Episode 12: Sunset Secrets

Manila’s sky was on fire.The sunset burned across the skyline—orange bleeding into gold, red flaring into purple. The air was thick with the city’s heat and sound: honking jeepneys, vendors shouting over one another, the faint blare of a pop song from a nearby apartment window.

Above it all, on the rooftop of, Marco had created a small sanctuary. Two foldable chairs faced the horizon. A cheap Bluetooth speaker sat beside a bottle of calamansi soda, already beading with condensation. Next to it was his laptop, its lid plastered with band stickers—most half-peeled, all well-loved.

He adjusted one of the chairs, then glanced at the stairwell door, bouncing his leg impatiently.

When Ji-yoo finally appeared, the door creaked open with its usual stubborn groan. She stepped out, brushing dust off her denim jacket, her black hair tied in a messy bun. Her eyes were tired—half from a sleepless night mixing vocals, half from the Manila heat—but her smile still carried that sharp edge that Marco secretly adored.

“Okay,” she said, squinting at him. “Why are we up here instead of downstairs fixing the compressor you broke yesterday?”

Marco grinned. “Because, Ms. Perfectionist, I wanted a change of scenery.”

“That’s what lazy people call procrastination.”

He pretended to look wounded. “Hey, I set this all up for you.”

She glanced at the chairs and the soda. “You mean for us.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “For us.”

She tilted her head, studying him with suspicion. “You’re being weird. What’s going on?”

He fished a small USB drive from his pocket and held it up like a magician revealing his final trick. “This.”

“A USB stick? Wow. So romantic.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not just any USB stick. This one has something we haven’t shared yet.”

Ji-yoo crossed her arms, smirking. “If this is another remix of Looped Hearts with you whispering into the mic again, I’m walking back downstairs.”

Marco pretended to look offended. “I only whispered because I was trying something experimental.”

“It sounded like a ghost trying to flirt.”

He laughed—a genuine, boyish laugh that softened his usual guarded expression. “Relax, no ghosts this time. Promise.”

She sat down with a sigh, the metal chair creaking beneath her. “Fine. Impress me.”

Marco plugged in the drive, fingers trembling just a bit more than usual. The speaker crackled to life, and soft piano notes began to drift through the warm air.It wasn’t their usual upbeat sound—this was quieter, stripped down. Intimate. The kind of melody that felt like a confession.

Ji-yoo leaned forward, curious. “This isn’t one of our drafts.”

He smiled faintly. “No. It’s something I made after that night.”

“What night?”

He looked at her, eyes searching. “You know which one.”

Ji-yoo frowned for a moment, then realization dawned—and a slow, quiet warmth crept up her neck.

“Oh,” she said softly. “That night.”

Marco nodded, gaze lowering as the track unfolded.Then came the voice. His voice.

He wasn’t singing—he was rapping, but softly, like someone whispering secrets to the wind. The rhythm was deliberate but fragile, his tone unpolished, real.

“I watched her stitch herself with broken notes,Voice cracked like sidewalk roots under coats.She didn’t know it, but her silence screamed—And I made a beat from the sound of her dream.”


Ji-yoo’s breath hitched. The city noise seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of his voice and the hum of their shared heartbeat.

When the last note fell silent, she didn’t speak immediately. The wind moved gently through her hair. The scent of smog, asphalt, and distant food stalls lingered in the air.

Finally, she whispered, “That’s… you.”

Marco rubbed the back of his neck, a shy grin flickering. “Yeah. Guess I can’t hide that anymore.”

“You wrote that… after the night I—?”

“After the night you told me you loved me,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want to forget what that moment felt like. So I made it a song.”

Ji-yoo’s lips parted, her voice trembling between disbelief and tenderness. “You should’ve shown me sooner.”

He laughed awkwardly. “I almost did. A dozen times.”

“What stopped you?”

He hesitated. “Fear, I guess.”

“Fear of what?”

He met her eyes then—no jokes, no smirk, just quiet vulnerability. “Of you loving someone who might not be around forever.”

The air shifted. Ji-yoo’s face softened, the teasing gone from her tone. “Marco… what does that mean?”

He looked away toward the city lights flickering below. “It means… I didn’t want you to build something around someone temporarily.”

She frowned, sitting forward. “You think you’re temporary?”

“Maybe,” he said with a small shrug. “People fade. Songs fade. Everything does.”

The speaker emitted a soft buzz as the track looped again, the melody carrying his unspoken words. Ji-yoo watched him for a long moment, realizing that beneath the humor, the quiet bravado, there was a man terrified of disappearing before he could be remembered.

