I tucked my hands deep into the pockets of my sweater. Despite the summer breeze, I was cold. Maybe I came down with something when I pulled an all-nighter due to the coverage of the ceasefire operations. Today was a holiday for the invaders, and they had the nerve to throw the festivities on a land that was partially theirs. It was an insult of sorts, but as a member of the people who were close to being oppressed, I had no right to complain. If I spoke out of turn against our future overlords, I might not see the light of day again.

My steps against the road carpeted with rubble were light, but the weight on my shoulders was heavy. The thought of a drive sitting at the base of my pocket on my way to any operational printing shop in this town made me hunch over as if I was guarding a secret to world domination or the path to a hidden trove of gold nuggets. It was neither. After a full month of deterring Raizen and running out of excuses as to why I was not attending to my manuscript, it was now ready to be handed over to the editors.

But my heart was not.

The reason I have not withdrawn my name from ever reaching international waters sat at the far reaches of my mind. When Raizen mentioned that a chance was handed to me and not to him even though he was years my senior, I could not lie and hide the fact that it excited me. It intrigued me. Gave me a streak of hope—the poisonous glimmer of that emotion. When he told me a publisher wanted to review what I spent my life and tears on making, I was happy. After a long while of screaming on paper with no soul to reach but my own, someone out there—a faceless entity, a divine messenger of sorts—was willing to delve into my madness. The thought made me proud of what I accomplished. People believed in me, enough to push me into the limelight. Enough to make me want to live the life I never thought I could achieve. Those were the moments I would never forget for what they made me feel and what they reminded me of.

But duty called. The sliver of what I was beholden to came knocking. I have a family who depended on me to provide food for the table, no matter how measly. My mother did not want to cut off her roots, dragging Lola with her. Without me, what would become of them? They could probably survive, but it would be hard without my added journalist salary. And if I was caught peddling "information" about the country to foreign lands...

I shook my head. No use thinking of the implausible. Maybe the publisher would not like what I came up with. Without the publication deal, would the invaders still hunt me down? What about Raizen? Did he already have tails on him since he started talking to me? Did the invaders have that much time on their hands to track each one of the mongrels they were conquering?

The sky, striped with defunct electricity cables and shaken posts, gazed back at me. Clouds crawled by, always without a care to those getting by below them. Sometimes, they gathered in droves and dropped a torrent, but most days, they never shield us from the sun's rays, leaving us to bake under the intense heat. A flock of birds flew by in their V formation. How many of those were real, and how many had lenses hidden in their eyes?

Like the answer to many of life's questions, I would never know.

I fished my phone from my tote bag when I neared the printing shop with a comical and colorful sign. My fingers sent Kian a quick message in case something went wrong. At least, someone would know where I was last at. It would make exhuming the body easier. Then, I leveled my gaze into the near empty main road and started crossing. The stoplights were unnecessary; no cars whizzed by in a hurry to get somewhere. Where would they go? Metro Manila, where everything has burned to the ground?

The printing shop lay with its facade wide open, showing me the inner workings complete with the computers, the copying machines, and the printers. No one stood behind the counter, looking out into the street or playing with their phones as they waited for their customers. I rapped a knuckle against the linoleum-slathered counter. The hollow thump on wood reverberated into the green-walled room. The peeling wax on the floor told me this place has not been used in a long time. Still, it was common courtesy to wait.

A minute passed. Five. I rapped the counter again. Silence.

Oh, well. It was free real estate. I tackled the narrow alley to the shop's back door. The lock was undone, hanging from only one tongue enough to appear locked when it was not. With careful fingers, I swung the gate outward and snuck into the shop. I found an old laptop that still has juice even when electricity has receded to the urban parts of the city. Entering the guest account, I plugged my drive, connected to the bluetooth printers, and hoped for the best. Despite the clunky start and the dried up cartridge from months (or years) of disuse, after half an hour, I had the complete manuscript in my hands. The sides might be splotched with the cartridges leaking, but it was better than nothing. Raizen and his beloved publisher should make do with what they would get.

An hour from the printing shop, I was on the way home. My finger lingered on the call button as Raizen's name was selected on the white screen with dinosaur text. I clenched my jaw, shooting Kian a message instead. I'm on the way home. Do you want me to pass by the camp?

I did not expect him to answer right away. His job was more demanding than mine, and with me heading to the site tomorrow, today's day-off due to the ceasefire was a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because I was able to attend to the manuscript without sacrificing time for my day job. A curse, because I was able to attend to the manuscript in fear of not giving Raizen another valid excuse. I have used Lola countless times, and I felt bad about actually giving her one of the diseases I made up.

I opened another draft and composed a quick text to Raizen when the ground beneath my feet shook. An earthquake? No. Alarm gripped my throat, forcing me to whirl around. Past the short buildings reaching for the sky, clouds of dark gray smoke beat them to it. My heart sank. Again? They said it was a ceasefire, so why...

My feet skidded against the cracked asphalt of the highway when reality crashed all over me. I shoved the manuscript into my bag, the added weight of a thick sheaf of bond papers digging against my shoulder. No time to think about the implications nor the causes. Whatever the invaders wanted, they did. If they wanted to shoot civilians during the bilateral talks they initiated, they would. If they preferred seeing my countrymen at the end of their rifles, they would.

