Lastdance

STORY BY FRANCESCA ALEXIS AMOR LUYA

MAY six. Nine o’clock at nightand I had just forgotten that one turn was meant to happen four counts later.

How could I mess up something I’ve been practicing since the beginning of April?

But then again, how could I have foreseen last August that I’d be thinking of how he held my hand eight months later?

And so, with cold and shaking hands, I continued dancing. My nervousness did not go unnoticed, for he pulled me closer and- in a soft whisper, told me to relax. Though, all I could really do was breathe and- Oh no, I took the wrong step- “Sorry.”

May six. Nine o’clock at night- and I had just forgotten that I was supposed to have my left foot step backward, not the right.

Maybe it was the way he held my hands and caressed them while dancing- or perhaps it was how he gripped them in reassurance that he will guide me as I had forgotten what we practiced the last few weeks. Maybe it was the close proximity, or the way he couldn’t keep looking at me in the eyes. Maybe it was the fact that I had been in denial the whole year of how I felt about him. Maybe it was because it was the first time that I didn’t have to imagine holding his hand and dancing with him.

One thing is for sure, however. He more... but she had to. The popping sound of a bottle cap, the sound of pills rubbing up against each other, the clink of a glass— and down it went— and for a moment. She experienced pure bliss. She took some more, just to ease the pain a little. But, that one more turned into five, five turned into nine, and soon enough.. she fainted.

“Mom?? MOM WAKE UP, I TOLD YOU TO STOP,” the frantic crying of her son echoed across the thin walls of the room. It felt almost suffocating to be there as of right now. He bolted out of the room, stumbled a bit on his way and rushed to grab his phone. It’s probably been a couple of hours ever since Lydia collapsed, but he wouldn’t know that. His thoughts swarmed him, looming over his every move, he can’t afford to mess up now, otherwise he might as well have lost both his parents.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His phone clicked, to his luck, the operator answered immediately, “911, what’s your emergency?”

Police sirens were wailing, the paramedics scrambled on the floor, “How much did she take?!” You couldn’t hear anything over the noise. Everyone was practically having a contest of ‘who can yell the loudest.’ But, her son just stood there, his whole body numb, he couldn’t even hear a word that was being spoken to him, he just wanted to cry. He wanted to run and scream, do anything, literally anything— something to distract him, to tell him that he was just dreaming. It was all just a big misunderstanding and everything will go back to the way they were. When she was still happy.

He felt like he wanted to collapse onto the floor, but at the same time, he didn’t have any energy left in him to do anything. He stared at her unconscious body for so long, that even after the people had left, he was still imagining his mom’s body on the floor.

“You should’ve told me something was wrong.”

STORY BY FRANCESCA ALEXIS AMOR LUYA

AS a child, one would naturally be overly talkative, make a mess, and play games they wouldn’t get tired of playing. While many would enjoy games such as tumbang preso, piko, or chinese garter, I grew to enjoy hide and seek the most. I was the best seeker there was in my neighborhood.

Despite the title, there was never a time I found my mother whenever we would play. She was always so good in hiding.

Because of that, I always thought to myself, “maybe I understand how to play the game wrong” or “maybe I am not the good seeker everyone says I am.”

So one day, I asked her, “how do you do it?”

“First, among the players, you must choose who will hide and who will seek.”

This was something we already knew- so I said, “But I already know this, mother. I mean to ask how are you so good in hiding?”

She answered, “to be a good player, you must know how to play. You must also know who is best in seeking and who is best in hiding.” I never fully understood this, because that was our case.

And how could I find her if she is so good at hiding? How can I seek her for the same reason? I thought it was unfair.

Nevertheless of how I viewed the concept, she taught me that the choice is what matters most- that there are people who must hide because it’s what they must do- that there are people who are only left to seek because they are patient and determinant to wait and find where those who are in the shadows hide.

This made me wonder, “how about those who are not given a choice? Those who were told to be what they are?” Because I had been a seeker in almost every game I’ve played, I, too, wanted to know how it felt like to be found.

My mother stayed silent for a moment, and just stared. When she seemed to have found the answer, she said, “then they must hide and seek.”

I was a child. I didn’t understand.

“Second, the seeker must close their eyes, and count to ten. Within that count, the hider must find somewhere to hide.” so good at hiding. Because of this, I grew diffident in myself, and eventually stopped enjoying the game. I hated the difference between the odds of finding my friends and the chances of finding my mother.

Because if not a strand of her hair, a footstep, or a sound of breath, I should be able to find her by her scent, her fingerprints, and her favorite places to hide. It started to feel like I knew my friends more than my mother.

As I grew up and enjoyed the game less and less, I found myself in oneone that I was unaware I began to play with my mother once again.

