Hello, Neighbor

The fireworks still echoed behind my ribs.

They'd gone off just beyond the chapel, above the basketball court—filling the plaza with smoke and shattered light. Now the sky had gone dark again, but the sound of them—those bright, shattering bursts—stayed inside me. Like I'd swallowed the noise.

Redmond didn't speak again.

He just held out a hand.

I took it without thinking. Without blinking. Just... followed.

We slipped through the edge of the fiesta like smoke, unnoticed. Past the chapel, down a gravel path behind the basketball court, until the lights faded and the air quieted. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you're standing on the edge of something ancient and unfinished.

He stopped beside the old balete tree near the creek. Its roots looked like they were holding something in—or trying to keep something from getting out.

He didn't let go of my hand.

"I don't know how long I have," he said finally, voice like signal through static. "It's getting harder. To stay. To hold shape."

I wanted to ask what he meant, but the way he said it made me afraid that saying anything out loud would undo him.

His form flickered, like a signal struggling to lock into frequency—shifting, stretching, uncertain where to land.

And then it stopped.

Silence stretched between the two of us.

The leaves rustled in beats matching my unnerving pulse.

When I looked up, he was already watching me—like he was trying to memorize something that might vanish again. I realized I hadn't let go of his hand. I pulled away on instinct. The cold hit fast, and I missed the heat of him before it even left my skin.

"I feel... fine," he said, like someone testing a new language. Then again, firmer: "I feel fine, Arin."

I blinked.

The glitching was gone—for now.

I studied him. No more flickering. No stuttering outlines or fractal blur. As if his body had finally decoded the static—stopped unraveling just long enough to be real again. But something in me knew it wouldn't last.

"What will we do now?" he asked.

"Blend in," I said, assuring.

From beyond the trees, I could already hear the murmur of the crowd again—cutlery clinking, kids yelling, the distant screech of a microphone too close to someone's mouth.

The chapel lights glittered ahead. Somewhere near the basketball court, another round of karaoke warbled through the air. We stepped back into it slowly, like returning from somewhere we weren't supposed to be.

Redmond walked slightly behind me—too tall, too poised. His damp curls caught the overhead lights like polished obsidian. Every step he took bent attention toward him: curious glances, double takes, even whispers.

People noticed. Of course they did.

A group of teens beside the sold out halo-halo stand paused mid-giggle. One of them elbowed the other and nodded toward him. A woman fanning herself stopped altogether, mouth slightly open. Even children stilled as if responding to a frequency adults couldn't hear.

His body no longer glitched—but something about him still didn't sit right in this world. Too sharp, too symmetrical, too still in all the movement.

I kept walking, hoping no one would—