August 10, 2010 – Gilmore IT Center, Quezon City
If there was a sacred ground for hardware nerds and bargain-hunters in Manila, it was Gilmore. Lining the block were shops stacked with laptops, parts, accessories, and second-hand tech just waiting to be reborn.
James, dressed in his new hoodie and sneakers, looked like a completely different man from the one who almost jumped off a bridge just two months ago. He knew exactly what he wanted. No upsells, no fluff.
Inside PC Depot, he zeroed in on a mid-range ASUS ROG laptop. 8GB RAM, Intel i7, NVIDIA GTX card—more than enough for Unity and FL Studio. He haggled a little and got it down to ₱72,000.
Next stop: graphics tools.
He bought a Huion H640P drawing tablet—compact, reliable. Then an external 1TB HDD, a decent UPS, and all the accessories he needed. On the way out, he stopped by a small café and ordered coffee while reviewing his bag of new tech.
James was on his way out of the last shop when he heard a familiar laugh.
He stopped mid-step.
It was subtle, just another sound blending into the noise of Gilmore's busy afternoon crowd. But the moment it reached his ears, a memory stirred. It wasn't Thomas that reacted—it was James. His chest tightened before he even turned his head.
And then he saw her.
Camille.
James's ex-girlfriend.
She was walking toward the same store he had just exited—holding hands with someone new.
A tall guy. Fair skin, thick glasses, hair that screamed salon care. He wore a Lacoste polo, designer jeans, and had a Rolex peeking from under his sleeve. The two laughed as they strolled, looking like a couple straight from a magazine. In his other hand, the man carried a shopping bag from Octagon—clearly having just bought a rig of his own.
Camille's eyes wandered ahead, and she froze.
Their gazes met.
Time didn't slow. There were no dramatic zooms, no inner monologues, no cinematic music.
Just a split-second lock—hers wide with surprise, his calm, distant.
Then came the boyfriend.
He smirked the moment he saw James. As if recognizing him, he snaked an arm around Camille's shoulder and leaned close, planting a deliberately slow kiss on her cheek.
"Babe," the guy murmured loudly, glancing at James, "this shop better have that Core i7 bundle. My editor needs faster rendering. You know how it is."
Camille winced slightly.
Thomas stared. Not at her. Not at him.
Just past them. As if they were clutter in his peripheral.
He nodded faintly, almost like a polite bow. Then he turned.
"Wait," Camille said, taking a half-step forward.
Thomas paused, his hand tightening slightly on his paper bag.
"You... look different," she said, softer this time. Her boyfriend frowned but stayed quiet, watching.
Thomas gave her a small smile. Not cruel. Not fake.
Just distant.
"Yeah. I guess I am," he said. Then he turned again.
And walked away.
But as he left, James stirred beneath the surface. Just for a moment.
A sting.
A weight.
The echo of a life that wasn't his, but that he now carried.
It hurt.
Not because of her. Not even because of him.
But because James Pascual had loved her. Deeply. Madly. Foolishly.
And though Thomas felt nothing for Camille now, he couldn't deny the ache inside his chest.
"You poor bastard," Thomas murmured under his breath as he stepped onto the sidewalk. "But we're done grieving. You hear me?"
A part of him wished James could answer.
But another part knew he already had.
Because James didn't turn back either.
They kept walking. Because if James could see Thomas's memories, he'll know that his ex-girlfriend Camille, is for the streets.
***
James returned to his apartment carrying two bags filled with equipment. He took the stairs two steps at a time, heart pounding—not from exhaustion, but from the anticipation of upgrading his entire workflow.
He shut the door behind him, tossed his backpack on the mattress, and carefully unpacked his new gear like sacred artifacts. First came the ASUS ROG laptop. Sleek, sharp-edged, and solidly built. He booted it up and was greeted by the crisp, high-resolution screen and a smooth Windows 7 welcome screen.
It felt like stepping out of a cave and into the sun.
Then came the Huion tablet. The stylus glided smoothly across the surface as he calibrated it. He unboxed the UPS and hooked it into the socket, then added the HDD, the extra phone for testing, and the new mouse and keyboard.
Within an hour, his desk had transformed. Gone was the dusty tower PC with a CRT monitor. In its place was a clean, organized workspace. Unity ran smoothly. FL Studio loaded in seconds. GIMP didn't crash once.
James sat back in his new ergonomic chair and just took it all in. A tech sanctuary, forged from months of grinding and the memories of two lifetimes.
Then—
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
The sudden sound made him flinch.
He glanced at the time. 8:03 PM.
Who the hell would be knocking at this hour?
He stood and approached the door cautiously.
"Who is it?"
