1. We’re Friends Because We’re Unhinged!
WE’RE FRIENDS BECAUSE WE’RE UNHINGED!
I walked through Luzon Avenue with my MacBook tucked under my arm like I was headed somewhere important and my phone in the other hand like it was one notification away from ruining my day.
I hadn’t opened my laptop since this morning, but carrying it made me feel like a person with direction… or at least a person pretending to have one. That was the thing about working remotely: as long as you had a MacBook and a purposefully neutral expression, people assumed you were productive.
Everyone else around me looked like they knew what they were doing.
Couples walked slowly, with their fingers intertwined like love had been scheduled into their morning.
Girls laughed too loud. The kind that said, ‘I’m being perceived and I like it.
’ Men walked with relaxed confidence of people who never once paused to wonder, ‘Am I too much?’
So I checked my phone again. No new notifications. Of course.
I rolled my eyes and looked at the modern scenery before me.
Cebu—or I liked calling it Southside—had this way of making you feel like your life was almost perfect… if you just squinted hard enough.
Southside specialized in appearances. It made everything seem cinematic. Successful. Effortless.
The couples looked in love.
The content creators looked successful.
The businessmen looked important.
Even the people having breakdowns somehow managed to do it in aesthetically pleasing cafés.
Southside had mastered the art of looking okay.
Maybe that’s why I fit in so well.
Zoomed out, I seemed alright: TikTok-famous, brunch-coded gay guy, emotionally literate in a way that made emotionally unavailable men suspicious. But zoom in, and the cracks showed. Broken-hearted. Attachment issues. Chronic yearning. Overthinking everything while pretending I wasn’t.
I was the kind of gay guy who could give solid relationship advice to friends while actively ignoring it in my own life. I was the kind who knew exactly why something was bad for me and still wanted it anyway.
Thankfully, I still looked fine as hell even if I was going through hell.
“Oh,” I said quietly after I saw my reflection in the glass. “Damn!” Damn because I looked handsome today, and Damn because why did men always break my heart?
So I opened my Camera app, angled myself just right, and took a few photos. Proof of life. Proof of hotness. Proof that whatever I was going through hadn’t ruined my face yet.
James Valle. Thirty-four. Living in Southside for… forever. Tall. Smart. Handsome in a way that aged well. Emotionally intelligent enough to identify my problems and emotionally stupid enough to keep repeating them.
I worked as a virtual assistant, which meant I could work anywhere—cafés, condos, airports, in a random guy’s apartment—I stayed single not because I wanted to, but because timing, fear, and emotionally unavailable men had formed a very effective union against me.
But today, I wore a relaxed but intentional outfit. Clean baby blue button-down shirt, tailored trousers, New Balance 530s, and Ray-Ban shades. The kind of outfit that said, ‘I have my life together,’ even though recent events suggested otherwise.
I kept only stubbles on my chin and this broccoli hair because apparently Gen Z liked it. And while I was a millennial with an old soul, I was not above adapting if it increased my chances of being desired.
Satisfied with my look and the photos I took, I slipped my phone back in my pocket, adjusted the grip on my MacBook and kept walking.
I was about to meet my friends for lunch, which guaranteed laughter, unsolicited advice, and loud and protective love.
I hadn’t seen them for five months since I went offline to ‘find myself.’
“So yeah,” I said to the camera, lowering my voice like I was confessing something illegal. “I’m still doing great. But you will never see me cry in public.”
I smiled—the kind that looked convincing on camera but needed a moment to load in real life.
Behind me, Café Laguna hummed with life: glass clinking, laughter spilling over booths, couples leaning in like they were sharing plot twists instead of fries. I panned the camera slightly, just enough to include the empty chairs around me.
“I’m meeting my friends,” I added quickly, like I had to clarify that I wasn’t alone. “We’re grabbing lunch. Talking things out. Healing. You know, very emotionally responsible behavior.”
I nodded at my own reflection on the screen, satisfied. This was good content. Honest, but not alarming. Vulnerable, but still looking hot.
I then tapped the stop recording button and typed a caption filled with all the necessary hashtags for better reach. I knew my way around social media. Years of being visible online had earned me a following—people who stay for my stories, my jokes, my perfectly curated chaos.
Once I hit upload, I set my phone down, reached for the water, and told myself I was fine.
But then my phone slipped. Betrayed by gravity.
It slid off the edge of the table in slow motion and landed screen-up on the floor. I groaned under my breath and leaned down to grab it.
That was when I heard heels clicking.
I looked up and saw the most gorgeous woman in the world.
Tall. Confident. Unapologetic.
I straightened just in time to hear her familiar voice say, “Darling, if that phone cracked, I swear, that’s the universe telling you to stop checking who viewed your story.”
I stood and hugged her without hesitation.
Honey had arrived.
But Honey didn’t arrive the way normal people did. She made entrances feel like a performance.
She was all sharp lines and intention—slim, sculpted, with a V-shaped face that could cut through indecision.
Her short hair framed her features perfectly, styled just enough to look effortless but never accidental.
Her eyes were fierce, alert, like she was always five seconds away from reading someone to filth.
And the outfit? Of course it was a moment.
A sleeveless statement top paired with a dramatic, fashion-forward skirt that moved like it had its own personality. It wasn’t about being traditionally sexy—it was about being seen. Every step she took felt like it belonged on a runway no one else had access to.
Her lips were painted red—non-negotiable. Her makeup remained flawless, expensive-looking, the kind that whispered power instead of begging for attention.
Honey wasn’t trying to be desirable.
She was curating an experience.