The sunset deepened—gold bleeding into violet.And somewhere between the light and the dark, something unspoken passed between them.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The song ended, replaced by the faint hum of the speaker and the distant rhythm of Manila’s traffic.Somewhere below, a tricycle’s radio blared an old OPM ballad; a dog barked in reply.It was one of those strange, fragile silences—too full to be empty, too heavy to be comfortable.

Ji-yoo leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun was dissolving into gold dust. “You always do that,” she murmured.

Marco blinked. “Do what?”

“Hide behind the music. You say what you really feel only when there’s a beat behind it.”

He gave a half-smile. “Guess I’m braver with reverb.”

She turned to look at him, her expression soft but firm. “Then let’s talk without reverb. Without lyrics.”

He chuckled, but the sound didn’t reach his eyes. “Dangerous territory.”

“I’m serious, Marco.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “What did you mean earlier—‘someone who won’t be around forever’? You’ve said things like that before.”

Marco stared at his hands, tracing the rim of his soda bottle with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to make it sound dramatic.”

“Then make it sound honest.”

He sighed. “Ji, it’s not… it’s not a big deal. Just—lately, I’ve been feeling off.”

“Off?” she repeated. “Like tired? Sick?”

“Yeah. Kind of both.” His voice was too casual, too measured, the way people spoke when they were trying to sound fine. “It’s probably nothing. I’ve skipped meals. Slept weird hours. Stress, maybe.”

Her brow furrowed. “Have you seen a doctor?”

Marco hesitated, then gave a weak laugh. “You sound like my mom.”

“I’m not joking.”

He finally looked at her. There it was—the exhaustion behind his grin, the faint shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “They said it’s nothing serious,” he said. “Just burnout.”

“Burnout doesn’t make people talk like they’re vanishing,” she shot back. “You keep hinting like you’ve got an expiry date.”

He winced. “I’m not dying, Ji.”

“Then stop acting like you are.”

He looked down again, his silence louder than the city below.

Ji-yoo exhaled, shaking her head. “You really think I haven’t noticed? You’ve been zoning out during sessions, forgetting lyrics, skipping meals, spacing out like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“You’re twenty-two.”

“Yeah. Ancient.”

She frowned deeper, frustration mixing with worry. “You think this is funny?”

He paused. “No. I think it’s easier to laugh than to tell you I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

That made her stop.

He went on, his voice low. “Sometimes I wake up and it feels like I’m still stuck in that night—before everything clicked. Like I’m here, but half of me’s still trying to catch up.”

Ji-yoo didn’t know what to say. The wind tugged at her hair. The sky was shifting now—orange bleeding to indigo.

“I made that song,” he continued softly, “because I was scared. You said you loved me, and for the first time, I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t think I deserved it.”

Her voice softened. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” he said, glancing at her, “you’re… you. The Saint who keeps the world at arm’s length but still saves people who don’t deserve saving. And I’m just—some guy who makes beats to keep his head quiet.”

She stared at him, lips parting as if to speak—but the words didn’t come.

Marco reached for the speaker, as if turning it off might end the moment too. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just listen.”

But Ji-yoo stood up, closing the space between them.

“Stop doing that,” she said, voice trembling. “Stop deciding for me when I should speak.”

He froze, startled. “I just—”

“No,” she interrupted, stepping closer. “You keep shutting people out before they can hurt you. You write your feelings into songs and hide behind them, thinking that’ll make the pain poetic.”

Her words hit him harder than she intended. His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t look away.

“Ji…” he began quietly, but she wasn’t finished.

“You think I’m afraid of endings?” she asked, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “You think I’d say I love you if I didn’t already make peace with losing things?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she took another step forward, her voice breaking slightly.“I’m not afraid of time, Marco. I’m afraid of not using it. Of keeping quiet when I should speak. Of not saying what matters until it’s too late.”

And then—before he could stop her—she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t cinematic or perfectly timed. It was desperate, trembling, real. The kind of kiss born not from romance, but from the fear that silence might kill what words could save.

Marco froze at first, his mind blank. Then his hand found hers, fingers curling instinctively.He kissed her back—softly, carefully, as if afraid the rooftop might give way beneath them.

When they finally pulled apart, neither spoke for several seconds.

Ji-yoo’s breath was shaky. “There. That’s what honesty sounds like.”

Marco laughed under his breath, still dazed. “I wasn’t ready for that.”

“Good,” she said, half-smiling. “Neither was I.”

They stood like that, framed by the last sliver of sunlight, the city below humming like an old record spinning on repeat.

