Somewhere In The Twenties

Migs

The bass reverberated through the soles of my shoes, each thump like a pulse that matched the dull ache in my head. The club was suffocating, but I didn't care. I was used to this—used to the flashing lights and the sound that never quite left you, even when you were home alone. It was the only thing that drowned out the silence, and for me, silence always felt too loud.

"Yo, Migs! Drink, pare!" Gio handed me a glass, his grin wide, a little too wide, like he hadn't had enough yet.

I nodded, taking the drink from him, the liquid burning as it slid down my throat. But the burn wasn't enough to stop the nagging feeling that had been eating at me for weeks, maybe months. No matter how much I drank, it never went away. The same restless energy, the same emptiness that I couldn't fill.

"Lasing na 'ko!" Gio shouted over the music, and I just laughed. He was always the loud one, the one who got too drunk too fast.

I wasn't like him. I could drink for hours and still keep a steady grip on the night. But I wasn't here to stay steady. I was here to escape. From what? I didn't even know anymore. Maybe from the weight of being me.

The club was full of strangers, all wearing the same look—like they were running from something, just like me. A girl caught my eye. She was pretty, the kind of girl that didn't need to try. Her laugh cut through the music, her body pressed against mine in a slow, deliberate way, as if she could feel the distance I was trying to keep from everyone, from myself.

I didn't care. I kissed her.

Because it was easy. It was simple. She wasn't asking for anything more than I was willing to give. Nothing deep, nothing that mattered.

But as our lips parted, I felt that familiar itch in my chest. The kind of itch that couldn't be scratched by a pretty face or a quick kiss. The kind of itch that no amount of alcohol or distractions could make go away.

Another vibration in my pocket.

Mom.

I checked my phone, fingers trembling just enough to catch my attention. "Migs, ilang beses ko na bang tinawagan? Uuwi ka ba?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to hold back the words that wanted to spill out. "Yes, Ma. I'm on my way. Soon." But my voice sounded hollow, like I didn't even believe myself.

The same conversation, over and over again. The same disappointment. The same worry. Her voice was so full of hope, like maybe—just maybe—I'd be different tonight. Like maybe this time, I wouldn't be the son who couldn't do anything right, the son who couldn't pull himself together.

I stood there, the lights blurring around me, a strange sense of detachment settling in. I wasn't really here. I wasn't really anywhere. I was just drifting through the motions, waiting for the next call, the next disappointment. The weight of her words felt heavier than the loud music.

"Putangina." I muttered to myself, tapping the cigarette against the side of the ashtray. I wanted to crush it, but it wouldn't matter. Nothing ever did.

I took a long drag, the smoke curling in the air like the mess I had become. My phone buzzed again. It was her, again. I didn't answer.

I wasn't good at this. At being her son. At being someone who actually mattered. I wasn't good at anything, really. That was the problem, wasn't it? I wasn't good at being a good son, or a good friend, or even a good person.

And yet, I kept playing the part. Kept pretending that all of this—this reckless life, these nights spent with people who wouldn't even remember my name in a week—was enough.

It wasn't. I knew that. I just didn't know how to stop.

I needed to leave. I needed to get out of here, get away from all of this. The noise. The faces. The empty, meaningless interactions that never filled me up.

But as I walked toward the exit, I paused. Another call from my mom. The sound of her voice was almost a weight, a chain that kept pulling me back into the life I hated.

I didn't answer. Not yet. I needed a moment. Just a moment. To breathe. To be somewhere else. To not be the son she always wanted me to be.

And maybe that's when I knew—I wasn't running away from her. I was running away from myself.