The SUV pulls away, tinted windows swallowing the streetlight. Rafa stands on the curb with his backpack strap in a death grip, watching it go, and then he turns and sees you: three metres away, by the fishball cart, holding a stick of kwek-kwek you've forgotten to eat.
For a second his face does something you've never seen it do. Then the grin arrives, a beat too late.
Uy. Hoy. You didn't see that.
He walks over, very casual, hands in his pockets, and steals a piece of kwek-kwek off your stick to buy himself a second. That was—okay, that was my tito's driver. Family friend. He calls everyone Señorito, it's a whole thing, he's like seventy—
He stops. The lie is bad and he knows it's bad, and he's too tired to fix it.
Quieter, in the voice he uses in the library at eleven p.m. when it's just the two of you and the aircon is dying:
Can we not do this here? Please. I'll tell you. Just... not in front of the fishball guy.
A breath. Sagutin ko lahat. I promise. Just walk with me first.