I found myself again in a mo-

This made me wonder, “how about those who are not given a choice? Those who were told to be what they are?” ment when I breathlessly run back and forth places I’ve been to in hopes of finding her the second, third, fourth, and fifth time I went back. I found myself opening closets, cabinets, and the smallest drawers as if she could fit herself in those tiny spaces. I, yet again, found myself going through my clothes and things as if she was somewhere in between threads, inks, and microplastics. makes me nervous.

Because I had been a seeker in almost every game I’ve played, I, too, wanted to know how it felt like to be found.

Oh my God.

May six. A quarter past nine o’clock at night- and I had just realized I liked the guy who once carried my heavy house project made up of popsicle sticks and stones all the way downstairs.

How could I have foreseen last August that I’d be thinking of how he would have done anything to make my life easier eight months later?

Maybe this was why I stayed in denialbecause there was no way that I’d like someone who’d do the least in a group work- or the person who had talked bad about my friend in junior high school. It’s something that even I did not expect.

However.

In the same sense, how had I kept on forgetting that in time, when May finally meets dusk, I’d be left with more than just his hand for me to remember and reminisce?

Because just like that one turn that was meant to happen four counts later, how could it have slipped my mind that when May finally meets dusk, I will start forgetting how it felt to have my friends hold my hands- or pull them as we rush to go upstairs when it’s time for class. I will start forgetting the smell of cucumber melon and cupcake perfumes- the smell of street food and ice cream as we walk home together- heck, even the smell of mud as we struggle to fit under 2 umbrellas when it rains out of nowhere. May six. A quarter to ten o’clock at night- and I had realized it wasn’t just my Graduation Ball partner that made me nervous. It was also the fact that night will never repeat itself again- and I will never find myself at 18, dancing my lungs and singing my heart out until I run out of breath—So this is heaven, huh?

I could have sworn it was only a few weeks ago when my sky was still empty, with no heaven or hell, and starless- because how could I have foreseen the first time I realized my sky was no longer empty, with heavens and hells, and full of stars- eight months later?

Because, in a blink of an eye, I am here eight months later. In a blink of an eye, August 24, 2022 became May 6, 2023and everything that I had ever seen, touched, and heard, will soon become fragments of the past- just as everyone that had ever seen, touched, and heard me, will soon become people I had once met and walked past the senior high school hallways.

May six. Ten o’clock at night- and I had to let go of the eyes that once saw me, the hands that once held me, and the stars that once listened to me.

Because, in a blink of an eye, my first step into the school campus became my last step out of Aberdeen Court.

Photo from https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/silhouettes-lovely-young-couple-standing-rooftop-night_2612655.htm#query=couple%20dancing%20silhouette&position=11&from_view=keyword&track=ais

“But I already know this, mother.”

“While the seeker counts, they must listen to the footsteps of the hider- the surroundings- where they could possibly go-”

“You are very silent, my mother.”

It was true. Whenever she would hide, she would leave no trace behind- not a strand of hair, not a footstep, and not a breath. It was almost appalling and frustrating how all I could hear was silence whenever we would play.

“That is why I hide well.”

“But how will I find you?”

Back then, I was so determined to run back and forth places I’ve been to in hopes of finding her the second, third, fourth, and fifth time I went back. I would open closets, cabinets, and the smallest drawers as if she could fit herself in those tiny spaces. I would even go through my clothes and things as if she was somewhere in between threads, inks, and microplastics.

But I would never find her.

“Third, the seeker must find the hider.”

In the games I played with my mother, I had always sought her- but never found. They would always end up in her finding me, hopelessly staring at the spot where we started.

It is no exaggeration when I say you can only find her once in a hundred chances.

In the end, she never truly answered my question- of how she was

She was not anywhere in between those threads, inks, and microplastics. I could only find her in them themselves- the clothes she once wore, the notes she once wrote, and random Tupperware she would pack in my bag for lunch.

I couldn’t find her even with the perfume she left, or with the fingerprints I refuse to wipe on our bedroom window, or in her favorite places to hide.

I remember asking her, “but how do I find you?”

I can no longer recall her answer- because at the time, it didn’t matter- because no matter how much I failed to find her, she would come back to me. She would find me.

She once taught me the way to her favorite places to hide. She even made a map where point A meets point B, and point B meets point C- so I could find her. I would always end up at a point she never wanted me to be. She said that when that happens, I should come back to where we started, and she will find me.

So, my dear mother. Please find me again. Point A, point B, and point C were the only places you could be. When did Canada become part of the story?

Among the places I could afford to find you, I can only come back to point D, our home- where we started.

I may not find you by your scent, your fingerprints, and the only points you left me to go, but I am home. I lie in between the threads you left, the inks I keep in my memory jar, and the Tupperware I still use to this day even when we have plates. I am counting to this day.