Chapitre Deux

The soft yellow lights of the hotel restobar glowed against the polished wood flooring as I stepped onto the small backstage area. Guests were already settling into their seats—some sipping wine, some checking phones, others talking in low, polite conversations typical of high-end places.

I set my song folder on a stool and was adjusting the microphone height when a familiar voice spoke behind me.

“You look like you sprinted here from another universe.”

I turned.

Arzhel.

Tall, guitar strap slung over his shoulder, his hair tied back the way he always did when he performed. He raised an eyebrow at me, half teasing, half concerned.

“I came from the café,” I said, placing the mic down carefully. “Of course I’m tired.”

He clicked his tongue. “Long day?”

“Long week,” I corrected.

He didn’t push further—he never did—but his eyes softened in that quiet, understanding way he had even back in high school. He had been the first to teach me how to harmonize, the one who convinced me to try joining the choir, and later…the one who vouched for me when the restobar needed a new singer.

He plucked a few test notes on his guitar, the warm tone filling the small space. “We’re starting with the jazz set, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, flipping to the first page. “Slow tempo. Manager’s request.”

“Got it,” he replied, adjusting his tuner.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Did you… get the bills again?”

I froze for half a second.

Of course he knew.

He always knew.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “He’s on his fourth cycle. There’s another round of tests scheduled next week.”

Arzhel exhaled, not dramatically—just enough to show he was worried too.

“You’re doing everything you can, Auren. You know that, right?”

“**I have to,” I replied, my voice firmer than I felt. “It’s just the two of us.”**

He nodded once. “I know you’ll both find a way to get through it—together.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t pity.

Just pure encouragement.

Something steady to hold onto.

A staff member waved at us from the bar.

“Sound check done. You’re up.”

Arzhel gave me a small tap on the shoulder. “Let’s make this crowd feel something.”

We stepped onto the stage.

The soft hum of conversations faded as the lights dimmed over the audience. Arzhel played the opening chords—smooth, steady, the kind of sound that settled into your bones. I took a breath, letting the familiar comfort of music wash over the exhaustion still clinging to me.

I sang.

The first song flowed easily, then the second. Leandro followed every shift in my voice, every subtle change in rhythm, like he always had. Years of singing together had built an unspoken understanding between us—he adjusted when I needed more support, lightened when I needed space.

During the short break between sets, we stepped behind the curtain again.

Arzhel handed me a bottle of water. “Your high notes sound stronger tonight.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning his guitar against a chair. “Which is impressive considering you came from a double shift and probably haven’t eaten anything but reheated fried rice.”

I sighed. “You’re not wrong.”

“Then after the third set, I’m buying you dinner,” he said simply.

I shook my head. “Arz—”

“It’s food, Auren. Not charity.”

He said it in a flat tone, leaving no room for argument.

Typical.

Stubborn.

But dependable.

We went back for the second set—acoustic versions of popular songs. The atmosphere grew livelier as guests finished their meals, some clapping along softly.

Halfway through the third song, I saw Arzhel glance at me—just a split second, making sure I was still okay.

I was tired.

But singing with him made the exhaustion easier.

When the final set ended close to midnight, the applause was warm but polite—hotel applause, appreciative but refined. We bowed, stepped offstage, and finally headed to the employee lounge.

Arzhel stretched his arms above his head. “Another night survived.”

“Barely,” I joked, though my voice cracked with fatigue.

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. “Come on. There’s a 24-hour diner two blocks away. You need a meal before you pass out on the sidewalk.”

I gathered my things—song lists, mic cover, ID—and sighed. “Fine. But only if we split the bill.”

“Sure,” he said, but his grin told me he had zero plans of letting me pay.

We walked out of the hotel past midnight, the city quiet, streetlights glowing gently against the pavement. My legs ached. My voice felt raw. My mind buzzed with worry about tomorrow, about Aisen, about the bills stacked on my table.

But beside me, Arzhel strummed lightly on the neck of his guitar as he walked, creating a soft rhythm only we could hear.