I typed a quick text to Mom and Lola—stay inside. Opened fire in the city. Had to verify where. Then to Kian—are you alright? Where are you? If he was in the middle of an operation or a rescue effort, of course, he would not have the time to check his phone and pen a message, no matter how short. I craned my neck to the sky. How long before the bombs get here? The first time I was caught under their barrages still haunt my sleep when I least expected it. I did not need another reason to be awake at night.

With deep huffs, I dashed towards the narrow alleys where the tanks would not reach. If the bomb dropped on me, though...

I cursed. Not good. I needed a place with tall buildings. If it got hit, the upper floors would suffer first. Preferably with a good underground hideout. Underground.

My eyes landed on the bright blue building rising above everything else within a kilometer radius. The plastic letters glued to the side had fallen away like teeth with cavities, leaving a string of gibberish. Edcl cetr ms. The white symbol of a winged staff with a snake curled around it was my saving grace. It was the hospital—the one that shut down before the Palico camp went operational.

I ran towards my promised refuge. In the distance, the crunch of the conveyor wheels of the tanks against asphalt and compact soil floated above the silence. At random intervals, loud blasts from cannons and missiles rang in faint booms. Any minute now, and they would become louder. And louder.

And louder until our ears bleed and the world does not look the same as when we left it.

The hospital loomed above me, and I flung myself into the void leading to the dark depths of the underground parking. I flicked the flashlight of my phone on, swerving the gadget around across the space. The first step in staying safe in a raid was knowing how the environment was laid. It would help me in ways I would not expect.

For an underground parking of a hospital in a half-modernized city, it was spacious. They must have been in the process of expanding it because the light from my phone shone over towering piles of cement still in powdered form. Shovels, plastering trowels, sifting equipment, short scaffolding, and buckets of paint littered the far end. Huh.

I checked my phone for any messages from the people I reached out to. The white light assaulted my eyes, but I forced myself to scour through the recent messages in my inbox. No signal. Yeah, right. I sank to the floor, pressing my back against the scaffolding. The cement dust lay inches from the tips of my sneakers. The minutes crawled by, and at one point, I shut the flashlight on my phone to conserve battery. I rested my head against the cold, concrete wall, listening for any respite in the explosions.

A blast of sunlight ripped through the sheet of black brought by my closed lids. Wh—how did the sun get in here?

My thoughts halted in their tracks when a garbled string of words rang in the parking's hollow space. I shielded my face on my way up, shoulders perked up in preparation for a fight. The first thing that registered was an obsidian muzzle pointed at me. Past it was a soldier bearing the features of the invaders. Thanks to the bright spotlight they trained on me, I saw the flag emblazoned on their sleeves. It was not my country's.

Shit. They found me.

I put my hands up, backing away until my back hit the wall. Shit. Fuck. Did I just corner myself?

"What doing you here?" the soldier asked, doing his best attempt at speaking a language we both understood.

"Just passing by," I replied. My eyes never left the finger toying with the trigger as if me ending with a dozen bullets in my body was up to chance and nothing more. In my periphery, I gauged the shovel's distance from my feet. Would the time to take it be shorter than the seconds it would take for the rifle to fire and the bullet to hurt me? "I was on my way to work when I heard the bombs. As a sensible person would, I took shelter. You wouldn't hurt a bystander, would you?"

It was a challenge—something I should not have done.

"What job have you?" the soldier asked again.

I shrugged. "A teacher."

Something passed across his face, something it should not have if I gave the correct answer. The rifle clinked when he leveled it at me and his eyes on the scope. Could not even aim even at close distance? Maybe the invaders' army was not as fine-tuned as I thought. I was not a moving target, but I could be. "Orders to shoot person against court order," the soldier said. "No teachers."

Oh.

I ducked just as the rifle fired. The stone hissed behind me as the bullet hit the wall. My fingers wrapped against the shovel's shaft, and I whirled on my way up, bringing it to a swing. The soldier leaped away and aimed anew. No matter. I started running. Shovel in hand, the metal weighed me down. I was a fast runner, but when it came to my life, why was it so damned slow?

The soldier's combat boots rang with every step, alerting me where he was. I would not survive for long like this. A civilian would not know how to kill a trained soldier, even with a pseudo melee weapon. Another blast encouraged my steps to go faster. If I went out, would an entire platoon greet me? Was I tailed here? Did they see me printing my manuscript?

Fear gripped my throat, the closed, clamped air of the parking lot not helping. Outside. I needed to be outside. Gripping the shovel tighter, I made the dangerous trek up the steep incline of the road leading out of the parking lot. Shit. A million other curses ripped from my mouth. The soldier in pursuit huffed the same way I was, yelling at me to stop. It was the only word in English he said right and I understood immediately. That did not mean I would do it.

