Player of the Game

Track 36: Multo • Cup of Joe

Madrid, Spain 

Mornings in Madrid always move slower in October. The light through the apartment window was weak, as if unsure whether to wake the girls inside. A faint chill lingered on the tiles, and the coffee from last night's cramming session had dried in the mugs still sitting by the couch.

Bea had fallen asleep there, curled up with her codal still open on her chest. Her brows, even in sleep, were furrowed — always memorizing, always carrying the weight of something bigger than herself.

On the floor, Jho sat cross-legged in an Ateneo hoodie three sizes too big which used to belong to her sister, sketchpad on her lap, pencil hovering above paper. She wasn't drawing scenery. She was drawing Bea. Not the composed version the world always saw — but this one, the unguarded, sleeping girl who mumbled article provisions in her dreams.

"'Di ka pa rin marunong matulog ng maayos," Jho murmured, smiling.

Bea stirred, eyes barely open, the words dragging sleep behind them.

"Anong oras na ba?"

"Wala. Oras ng wala."

"Huh?"

"Linggo ngayon. Oras ng tahimik. Oras ng ikaw at ako lang."

Jho stood up, padding barefoot into the kitchen to reheat coffee. The same mugs they bought from a flea market near Retiro — chipped, mismatched, but now irreplaceable. She handed one to Bea, who took it with both hands, as if the warmth could soften her tired fingers.

They sat on the floor beside each other. No rush. No need for eloquence.

"Alam mo, minsan iniisip ko... baka ito na talaga 'yun," Jho said.

Bea looked at her sideways, amused. "Ang alin?"

"Yung buhay na payapa. 'Yung simpleng umaga. Kape. Katahimikan. Kasama ka."

Bea laughed quietly, then leaned her head on Jho's shoulder. She smelled like old books and faint Chanel Beige lost in the hectic schedule of the long winding runs of study hours.

"Paano kung kailangan kong bumalik, Jho?" Bea asked. "Kung hindi ako para sa ganitong kapayapaan?"

Jho didn't answer right away. She sipped her coffee, eyes fixed on the faint dust floating through sunlight.

"Alam ko namang aalis ka balang araw."

"Sorry."

That was always the quiet heartbreak of their dance — that it was attuned to the steps of separate callings.

They sat there a while longer. Bea tracing circles on Jho's knee. Jho sketching half-smiles into her notebook.

"Kung wala lang Pilipinas. Kung wala lang kailangang baguhin," One of them whispered.

"Kung hindi lang sana natin kailangan mangarap nang magkahiwalay," The other answered.

And that was that. Two lovers in Madrid, learning the kind of love that doesn't demand to be kept — the kind that survives not through fire, but through the soft, unspoken permission to become who they were meant to be, apart.

🍀🍀

ADMU, Quezon City

The old art room was quiet except for the occasional scrape of brush against canvas and the soft thrum of Jho's Spotify playlist playing something indie and vaguely heartbroken in the background.

Sunlight filtered in through the dusty windows, cutting strips of light across the hardwood floor. The air smelled like linseed oil, acrylic, and something unspoken.