There was a pause. Then a voice he hadn't heard in a while.
"James… it's me. Camille."
James didn't move at first. Just stared at the door, one hand resting on the knob.
He slowly opened it.
There she stood.
Camille.
The woman James Pascual once adored to the point of self-destruction.
She hadn't changed much—if anything, she looked even more beautiful than James remembered. Early twenties, about the same age as him, with soft brown hair cascading past her shoulders in natural waves. Her almond eyes, framed by long lashes, still held that same intensity. Her lips were full, lightly glossed. She wore a casual but elegant blouse that hugged her curves, paired with high-waist jeans that showed off her hourglass figure.
She was… well-endowed, to put it mildly. The kind of beauty that turned heads even when she wasn't trying. And right now, standing in the dim hallway outside his apartment, she looked uncertain. Vulnerable. Like she didn't expect him to actually answer.
James's face was unreadable.
"What do you want?"
Camille swallowed. "Can I come in?"
James didn't say anything at first. He simply stepped aside.
She walked in slowly, eyes scanning the room. She noticed the new setup immediately—the laptop, the drawing tablet, the reorganized desk. It was a far cry from what she remembered.
"This place looks… different," she said.
"It is."
She turned back to face him. "You look different too."
James said nothing. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Camille hesitated. "I… I saw you earlier. At Gilmore. With your bags. And I just… I don't know. I felt like I had to talk to you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Talk? Or gloat?"
She flinched. "That's not fair."
"No," James said calmly. "But it's accurate."
Silence settled between them.
"I didn't know what to say earlier," she whispered. "You looked so... fine. Like you didn't even recognize me."
"I did."
Camille looked up at him, eyes searching. "You didn't even react."
James's tone was cold. "Because I didn't need to."
That stung. He saw it in her face.
"I just wanted to see if… I don't know. If you're okay," she said.
"I am."
Camille's fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag. "You really changed."
James's lips curled into a faint smile. "Yeah. I did."
And then he said the words that sealed it.
"You should go."
Camille blinked. "What?"
"I appreciate you checking in. But I'm not the guy you left behind anymore."
She looked down, silent.
"But I don't want to go yet, I want to stay here for a moment."
"You have a boyfriend Camille, I don't think it's really appropriate for you to stay in another man's house, especially your ex. Well—I think you have been doing this to me while we were together. You know visiting another man's house."
Camille flinched, as if James had slapped her with the truth. Her eyes widened, then narrowed slightly, lips parting in a weak defense.
"That's not fair, James."
"No," James replied, tone flat, arms still crossed, "it's just honest."
Camille took a step forward, but James didn't move. His eyes were cold now—not filled with hatred, not even anger. Just indifference.
The kind of indifference that said: You no longer matter.
Camille stopped herself from speaking, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She looked down, her voice softer now.
"I messed up."
James let out a short breath. "That might be the first real thing you've said tonight."
She swallowed hard. "I didn't come here to pick a fight. I… just wanted to see you. Really."
"Why now?" he asked. "Because I look successful? Because I didn't look like a loser anymore?"
Her silence was answer enough.
James gave a humorless laugh. "Right."
Camille stepped closer again, slower this time. "I remember the old setup. That broken chair, the loud fan, your half-dead computer... but this," she gestured to the sleek setup, the clean room, the smell of fresh coffee and faint lemon cleanser in the air. "This isn't the James I left."
"Exactly," he said. "So why are you here talking to him like you know him?"
Camille bit her lip. There was a tremble in her voice now. "I made a mistake, James. I chose stability. I thought he could give me a better life. But he's not who I thought he was."
James tilted his head slightly. "So you downgraded?"
She didn't answer. Tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back.
"You don't understand."
"No, Camille. You don't. I understand better than you think. You wanted comfort. A shortcut. You thought I'd always be at the bottom—so you climbed out before the lift came."
Camille took a deep breath. "Maybe I did. But I never stopped caring."
James stepped forward now, just once, enough to close the distance between them. His voice was calm, level.
"You didn't love me, Camille. You loved what I might become. But you didn't want to wait. That's not love. That's a bet. And you bet against me."
That broke her.
Camille looked away, wiping her eyes quickly. "I just thought maybe... maybe we could talk again. Start over."
James shook his head slowly. "I'm not the one you need closure from. That version of me is gone."
Silence.
"Go home, Camille."
She stared at him for a moment longer, her expression caught between regret and disbelief. But then she nodded.
"Goodbye, James."
She turned and walked out the door.
He closed it behind her. Locked it. Then exhaled.
He stood there for a full minute, just breathing. Then he walked back to his desk, sat down in front of his rig, and stared at the screen.
No distractions.