IM SHINIIIINGGG LIKE IM BORN TO BEEEEEEE”

San pressed his palm over his face. The song was followed by the clink of bottles, bursts of laughter, and someone yelling “Next! My turn!”

As if on cue, the rooftop erupted into chaos. A yowl split the air, then another, sharper and more furious. Cats leapt and clashed, their silhouettes darting across the tin sheets. The metallic clang of their paws and the guttural growls made it sound like a war fought under moonlight.

For a while, San simply listened—his mother’s voice, the anchor’s reports, the singer’s trembling high notes, the clash of cats. Different lives, different noises, stitched together into one restless night.

It was messy, loud, and unrelenting.
And he wondered, not for the first time, if this was what Manila would be for him—
a place where the quiet was never truly quiet,
where every wall was thin enough to hear someone else’s life.

Somehow, the thought was both exhausting…
and strangely comforting.

San lay on his bed, eyes half-closed, the distant echo of karaoke still floating through the humid night air. The curtains swayed gently, letting in the faint smell of sampaguita from the neighbor’s fence, mixed with the faint smoke of someone grilling isaw down the street.

From the living room, his mother’s TV blared the familiar closing theme of 24 Oras, her occasional hum syncing with the news anchor’s voice. Somewhere far off, a motorcycle revved, then faded into silence.

San turned onto his side, his hand brushing against the small notebook he kept by his pillow. He opened it slowly, staring at the blank page as if it might know something about the life waiting for him in Manila. His pen hovered for a moment before he wrote, in small, uncertain letters:

“Tomorrow feels like a storm I cannot see yet.”

The words looked heavier than he expected. He stared at them until his eyelids grew too tired to hold open. Outside, the karaoke stopped, replaced by the rhythmic creak of someone’s bamboo rocking chair.

For the first time all day, the world around him felt still. He closed the notebook, tucked it under his pillow, and let the silence seep in—knowing it wouldn’t last.

Then he closed his eyes.

Tomorrow will be for packing.

The day after, I leave.

But tonight, it was still his.

Notes:

did i do well or idk

this is based on a poem I wrote on 2023

Chapter 2: CHAPTER 2 - THE JOURNEY BEGINS

Summary:

San's journey to Manila begins.

Notes:

We had exams this week srry, btw i got 24/40 in English idk why like i studied 😔😔😭😢

The first light of dawn seeped softly through the cracked window of San’s bedroom, casting gentle shadows across the room. The familiar sounds of Baguio mornings—distant roosters crowing, the subtle rustle of pine needles outside, and the low hum of the waking town—filtered through the air. The room smelled faintly of earth and dew, a scent San knew well, a scent he hadn’t thought he’d be leaving behind.

His mother’s voice called gently from the kitchen. “San, wake up now, today is the day. You have to prepare."

He blinked slowly, his limbs heavy with sleep and something else—an unshakable weight pressing on his chest. Today was the day he would leave.

Carefully, he swung his legs off the bed, the cool wooden floor grounding him. He moved quietly, so as not to wake up his younger brother Jongho, who still lay curled under his blanket in the next room. But Jongho was already awake. The faint tapping of feet on the floor announced his presence before his voice did.

“Kuya? San? Are you really leaving today?"

San managed a weak nod, swallowing the lump forming in his throat.

In the kitchen, the aroma of brewed coffee mingled with the sweetness of freshly picked strawberries—his mother’s gift for the trip. Baguio’s strawberries were famous, and she had packed a generous container just for him.

“Eat well, anak,” she said softly, placing the strawberries in front of him. “You’ll need your strength throughout the trip."

San picked up one ruby-red strawberry, the chill of the fruit making his fingers tingle. He bit into it slowly, savoring the sweet, slightly tart juice. For a moment, it felt like holding onto home itself.

His mother busied herself with packing a small bag of essentials—a few clothes, his sketchbook, some notebooks. She paused, looking at San with eyes that seemed both proud and afraid.

“I know this isn’t easy,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “But you have to be strong."

Jongho appeared then, rubbing his eyes but determined to help. “I’ll finish packing your stuff,” he offered. “You don’t have to do everything alone."

San smiled faintly, grateful for the small but meaningful comfort. Soon, his younger brother was folding shirts and arranging San's notebooks into the bag.

Just as the sun began to climb higher, Mingi was already up, waiting outside their house, freshly bathed and ready to walk San to the terminal. His cheerful smile felt like a fragile thread of hope.