She didn’t just enter rooms, she edited them.
“I was uploading a TikTok, not checking my stories,” I defended, kissing her on both cheeks.
“We’re vain, darling,” she said. “Don’t apologize for that beauty.”
“Of course, Honey,” I nodded.
Every time she showed up, I was reminded that being around her meant existing in the presence of someone who had mastered the art of being exactly who she wanted to be: loudly, stylishly, and without apology.
That was when I heard a familiar, confident tap tap tap of pumps, announcing an arrival before the woman even spoke.
“Hey bitches!” Andi called out.
“C’mon now,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “It’s not nice to call people like that nowadays.”
She arrived like she always did: late enough to be noticed, and early enough to still control the narrative.
Andi was short but voluptuous—all curves and confidence—wearing an off-shoulder yellow top that knew exactly what it was doing, paired with slim pants that fit her well and pumps that meant business.
Her blonde-dyed hair was pulled into a bun, but a few loose strands framed her oval face naturally, like softness refusing to be tamed.
Orange, triangular-shaped sunglasses sat on her nose like a fashion declaration, and her skin glowed the way only a true brown beauty could—warm, rich, and gorgeous.
Andi was, without question, the most liberated person I knew. Sexually empowered. Emotionally loud. Unafraid of pleasure, attention, or desire.
Where the rest of us overthought, Andi felt. Where we hesitated, she stepped forward.
“Okay,” she said, eyeing the table. “Why does this look like an intervention waiting to happen?”
I rolled my eyes because it absolutely was.
And before anyone could sit down and start diagnosing my life, a calm presence approached the table.
Mel didn’t announce herself. She didn’t have to.
She walked toward us in full pre-gym glory: high-waisted black leggings, sculpting legs that could probably deadlift my emotional baggage, a fitted athletic crop top, and clean white trainers that had clearly seen more discipline than any other women our age.
A gym bag hung from her shoulder like a badge of honor.
Her skin was the fairest among us—paler than most Filipinos, courtesy of an American ancestor somewhere in her lineage—but she wasn’t fragile-looking. It glowed. Hydrated. Oxygenated. She wore no makeup, and didn’t need it. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, practical and sleek.
Mel was fit in a way that wasn’t performative. She didn’t go to the gym just for the aesthetic. She trained. She could lift weights most men used as ego props. She believed in proper hydration, boundaries, and progressive overload.
Where Andi radiated liberation and Honey commanded attention, Mel radiated certainty. She knew who she was. She knew what she could carry, whether it be light or heavy.
When she reached the table, she looked at the three of us and raised an eyebrow.
“So we’re unpacking James?” she asked in a joking way.
I exhaled. “Shut up!”
But then came the anomaly.
The only straight man brave and secure enough to voluntarily sit at a table with four opinionated, emotionally accurate people and survive it.
Andre walked in like he had absolutely nothing to prove.
White button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone just enough to reveal a strip of chest hair that felt aggressively heterosexual.
Black trousers tailored but not tight. Clean white shoes.
He wore rectangular shades that he removed when he arrived, scanning the table like he was assessing a business deal instead of brunch.
Andre exuded straight male confidence in the most non-threatening way. He wasn’t loud about it. Didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t flinch when stranger assumed things about him because of the company he kept. He stood comfortably in his masculinity. Secure enough to not feel diluted by ours.
He smirked. “Why do I feel like I’m about to hear about someone who didn’t text back?”
I stepped back.
I hated how accurate my friends were.
But I hugged him like a brother.
Now the table was complete.
Five seats. No more empty ones.
And so, chairs scraped. Bags dropped. Sunglasses came off like armor being worn off.
“Okay,” Andi started, waving for a server like she owned shares in the restaurant. “First of all, I need fries. I burned calories being stressed about my Japan plans.”
“You gotta move to actually burn calories,” Mel corrected, caressing Andi’s cheek.
Honey crossed her legs. “Only if you cry then calories get burned. And none of us are crying in public… yet.”
All four of them looked at me.
Andre leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm over the backrest. “So who are we mad at today?”
“I am not mad,” I said quickly.
“That wasn’t defensive at all,” Mel replied sarcastically.
“I’m just saying,” I continued, reaching for the menu. “We’re here to eat. And vibe. And be normal.”
“Normal?” Andi laughed. “We’re friends because we’re unhinged.”
The others nodded in agreement, save for Andre.
“I don’t know how I got adopted into this,” he said.
“You like the chaos,” Mel pointed out, putting her sunglasses on.
“I like observing it,” he corrected.
The waiter came, took our orders, and left us in a comfortable mess of overlapping conversations.
I listened. Really listened.
The clinking glasses. The small arguments about nothing. The way Honey touched my hand mid-sentence. The way Mel passed me water without asking. The way Andi defended me in hypothetical scenarios I hadn’t even described yet. The way Andre reasoned things out.
I didn’t say much after that. I missed this. I missed my friends.
Five months I had been gone to find myself after getting lost within the orbit of someone who eventually decided to give up on me.
I just sat there, watching my friends exist around me.
Then, Andi suddenly went silent as the others continued their conversation.
She turned to me and then asked softly, “Do you wanna talk about it?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Not now.”
Not because I didn’t want to, but because if I started talking about him, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d know how to stop.
“Okay,” she said, her smile soft but threaded with worry.
But I was fine.
I was surrounded by the people I loved.
“Let’s now plan James’ birthday!” Mel said excitedly.
The others chimed in with excitement as well.
“I have some ideas!” Honey said.
Maybe this was what stability felt like. Not fireworks. Not butterflies. Just a table for five.