Chapter 12: Jepoy’s Flashback
Three years ago — Quezon City, Philippines
The rain sounded different on a tin roof.
There was something about it—messy and honest—that reminded Jepoy of everything he hated about silence. Silence could be comforting, sure. But on nights like this, when the rainstorm was cruel and his stepfather’s shouts were louder than thunder, silence became a curse. A space where pain echoed louder than it should.
He was twenty-one then. Still skinny. Still clumsy. Still unsure why he was so drawn to drums when he could barely afford a proper set. He used to play on upside-down pails and plastic basins in their cramped backyard, next to the laundry line. His mother said he looked like he was drumming away all the anger he couldn’t say out loud.
Maybe she was right.
That night, after his stepfather smashed a plate during dinner and stormed out drunk, Jepoy quietly picked up the pieces. His mother was in the corner, eyes glazed, too tired to cry. Jepoy didn’t say anything. Just cleaned the mess, like he always did.
Later, when the house had gone still, he slipped out the back door with his secondhand sticks and went to the neighbor’s garage where his friend Miggy kept an old drum set.
They jammed in the dark.
It wasn’t even real music—just noise, clatter, rhythms that made sense only to their rage-filled hearts.
“I’m leaving, tol,” Miggy had said suddenly, between beats.
Jepoy looked up. “Where to?”
“Korea. My cousin works at a bar in Incheon. Sabi niya may opening daw for kitchen staff. Baka makaswerte.”
That was the first time Jepoy ever considered leaving.
Two months later, Jepoy was at the airport with a borrowed suitcase and barely enough cash to last a week. He got accepted at the same bar Miggy worked in—starting out as a dishwasher, then as a server, and eventually, he began playing during open mic nights when the drummer of their in-house band flaked.
South Korea was colder than he expected—both in weather and in human warmth.
He didn't know the language, didn’t have the looks or charm, and certainly didn’t have the confidence. He was just a wiry guy from Quezon Avenue with calloused fingers and a deep longing to matter somewhere.
But over time, he found his rhythm.
The drumsticks felt like home. Behind the set, he wasn’t the quiet boy with scars and cheap shoes. He was energy. Pulse. Movement. Even if the crowd didn’t notice him, he noticed them—especially the ones who looked like they were breaking but still showed up.
And that’s why he noticed Erica.
The first time he saw her sitting quietly at the back of the bar, her posture stiff, her eyes unfocused, Jepoy felt a tug in his chest he couldn’t explain. He didn’t know she was blind—not right away—but something in her face looked familiar.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Like silence had wrapped her up too.
She didn’t speak to anyone. She just listened.
And somehow, that made him want to play better.
Present day
Jepoy sat on the rooftop of his tiny apartment building, knees pulled to his chest, a hoodie covering most of his face.
The city lights stretched like constellations beneath him, the Han River glimmering in the distance.
He was holding his sticks again.
Not to practice. Just to remember.
He tapped them against the steel railing softly, the rhythm syncing with the memory of Erica’s voice:
“Don’t fall in love with the girl who’s healing.”
He smiled bitterly.
Too late.
Jepoy thought about his mother, about the years he spent blaming himself for not being enough—for not protecting her, for not being brave sooner. Maybe that’s why he wanted to protect Erica now.
She reminded him of someone who tried to stay strong too long.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cool cement wall.
Minji’s words came back again, too:
Be there. Even when she pushes you away.
He sighed.
“I will,” he whispered to the night. “Even if I don’t know how.”
He pulled out his phone and opened the draft messages again. Still unsent. Still raw.
Erica,18Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5cFtIHneo4
Sometimes I still dream in drums. But lately, when I play, I imagine you listening. I wonder if you can hear my heart in the rhythm.
I think I’m healing too. Just not from blindness. From being invisible.
He saved it again.
He wasn’t ready to send it. But maybe soon.
And maybe when she was ready to see—not with her eyes, but with something deeper—he’d finally let her read the words he couldn’t say out loud.
For now, he’d stay.
For now, he’d be the rhythm in the background.
Waiting.
ns216.73.216.213da2
