She had already dressed up, in denim shorts and black tank-top, her hair neatly tied behind her head, when she came tip-toeing down on bare feet from our little hut.

We had called it our 'first house', but it was but a little hut with fresh nipa roof, a single window, bamboo flooring, elevated foundations rising six feet (for some reason) from the sandy ground, and it had the smell of being new. We had rented it, for the duration of the entire afternoon, on the account of it being under the shade of palm trees, a woven hammock suspended between them, and having a little terrace facing the murky beaches of Buenavista. It was not Boracay, of course, far from it; its beaches are of dark sand and its waters stained with a greenish tinge.

I was sitting on a coconut log, smoking a cigarette, and was sullenly watching the lazy waves lapping the shores. Presently, she sat beside me, put her arm around my waist, caressed my wind-tossled hair, and took a drag at my cigarette. We sat silently, for a moment, like two meek crabs, and watched the calm ocean, some small fishing boats skimming the surface, clouds sluggishly drifting above, a family building a castle on the sand not far away. It was hypnotically peaceful.

"I wish it could always be like this", she whispered suddenly.

I turned to face her, intent on saying something funny, but was surprised to see that she had been crying. Perhaps embarrassed by her show of emotion, she buried her face into my neck, tore at my shirt, and suppressed her sobs. I sat there motionless, at first, unable to decide what to do. I embraced her, hesitantly, feeling that burning sensation rising in my chest. She began to mutter something through her whimpering, but was drowned by the incessant waves, the rustling of coconut leaves above, the eerie songs of the window chimes.

She needed not explain herself though. Apparent to me were the reasons for her tears, then beginning to soak through my crumpled shirt, her hot breath searing my neck. Our love, though undeclared, was... forbidden, a secret we have to keep, for though she wants to be with me—she could never leave her rich boyfriend. Love alone could not finance a college degree and a future. All the countless reasons, vague and clear, that has made it impossible for us to be together. Perhaps she indeed felt something for me—but it does not matter. I know, quite sadly, despite what she felt, we were not going to last. I sighed.

"We'll live just one day at a time", was all I could say, weakly, whatever it meant. She looked up at me, slowly, shyly, and smiled bitterly. She repeated what I said, more to herself than to me, and threw her glance far towards the ocean, her swelling eyes squinting at the blinding glare of the summer skies. I finished my cigarette and flicked it away. She stood up, laughed embarrassingly,  wiped her tears away with her shaking palms, and fixed her hair. She lit up a cigarette and tried being cheerful by childishly playing with her silvery lighter.

I fished up the bottles of beer we had buried in the beach, to keep them cool, and opened each one by one. I cannot remember how many they were but we drank them all, and it was not long until we were laughing once more; half-drunk and being preposterously loud, savoring our little moment of unhindered freedom. We ran into the beach and, pretending we were in a movie, chased each other, played silly games, kissed underwater. We soon got weary and idly stood in chest-deep water, holding each other, giggled at our jokes, watched the sun descend low on the horizon.

I cleared the beer bottles afterwards, which were scattered beneath the hammock, while she casually toweled herself. She was talking about something while I, having completed the task, searched my pants for cigarettes. She had stopped abruptly without my noticing, I was not really listening. I was lighting a stick when I noticed she was staring at me, searchingly, still toweling her hair. I blew her a kiss, along with a bluish wreath of smoke, and smiled. She whispered the three words—words that were until then still left unspoken. I contrived a smile. She went up the flimsy stairs, glancing back at me, and disappeared through the door.

I threw away my unfinished cigarette and, after a moment, followed her into our little house.