Light from the outside defeated the bright torch slung from the soldier's arm. We stepped on flat ground, sweat pouring down my face and back. I whirled enough to see the soldier catch up, aim at my leg, and click the trigger. A blur of white and green slammed into the soldier. The shot went wide, the bullet embedding into a nearby tree. A scream escaped my throat as I fell back, as if the wind generated by two figures falling to the ground affected me. Who—

"Are you alright?" Kian's breathy voice reached my ears. Something clicked, and when I looked again, he stood a few feet from me and the soldier...a sidearm trained at the enemy. "I came as soon as I could."

The soldier groaned but whipped up, pointing the rifle at Kian as well. I opened my mouth to answer but my eyes landed on Kian's frame. Clad in a doctor's white coat thrown over folded camo sleeves and trousers tucked into combat boots, he had never looked so contradictory. The hooked earpieces of a stethoscope peeked from the hip pocket of his coat, but he held the gun with an assurance that he would fire.

Kian's chest heaved, too great for me to ignore. Would that not throw his aim off? The sweat streaking down his temples and cheeks was not natural either. Then, I saw his hand quiver. I understood that. He was supposed to save lives, not take them.

But unless he killed the enemy, we would not leave here alive.

His throat bobbed, eyes never straying from the enemy before us. His finger hooked against the trigger but made no move to click it. The soldier, meanwhile, definitely would. No time to think. I charged forward, bringing the shovel into a full swing. With a cry, I sent the pure metal blade towards the soldier. A sharp thwack blared between us, sending reverberations up my arms. The soldier toppled backward, the rifle skidding away from his grip. As it should. Before he could react, I trudged towards Kian, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him away.

The roads blurred around us. We stuck to the narrow alleys of the less developed parts of the city, somewhere the dazed soldier's platoon could not track us. An old pawnshop sped by my view. With a grunt, I shoved Kian into it before dragging him deeper into the building's enclosure. Pulling all the available curtains closed, I retreated to the building's innermost office. Multiple safes nailed into walls greeted us, but all were of no value to us.

Instead, I watched Kian saunter inside and collapse into the nearby office chair. His hands caught his head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. He wheezed, his breaths only going in but not going out. One hand left his head and clawed against his chest, as if his heart wanted him to throw it up. His eyes glazed over, and he started keeling sideways. I caught him by the hem of his coat and pulled him up. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, resting his head on my gut. I squeezed, holding on to him. Tight.

Tighter.

It was not long until he calmed down, and he faced me. Sweat still stained his skin and plastered his hair on his head, but the smile he gave me told me everything was okay even when nothing went according to plan. It was a smile I would rather not see in this place or during this time, because it would make me want to stay. For him and with him.

"You should leave," I said, my voice closer to a gasp than a scream. "You should leave. This is not good for you."

Kian reached out, his standard reply to such statements from me already in my mind before he even said it. I wrenched my hand away, stepping back before he trapped me with his sweet, sunshiny words. This was not the right way to live in our time of war. "Maian, I—"

I swept my hand in a clear line between us. "Don't give me some shit about wanting to serve your people. You've seen what happens out there. If you're caught in the same situation again, how would you survive?" I said. "You've done enough for this country that doesn't reward you with anything, this country who just takes and takes. Just...save yourself.

"Forget about your guilt and shame or some stupid shit," I continued. Tears sprouted from my eyes and scalded a trail down my cheeks. The reality of what we went through sank in. "Be proud of yourself for living and live, if not for your sake, then mine."

Instead of rising from his seat or demanding I understand his stubbornness more, he pursed his lips. "It's more than that, Maian," he said. "If I survived, there must be a reason. It must be because I was supposed to help people—to save them—and they're not out there, in another land. They're here."

"I don't want you to die," I replied with a sniff. "You're too young to."

He shook his head. "No one's going to die."

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. "You don't know that. You don't." I pounded a fist against my chest. "So don't give me that hope that we will still be here tomorrow, that everything will be alright, that you're doing all this out of a pure motive of helping your people. Just...stop it. If you can't save yourself, how can you save others?"

Through the haze of my tears, I wished I could see Kian's face as he said, "If I die, then I'd have lived a full life already." He clasped his hands together. "It's not your fault I'm stubborn, nor am I asking for you to understand me. It's...I'm not leaving, Maian. I'm sorry."

And there it was, the answer I have dreaded to hear from his mouth. Should I stay as well? I could not. I would be sentencing everyone to the grave if I let them be. To save others was to save oneself first, and if they could not see that, then I would make them. My reasoning might be as flawed as theirs, but this was the only thing I could do.

It was the only way I could save those who had my heart.

This will be the last you will hear from me, dear reader. I have written a short testament which I will tuck in this diary's pages, so that the person I intend it for will see it first. It will be unfair—nothing in life is—but like how he told me to not try understanding his perspective, I shall not ask him to do the same for me.

Kian, you will hate me when you reach the end, and if you are reading this—dear God, I hope you are reading this—do not miss me. That is all I ask. We have fought all our lives for a shred of freedom in this fallen land, but I will have you know that waiting for you all this time, seeing you, loving you—they had always been a form of freedom we never accounted for.

Do not miss me, Kian, because right after I place the final dot in this entry, I will pick up my phone. I will send Raizen the manuscript.

And we will have an answer, one way or another.