The streets were quieter than usual as we walked toward the diner. The neon sign buzzed faintly above the entrance—“Daisy’s 24/7”—its red letters flickering like they were barely holding on, much like me.

Inside, the air smelled of butter, coffee, and something fried. A middle aged waitress glanced up from wiping the counter and nodded, recognizing Arzhel  immediately she gave us a tired smile the kind you only learn after years of night shifts.

“You again,” she said, placing menus on a booth. “Long night?”

“Always,” Arzhel replied.

We slid into the farthest corner booth, the cracked red leather seats squeaking under our weight. I rubbed my hands together to shake off the cold, while Arzhel placed his guitar beside him like it was part of his body.

He picked up the laminated menu and pushed one toward me. “Order something real. Not sandwich and coffee. Not another fried rice and eggs. Real food.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You talk like you’re my father.”

“Someone has to.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue. I scanned the menu—mostly breakfast food, sandwiches, and rice meals. My stomach clenched when I saw the prices. Even here, the numbers looked heavy.

Arzhel must’ve noticed my hesitation because he leaned forward, voice low and firm.

“Auren. Order what you want.”

My jaw tightened. “I don’t want you—”

“I said order,” he cut in gently. “Let me do this.”

Eventually, I nodded. “Fine.”

A waitress came over, pen ready.

“I’ll have the chicken broth rice meal,” I said quietly.

“And I’ll get the same,” Arzhel added. “Plus two iced teas.”

When she walked away, I finally relaxed into the booth.

“You don’t have to keep looking out for me,” I said, staring at the table. “I don’t want to depend on anyone.”

“You’re not depending on me,” he replied. “You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

I didn’t argue—mostly because he was right. Instead, I rested my arms on the table. “How much is your part-time pay again?”

His eyes flicked to mine. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worrying,” I said. “I just don’t want you using your salary to feed me.”

“I’m feeding you because you need it, not because I’m rich. beside I'm also hungry.”

I let out a quiet breath. Sometimes talking to him felt like talking to a wall—solid, immovable, and annoyingly supportive.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The diner was quiet except for the clatter of dishes and the low hum of the old refrigerator behind the counter.

When our food arrived, we ate in comfortable silence. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the first bite. The warm broth and rice, the soft chicken—the simplicity of it made my chest tighten unexpectedly.

“This is good,” I admitted.

“Told you,” he said, sipping his iced tea. “And next time, pick something with more protein. You’re burning yourself out.”

I almost laughed. “Next time? Planning a weekly dinner intervention?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

I shook my head, but a small smile escaped me. Just for a second.

After we finished eating, Arzhel stood up and stretched.

“I’ll take you home.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Don’t argue. It’s late.”

We left the diner and walked side by side through the empty street until we reached the jeepney stop. The streetlights cast a soft glow on the pavement, stretching our shadows far behind us.

When we reached the jeepney stop, he suddenly spoke.

“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?” he asked, adjusting the strap of his guitar case like he needed something to do with his hands.

“Huh?” I blinked at him, confused, and he turned fully toward me.

“Tomorrow—when you visit Aisen. You’re going, right?” he said gently.

I nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary, eyes tracing my face like he was searching for cracks I was hiding. There it was again—the small crease between his brows. His tell. The one that always showed up when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t worried.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Just… message me when you get there.”

“I will.”

The jeepney pulled up, brakes hissing. We climbed in and sat across from each other, our knees almost touching. We didn’t talk, didn’t need to. The silence between us was familiar, comfortable. After fifteen minutes, we got off at the next stop and walked together toward my apartment.

Side by side. No words. Just the soft rhythm of our steps echoing down the empty street. He made sure I got home safe—just like he always had since high school.

At my door, I turned to him. “Thank you. For dinner. For tonight. For… everything.”

He shrugged like it meant nothing, when I knew it meant everything. “Text me when you wake up. And if you need anything, just—”

“I know.” I gave him a small smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the restobar.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t trust himself to say more, then turned away. His guitar case swayed lightly with each step as he walked down the hallway.

I slipped inside, locked the door, and let the exhaustion—everything I’d been holding in—finally pull me down.

To Be Continue...

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