Together, they stepped out into the crisp morning air. The town was waking up fully now—vendors setting up their stalls, the smell of frying food wafting from nearby kitchens, neighbors greeting one another with sleepy smile

The walk to the terminal was quiet but comforting. Mingi chatted about little things—school, their friends, the weather—to distract San from the swirl of emotions inside.

They arrived at the bus terminal.

The bus station was already bustling by 8 AM. Vendors shouted their wares—grilled pork blood, steaming siomai and siopao, and bottles of cold drinks. The crowd was a mixture of students, workers, and travelers like San.

San clutched his bag tightly, heart pounding. He could hear the engine roar of the bus as it pulled into the station, its paint chipped but proud

“Are you ready bro?” Mingi asked softly.

San nodded, swallowing his fear and worries.

Mingi leads San towards the bus and said goodbye to him. "I'll miss you bro. Be careful there."

Mingi leads San towards the bus and said goodbye to him. "I'll miss you bro. Be careful there. Don't forget me, alright?"

San smiled and nodded "Sure thing."

San entered the Bus.

Once seated by the window, San watched the familiar streets of Baguio slip away—colorful houses, winding roads lined with pine trees, and vendors calling out their last-minute sales.

The air inside the bus smelled of worn leather seats, engine oil, and the faint scent of street food someone had eaten earlier.

Traffic slowed as they approached the steep descent from Baguio to the lowlands. The bus wove carefully through curves and narrow roads, the view opening up to endless green fields and clusters of houses.

San’s thoughts drifted—what would Manila be like? Would it smell like pollution? Would his aunt be kind? Or strict just like his mom said?

Passengers stretched their legs, bought snacks from roadside stalls, or lit cigarettes. San used these moments to sketch the passing scenes—the dusty road, a vendor selling water, children playing beside a sari-sari store.

At one stop, the bus halted near a small eatery. The smell of fried fish and garlic fried rice filled the air. Some passengers hurried inside, buying food to eat before the long stretch ahead.

San watched quietly. He wasn’t hungry—his mother’s breakfast lingered in his stomach—but the warmth and laughter from inside made him ache for the comfort of his family.

The journey was long. Hours passed filled with chatter, the low hum of the engine, and the rhythmic bump of tires on asphalt.

At times, San caught brief glimpses of Manila’s sprawling skyline in the distance—the promise and mystery of a new life awaiting him.

“First time in Manila?”

The voice came from the seat beside him. The mysterious man looked to be in his early 20's, wearing a black cap and a jacket

San hesitated. “Yes.”

The mysterious man smiled, showing the faint gold glint of a tooth. “It’s big, noisy, and hot. But… exciting, if you know where to look.”

San gave a small nod, not entirely sure if “exciting” was what he wanted.

The mysterious man leaned back in his seat, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. “Get some sleep. The road’s long.”

Hours Passed, by the time the bus reached another rest stop, the air had grown warmer, and the light outside was almost blinding. Vendors crowded near the bus doors, holding up bags of chips, bottled water, and plastic-wrapped snacks.

“Puto, bibingka! Fresh and hot!” one woman called out.

San stepped off the bus, his legs tingling from sitting too long. Mingi had slipped him a little money earlier, telling him to buy something for the road. He ended up choosing a bottle of cold water and a small pack of dried mangoes.

Near the corner of the eatery, an old radio was playing a love song from the early 2000s. The singer’s voice carried across the open space, weaving through the smell of frying garlic and oil.

He took a seat on a wooden bench and watched the scene—passengers leaning over steaming bowls of lomi, a child tugging at her mother’s skirt for more candy, a driver wiping sweat from his brow. It was ordinary and chaotic, but there was something comforting in the way everyone seemed to understand this in between space, this pause before the journey resumed.

Back on the bus

The engine roared to life, and the road stretched ahead again, winding toward lowland towns. San’s eyes grew heavy. The steady rhythm of the wheels on the pavement was like a lullaby.

The hum of the bus grew steady again as they left the last stop behind. San shifted his position, curling his legs slightly to one side to rest against the window.

The mysterious man who had spoken to him earlier had gotten off at the last town, leaving the seat beside him empty for a while—until a new passenger climbed aboard.

He was hard to miss. His hair was dyed red,  and his clothes looked like they had stories: a black hoodie with tiny embroidered stars along the sleeve, worn jeans with careful tears. He carried no big luggage—just a medium-sized backpack slung casually over one shoulder.

Sliding into the seat beside San, he gave a polite nod, then immediately turned to adjust his bag, making sure it was wedged safely between his feet.