The sky had shifted entirely now.What had once been orange and red had melted into deep violet, streaked with the faint glow of the first stars. The city below pulsed with life—horns, chatter, and the flicker of fluorescent signs—but up here, the noise felt distant, almost unreal.

They stood quietly for a long time, their fingers still loosely intertwined, the weight of what just happened hanging between them like a fragile melody that neither dared to end.

Ji-yoo was the first to break the silence. “So,” she said softly, “was that in your five-year plan?”

Marco chuckled, a low, nervous sound. “Actually, yeah. Step three: kiss the girl who terrifies me.”

“Step one and two?”

“Step one: pretend to be chill. Step two: fail miserably.”

That made her laugh—genuine, unguarded. The kind that made her shoulders shake a little. “You really are an idiot.”

“I know,” he said with a small grin. “But at least I’m your idiot.”

She rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her. “Don’t push your luck.”

Marco looked at her for a moment, quiet now. The laughter faded, replaced by something softer, almost reverent. “You have this way of making everything else disappear,” he said. “Even when the world’s falling apart, you still make it feel like music.”

Ji-yoo looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what scares me.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because music ends. Every track fades out eventually.”

He took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair, eyes fixed on the stars. “Maybe. But there’s always the loop button.”

She smirked faintly. “That’s cheating.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But sometimes you need to cheat time a little.”

They sat back down, the chairs creaking as the night wind picked up. The empty soda bottle rolled across the rooftop, clinking against the concrete. Below them, life went on—unconcerned, unstoppable.

For a few minutes, they just listened to the sounds of the city. The distant bass of a passing jeepney. The occasional bark of a dog. Somewhere, someone was laughing too loudly. Somewhere else, a siren cut through the air.

Ji-yoo rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes half-closed. “I used to hate silence,” she murmured. “It reminded me of how alone I was.”

“And now?” Marco asked.

She smiled faintly. “Now it just sounds like… peace.”

Marco’s hand found hers again. His thumb brushed against her knuckles in slow circles. “You ever think about what comes next?” he asked.

She opened one eye, curious. “For us?”

“For everything. The band. The shop. The music. Us.”

Ji-yoo thought for a moment. “I used to. All the time. But lately…” She exhaled softly. “I think I’d rather just live the song while it’s playing.”

He smiled, eyes fixed on the horizon where the city lights met the dark sea of sky. “That’s a good answer.”

“You expected anything less?”

“Never.”

Another moment of quiet. Then she said, “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were just another burnout trying to play producer.”

Marco laughed. “Ouch.”

“It’s true. You looked like someone who’d given up on everything except the next track.”

“And now?”

“Now you look like someone who’s still trying, even when it hurts.”

He turned to her, meeting her gaze. “And you look like someone who finally stopped running.”

She smiled at that, soft and small, but it reached her eyes. “Maybe I just found something worth stopping for.”

The words hung in the air, delicate and real.

A soft breeze passed between them, tugging at Ji-yoo’s hair. She reached for the speaker and played the song again—the one Marco made. His voice, raw and uncertain, drifted into the night air once more:

“She didn’t know it, but her silence screamed—And I made a beat from the sound of her dream.”


Ji-yoo hummed along this time, low and quiet. Marco joined in, off-key but earnest. They laughed halfway through, and for once, it didn’t matter if the melody wasn’t perfect.

When the song ended, Ji-yoo turned to him. “You’re not allowed to vanish, you know.”

“I’ll try not to,” he said. “But if I do—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her tone half-warning, half-pleading. “Just… don’t.”

He nodded slowly, understanding more than she realized. “Okay.”

They sat there in silence again, watching as the last traces of sunlight disappeared completely. The stars above them multiplied, scattered like spilled salt across the velvet dark.

Marco exhaled softly. “You ever notice how the city sounds like it’s breathing?”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Like… every honk, every voice, every hum—it’s all part of the same rhythm. Like the city’s alive. Maybe that’s why I love it. It’s messy and loud, but it never stops.”

Ji-yoo followed his gaze, the corners of her lips lifting. “You sound like you’re in love.”

“Maybe I am.”

“With me or the city?”

He smirked. “Why not both?”

She shook her head, smiling. “You really know how to ruin a perfect line.”

“Hey,” he said, nudging her lightly. “It’s my specialty.”

And for a moment, everything felt timeless—the two of them, the rooftop, the hum of the city, the fading echoes of their song.They didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or how long this peace would last. But right here, right now, they didn’t need to.

They were just two people beneath a breathing sky, sharing one quiet, perfect secret before the world started moving again.

End of Episode 12—”Sunset Secrets”