Alex left the classroom with the others.
The hallway filled too quickly—voices rising, footsteps overlapping, the sharp scrape of chairs being dragged back into place. Heat pressed in from all sides as bodies funneled toward the exits, backpacks swinging, sleeves brushing skin. Someone laughed too loudly behind him. Someone else swore when they dropped a notebook.
It felt ordinary. Loud. Transitional.
Alex let the current carry him for a while.
Outside, the light had shifted. Afternoon sun slanted lower now, catching on the edges of buildings and turning the concrete a dull gold. Vendors were already packing up near the gates. Oil was cooled in pans. Flyers peeled loose at the corners, fluttering when someone passed.
He crossed the threshold without thinking.
The jeepney stop was crowded. He waited, standing just off to the side, fingers hooked loosely through the strap of his bag. When a jeepney finally lurched to a halt, he climbed in with the others, squeezing himself into the narrow space near the back.
Bodies pressed close—shoulders, elbows, damp fabric. Someone's backpack dug into his ribs. He caught the overhead bar by habit. The metal was warm and smooth, polished by years of hands just like his.
The engine coughed, then settled into its uneven growl.
Coins chimed softly as they were passed forward. The driver's radio crackled, skipped stations, then landed on a song Alex didn't recognize. The singer's voice warped whenever the jeepney slowed, stretching thin before snapping back into shape.
The city slid by in familiar fragments.
Walls stained by rain. Sari-sari stores with flickering lights. A row of unfinished buildings wrapped in green netting, their exposed floors open to the sky. Laundry hung from balconies like quiet flags, barely stirring.
Alex watched without really seeing.
His thoughts lagged half a step behind his body, loose and slow. He swayed with the motion of the vehicle without thinking, knees adjusting automatically when it jerked or braked.
At an intersection, the jeepney slowed more than usual.
A whistle cut through the noise.
Alex shifted his footing.
The jeepney jerked hard. Someone cursed. Tires screamed against asphalt, metal shrieking for a breath too long. For a moment—just a moment—everything felt suspended. No forward. No back. Just a hollow pause where sound stretched thin and wrong.
Then it snapped back into place.
The jeepney rolled on. People kept talking. Someone laughed again. No one screamed.
Alex tightened his grip on the bar and told himself his heart was racing because he'd been startled. Nothing more.
When his stop came, he tapped the roof twice. The jeepney slowed, coughing, and he stepped down onto the pavement.
The street near his apartment was quieter.
Traffic thinned. Voices softened. Late afternoon light stretched shadows across the road, turning cracks in the pavement into dark shapes that looked deeper than they were. Alex walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, listening to his own footsteps.
The walk felt shorter than it should have been.
Corners arrived before he remembered turning. He passed a small shop he was sure hadn't been there last week, then realized it had—it had just never registered. His building rose ahead, familiar and tired. Four stories of stained paint. Narrow balconies with laundry draped over the rails. A towel flapped lazily in the breeze.
Somewhere inside, a television blared.
The stairwell smelled of dust and old water. The light buzzed overhead, flickering once before steadying. His footsteps echoed as he climbed, the sound trailing him by a fraction of a second.
By the time he reached his floor, his breathing felt heavier than it should have.
He unlocked his door and stepped inside.
The apartment was exactly as he'd left it.
Shoes by the door. Bag on the chair. The electric fan hums steadily, pushing warm air in slow, uneven pulses. Sunlight cut across the floor in slanted bands, catching dust in the air.
Alex stood there longer than necessary.
Nothing felt wrong.
That was the problem.
He set his bag down and leaned back against the door, pressing the back of his head to the wood. The smell was gone. The air was flat and familiar. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths until the tightness in his chest eased.
When he opened them again, the light had shifted just slightly.
Not enough to matter.
He pushed himself away from the door and moved through the apartment, touching things as he passed—table edge, counter, chair back. Solid. Real. He went to the sink and drank straight from the tap, the water cool and metallic on his tongue.
"Just tired," he muttered.
The words sounded thin.
He didn't turn on the TV. Didn't open his laptop. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. The afternoon stretched on, quiet and unremarkable. Outside, someone shouted. Somewhere farther away, a horn blared.
Life went on.
By the time evening crept in, it did so quietly. Light drained from the room in degrees, shadows deepening in corners. Alex lay back without fully deciding to, socks still on, the fan tracing slow circles above him.
His eyes closed before he meant them to.