San noticed the small silver ring on his finger, the way his nails were neatly kept, and the faint scent of something like cedar and mint.

“You from Baguio too?” the man asked after a moment, his voice low but clear.

“Yeah,” San replied, uncertain.

The man smiled faintly. “Me too. Heading to Manila?”

San nodded.

“Good. Company makes the ride less boring.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small pack of honey butter chips, offering it without ceremony.

San hesitated but took one. “Thanks.”

The man leaned back against his seat. “Im Hongjoong.”

"San.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flickered briefly, as if storing the name away. “San. Like the mountain?”

San blinked. “Uhh… yeah. Exactly like that.”

For the next few minutes, they spoke in short bursts—about the traffic they would eventually face, about the weather in Manila, about how both of them disliked the way Baguio mornings could be so cold that getting out of bed felt like a punishment.

When the conversation lulled, Hongjoong put on earphones, humming faintly to a tune San didn’t recognize.

The bus rattled over a rough patch of road, waking San from a light doze. Hongjoong was still beside him, scrolling through his phone. He noticed San looking and tilted the screen slightly away—not in a rude way, more in the manner of someone used to keeping things private.

“You should sleep more,” Hongjoong said without looking away from the window. “Manila’s exhausting when you first get there.”

San thought he caught the hint of experience in his tone, as if Hongjoong had been through that very exhaustion himself many times before.

At the next stop, they both stepped out. Hongjoong bought a bottled iced coffee and a stick of fish balls from a vendor, balancing the flimsy paper plate with ease as they stood in the shade of the bus.

“Wanna eat?” Hongjoong asked.

“I’m good. My mom gave me strawberries.”

“Baguio strawberries?” Hongjoong’s face lit up briefly. “Those are worth more than gold in Manila.”

San laughed quietly. “Then I guess I’ll guard them with my life.”

When they boarded again, the bus rolled on, the lowlands flattening into busier towns, then finally into the chaotic sprawl of Metro Manila. The roads grew tighter, the air thicker, and the noise louder.

By the time the bus finally pulled into the Manila terminal, the sun was already beginning its slow descent, tinting the horizon with strokes of orange and pink. The ride had stretched far longer than San expected, every minute in traffic feeling like an hour.

The air that rushed in when the bus doors opened was different from the crisp, pine-scented mornings of Baguio. Here, it was heavier—thick with the mingled scents of exhaust, fried food from nearby stalls, and the faint metallic tang of concrete baking under the sun.

San stood up slowly, feeling the stiffness in his legs. Passengers shuffled forward in a single, slow-moving line, each one eager to reunite with waiting friends or family. Somewhere ahead, the driver exchanged jokes with the conductor, their laughter loud and unbothered by the exhaustion of the trip.

Hongjoong slung his backpack over one shoulder. “This is it,” he said, glancing briefly at San. “Take care, San.”

“You too,” San replied. But by the time he stepped off the bus, Hongjoong had already melted into the crowd, leaving only the faint echo of his voice behind.

San scanned the sea of people—faces blurred by movement, the sound of overlapping conversations filling the air. Jeepneys rattled past outside the terminal, their conductors calling out destinations in quick, practiced shouts. A man pushed a cart of luggage through the throng, and a child’s shrill laughter cut through the chaos as she chased a plastic bottle rolling across the pavement.

And then, he saw his aunt.

His aunt stood near the far side of the platform, her frame small but her presence unmistakable. She wore a neatly pressed blouse and a long skirt that brushed against her ankles, her hair pulled tightly into a bun that left not a strand out of place. Her posture was straight, her hands clasped in front of her as she waited.

San approached slowly, the weight of his bag pulling against his shoulder.

“San,” she said, her voice even but carrying a note of recognition. She looked him over quickly, as though assessing whether the months apart had changed him.

“Auntie,” he greeted, dipping his head slightly.

“Come,” she said, turning on her heel. “We should get going. The jeepney will be crowded if we wait too long.”

San followed, his eyes darting to the unfamiliar streets beyond the terminal gates. Manila seemed to hum with restless energy—streetlights flickering on, motorcycles weaving between cars, vendors calling out to the evening rush.

As they walked toward the jeepney stop, his aunt spoke only to point out where to step and when to keep close, her hand occasionally reaching back to make sure he hadn’t drifted too far.

“Your things are light?” she asked at one point.

“Not too heavy,” San replied.

“Good. You’ll need to carry them yourself. It’s not far from the house, but the road is uneven.”

Her words weren’t unkind, but they carried a certain firmness that made San straighten his back.

When they finally boarded a jeep, San settled into the cramped space of the jeepney beside her aunt, the faint scent of gasoline and the sticky warmth of the vinyl seat pressing against his skin. Outside, Manila blurred past in a swirl of colors—vendors with baskets on their heads, jeepneys painted with saints and superheroes, the occasional flash of a child darting between cars.

“Bayad po,” a woman in front called, her voice cutting through the rumble of the engine. Coins clinked in her hand before she passed them to the man beside her, who then passed them to the next passenger. San watched as the small chain of hands stretched toward the driver, each person briefly holding the fare before letting it go.

A group of Badjao children clung to the outside of the jeepney when it slowed in traffic, their bare feet gripping the metal railing. One of them tapped on the metal wall, smiling wide as if asking for attention. They hopped down just before the jeep lurched forward again.

A vendor walked between the rows of cars, holding up small bottles of cold mineral water. “Tubig, Tubig malamig!” he called, his voice hoarse from repeating the same words all day.

Somewhere near the back, a toddler began to cry, his mother bouncing him gently while whispering soft comforts. The sound mixed with the honking horns outside, the driver’s radio playing a song remixes, and the occasional whoosh of warm air through the open side.

San clutched his bag closer, his eyes tracing the way strangers’ knees almost touched in the tight space, the way their shoulders leaned slightly away from each other yet still shared the same breath.

For the first time, San realized just how far from home he truly was.

The jeepney rattled down streets that felt like a maze, the air thick with exhaust and the occasional waft of grilled street food. Vendors shouted their prices over the roar of passing tricycles, and children darted between cars with the confidence of those who had grown up here. San kept his bag close, eyes darting from one sight to another, half-overwhelmed, half-curious.

The jeepney slowed near a street corner lined with waiting passengers. His aunt tapped the roof twice and called out, “Para po!” The driver pulled to the side, and together they stepped off, the ground warm beneath San’s shoes.

Right beside the unloading area was a small tricycle terminal, where drivers lounged on their seats, wiping sweat with faded towels while calling out for passengers. The smell of freshly baked bread drifted from a nearby bakery—soft pandesal stacked in trays by the glass display, the scent sweet and almost comforting in the chaos.

San’s gaze wandered past the jumble of parked motorcycles and tricycles. Just beyond the entrance of the subdivision, a church stood tall and solemn, its white walls catching the late morning light. The open doors revealed a glimpse of wooden pews and flickering candles, as if quietly reminding every passerby of its presence.

“Follow me” his aunt said, guiding him toward an empty tricycle. People milled about the terminal, some with grocery bags, others waiting for someone to arrive, voices weaving into a restless hum. San ducked into the sidecar, hugging his bag against his chest as the driver revved the engine and pulled away.

As the tricycle rattled down the narrow road, San’s gaze wandered past the blur of houses and sari-sari stores. One, in particular, caught his eye—a convenience store glowing with fluorescent light, its small glass doors plastered with posters of soft drinks and phone load promos. A cluster of teenagers leaned against the counter outside, sipping bottled iced tea, their laughter spilling into the night like it had no curfew.

For a fleeting second, San imagined himself standing there, blending in, a boy with no heavy bags or rules waiting at home. Just another face in the city’s restless crowd.

Then the tricycle jolted over a pothole, snapping him back to the present. The laughter faded behind them, replaced by the low growl of the engine and the echo of church bells in the distance.

 

Finally, they stopped before a tall gate of black iron. Behind it stood a wide, two-story house with windows framed by flowering vines. To the side, another house stood just as tall, its windows half-covered by curtains. San barely noticed—it was his aunt’s house that loomed, large enough to swallow him whole.

“Here we are,” his aunt said, pushing the gate open with a screech of metal.

San stepped inside, his bag heavy on his shoulder, a strange weight settling in his chest. He couldn’t tell if it was awe, or the quiet feeling that his life was about to change.

 

As he set his bag down, his gaze drifted to the hallway wall outside. There was a line of framed photos — family gatherings, church events, smiling faces he didn’t recognize. One photo caught him off guard.

A boy, perhaps just a little older than him in the picture, stood with a violin in hand, sunlight cutting across his cheek. There was something in his smile… something that tugged at San’s memory, though he couldn’t place why.

The house smelled faintly of old wood and incense. Crucifixes hung on nearly every wall, their shadows stretching long in the dim light.  San still thinking the sight of a photo frame. It was a group picture taken in front of the church—faces he didn’t know, except for one.

The boy in the back was smiling faintly, yet his eyes felt strangely familiar, like they had looked at San before, long ago, in a moment he couldn’t quite place. He almost asked about it, but his aunt had already moved on, talking about where to find clean towels and what time they ate dinner.

“Ah, you’re here,” a voice said from behind.

San turned, startled, and found himself staring at the man from the bus — the same one he’d sat across from hours ago. His heart stuttered at the coincidence.

“You—” San began, his words half-formed, unsure if he was dreaming again.

“It’s good to see you again.”

The man smiled, gentle but unreadable, as if he had expected this meeting all along. He extended a hand. San hesitated for a second before taking it, the warmth of the grip grounding him in a way he couldn’t explain.

It was Hongjoong

“You were on the bus earlier,” San finally said, his voice caught between suspicion and wonder.

Hongjoong nodded. “And now I’m here. Seems our paths were meant to cross.”

San frowned slightly, trying to piece together the familiarity in his face. “So… you’re my cousin?”

“That’s right.” Hongjoong’s smile widened, though his eyes carried something heavier, something unsaid. “Family has a strange way of finding you, doesn’t it?”

San let go of his hand slowly, glancing at him as though the city itself had conspired to pull them into the same orbit.

Another figure appeared from the living room—tall, with soft eyes and a gentle smile. “I’m Yunho,” he said warmly, offering a handshake. “I live here too. Welcome, San.” Yunho, another cousin who also lived here. They exchanged polite greetings, the warmth in their voices a small comfort to San’s unsettled heart.

 

The dining table was long, polished wood that gleamed under the chandelier’s pale light. The meal was spread out generously — rice steaming, fried tilapia, a bowl of sinigang that carried the sharp scent of the whole room. San sat stiffly, trying not to make a sound as the clink of utensils filled the silence.

Aunt finally set her spoon down. “San,” she said, her tone even but heavy. “There are things you must understand while you’re under my roof.”

San straightened. “Yes, Aunt.”

“First, no sleeping late. This is not the Baguio you grown up anymore. You need discipline, not idleness.”

San nodded quickly, eyes fixed on his rice.

“Second, church every Sunday. No excuses. If you are sick, you pray harder. God is the only medicine you need.”

He swallowed hard, the sour broth suddenly heavier in his throat. “Yes, Aunt.”

“Third,” she continued, glancing between him, Yunho, and Hongjoong. The two brothers stayed silent, eating without lifting their heads. “No unnecessary friendships. Manila is dangerous, and temptation comes easily. Be careful who you let close.”

San’s hand froze around his spoon. He wanted to ask what she meant, but her sharp gaze made his tongue still.

“And lastly,” her voice dropped lower, firmer, “Remember that in this house, reputation is everything. What people see is who we are. You will not shame this family, San. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Aunt,” he answered, almost in a whisper.

The clink of utensils returned. Yunho reached for the bowl of sinigang and, in the quietest moment, slid it closer to San without a word — a small gesture of comfort. Hongjoong glanced up briefly, meeting San’s eyes just for a second, before lowering his gaze back to his plate. Neither spoke, but their silence was not the same as Aunt’s.

San gripped his spoon tighter, feeling both the weight of the rules and the faint, unspoken understanding from across the table.

 

When the plates were scraped clean and only the faint smell of sinigang lingered in the air, Aunt stood, smoothing down her blouse.

“You three, clean the dishes,” she said simply, not looking back as she left the dining room. The sound of her heels echoed until the door shut behind her.

For a moment, the silence was heavy. Then Yunho suddenly grinned, clapping his hands once. “Alright! Dish squad, let’s go.”

San blinked, caught off guard, but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You make it sound like it’s fun.”

“It can be,” Yunho said cheerfully, already stacking the plates into his arms. “Everything’s easier when you’ve got teamwork, right?”

San followed them into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. The sink was already stacked with plates, bowls, and glasses. Yunho started rinsing with exaggerated care, humming a tune under his breath. Hongjoong grabbed a towel, ready to dry.

San hesitated, then reached for a plate. “Uh… I can wash,” he offered.

Yunho glanced at him with that bright, open smile, stepping aside without hesitation. “Go ahead. I’ll handle the rinse. Don’t worry, I’m a professional bubble-maker.”

San chuckled quietly and dipped his hands into the warm water.

They worked in rhythm: San scrubbing, Yunho rinsing, Hongjoong drying. The clink of dishes and Yunho’s humming filled the silence that might’ve otherwise been awkward.

Halfway through, Yunho nudged San lightly with his elbow. “Hey, you’re not bad at this. Ever think of becoming a dishwasher full-time?”

San snorted. “Not exactly my dream job.”

“That’s fine,” Yunho said, grinning. “But if this house ever turns into a restaurant, we’ll know who to hire.”

Even Hongjoong chuckled softly at that, shaking his head. “Don’t encourage him, San. He’ll start calling us the Kitchen Crew.”

San smiled despite himself. For the first time since stepping into the house, the walls didn’t feel so suffocating.

San snorted. “Not exactly my dream job.”

“That’s fine,” Yunho said, grinning. “But if this house ever turns into a restaurant, we’ll know who to hire.”

Even Hongjoong chuckled softly at that, shaking his head. “Don’t encourage him, San. He’ll start calling us the Kitchen Crew.”

San smiled despite himself. For the first time since stepping into the house, the walls didn’t feel so suffocating.

San rinsed another plate, bubbles clinging stubbornly to his fingers. He tried to focus on the task, but the silence pressed on him like another rule he hadn’t agreed to.

Yunho, sensing the heaviness, leaned in with a playful grin. “Don’t look so serious, San. It’s just soap and plates. Not the end of the world.”

San huffed out a small laugh, shoulders easing a little. “I guess I’m just… not used to this.”

“That’s okay,” Yunho said brightly, bumping him gently with his elbow again. “You will be. Besides, you’ve got me and Joong-hyung. We’re practically professionals at this by now.”

Hongjoong, quietly drying beside them, finally spoke, his voice calm and even. “What Yunho means is… you don’t have to figure everything out right away. It’s your first night here. It’s fine to feel out of place.”

San glanced at him, surprised by the gentleness in his tone.

Hongjoong offered the faintest smile. “It’ll get easier. Just give yourself time.”

Something in his voice — steady, sure — settled San in a way Yunho’s teasing couldn’t. Between Yunho’s laughter and Hongjoong’s reassurance, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

By the time the last dish was dried and stacked away, San realized he wasn’t thinking so much about the rules, or the stares, or the life waiting for him tomorrow. Just the warmth of Yunho’s grin and the steadiness in Hongjoong’s words.

For the first time that day, he almost felt like he belonged.

 

When the last plate was stacked neatly in the cabinet and the utensils tucked back into their drawer, Hongjoong flicked off the kitchen light. The house instantly softened into shadow, the air filled only with the low hum of the electric fan.

They moved toward the staircase, Yunho bounding a few steps ahead while San trailed between them. Halfway up, San’s eyes were drawn to a window overlooking the quiet subdivision.

Beyond the gate, across the driveway, stood another house—tall, its windows dark, except for a faint flicker of light in an upstairs room. For a moment, San thought he saw movement, like the silhouette of someone standing near the glass. He blinked, but when he looked again, the window was empty.

“Here we are,” Hongjoong said, pausing in front of a door at the end of the hall. “This willl be your room.”

Yunho grinned, already tugging San gently toward it. “Get some sleep, you’ll need it.”

San nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion but also that strange prickle in his chest from the window.

“Goodnight,” Hongjoong said, steady as ever.

“Sleep tight, cousin!” Yunho added, giving him a playful salute.

San managed a small smile. “Goodnight.”

The two brothers stepped back, leaving him at the door. As San pushed it open, the faintest thought whispered at the back of his mind—that shadow in the window, gone too quickly, as though it had been waiting for him to arrive.

The room was small but tidy, a single bed by the window and a desk stacked with old hymn books. San unpacked slowly, as if each folded shirt was a reminder that he wasn’t going home soon. By the time he lay down, the city’s noise had softened into a distant hum—dogs barking somewhere, News blasting on someone's TV, and a kid crying.

He closed his eyes, but the day kept replaying. The way the bus engine roared as the mountains faded. The faces in the terminal. Hongjoong’s polite yet oddly watchful gaze. The strange boy in the photograph.

For the first time, he wondered—not just where he was—but what was waiting for him here.

That night, San sat at the desk, journal open.

"I’m here. Manila. It’s louder than I imagined, but the house is quiet. My room is bare, but maybe I’ll fix that tomorrow. I think I’ll explore. See what this city feels like when I walk it. There’s a lot I don’t know yet. About this place… and maybe about the people here too."

He closed the notebook, the image of the boy with the violin still lingering in his mind.

For now, he just let the city’s restless lullaby carry him into sleep.

And just before the dark claimed him, a voice whispered—

“Forget me.”

───୨ৎ───

Notes:

Im revising chap 3 rn dw