THE DAY MY BEST FRIEND DIED

(HUMANS ARE RELATIONAL BEINGS)

by: GROUP 2B – Hildegard

The day my best friend died, it was nighttime, and I was having dinner at a small local karinderya.
It was an extremely busy night for the people behind the counter, likely because it was the 15th
of the month. Salary season had arrived, and everyone was craving for the food they weren’t
able to have during the petsa de peligro days. Everyone inside had their own tables and their
own things to do. Some were busy celebrating with their co-workers and their bosses; others
were having a drink to accompany their meals; and there were also some others, like me, who
was eating alone. If I were being honest, I was planning to finish the adobo I had ordered as
soon as I could just so I could head back home and continue studying. Studying architecture is
no easy feat, and with the decisions I’ve been making and the requirements I’ve been barely
surviving, I’ve pretty much disavowed any hint of a social life that I possibly could have once had.
I caught a few whiffs and was able to sniff out what was being cooked on the grill; the char of
the tilapia and the milkfish, the smokiness of the barbecued meats, and the like, and was
immediately hit by reality when I realized it'd be a long time before I could ever imagine eating
anything inherently similar.

It seemed that I was extremely busy with my own thoughts at the time, since I was barely aware
of anything that was happening in my surroundings. Sure, it was loud, but in the sense that I
could simply just tone everything out. I was used to this.

What I wasn’t used to, however, was when the entire place went from the usual noise to a
deafening silence in an instant. Spoon still in hand, I looked to my right, and everyone around
me had their eyes fixed on the dusty television set on the wall. News had broken about a young
girl in her early 20’s who was found dead at a local convenience store, not too far from where I
was. I was also able to catch what some of the people inside were whispering to themselves.
“Poor girl, she was so young.” I overheard an old woman sigh. After a brief pause, the reporter
resumed speaking. “The girl in question has now been identified by local authorities as one Camille
Flores.”

It took me a while to process what I had just heard. I had already put anything I had in my hands
down at this point, and for a while, I just stared at the TV silently, even when the program had
already finished minutes ago. My mind gradually grew hazier for every minute that passed by,
seeming like forever, and my food, still unfinished, had already gone cold in the process. It was
only when I received a text from my mother, asking if I was doing alright with the "news," that
it really hit me.

Camille, my one and only friend since diapers, had really been the girl on the news.

Without thinking too much about it, I got up from where I was seated and started walking, deep
into the night. I wasn’t quite sure where I was going myself, and it felt like I had lost control over
my own body. As I wandered, my vision blurred, and I started thinking back to the last time I
saw her, around three days ago. She seemed alright and well; nothing seemed to be out of the
ordinary for her and her health. She was smiling rather widely while we caught up with one
another, even if it was only for around half an hour since I had class that morning. I didn’t really
think too much of it since she was always the bubbly type, even going as far back as high school.
She was well known and loved by our peers for her friendly demeanor and for being the type to
excel in school without ever really trying. Meanwhile, I was the type of girl who considered myself
an introvert; no one ever really bothered paying too much attention to who I was or what I was
up to, and I didn’t mind that one bit. Looking back, that’s precisely why everyone was so curious
about our bond. I vaguely remember someone asking Camille why she was friends with me while
I was visibly in their midst. "Why not?" she replied. "I don’t get it. Do you owe her anything? I
don’t think you two would be talking otherwise." Having heard enough, I was ready to walk away
from the conversation when she randomly grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me back in their
direction and telling them: "Well in that case, maybe it’s because I look up to her, no?"

Each step I took grew heavier and heavier, as if there were shackles strapped onto my ankles. I
started worrying about getting a migraine from all the stress I was experiencing from today while
still worrying about the amount of work I had to finish soon when I stumbled across another
familiar place. It was where we had our first drink together when we both turned 18. Judging by
the peeling wall, the muddy grey staircase, and the vandalized shutter, the place had clearly been
abandoned for months. I had an assortment of memories with her here, but what particularly
strikes me as different is that night she took me here to cheer me up when I got rejected from
my dream college. While struggling not to puke and laughing like a lunatic in the process, she
told me something that would stick with me forever. “You know, Ligaya, from our experiences
with one another, it’s really true that the most ruined people have the prettiest smiles.” She was
probably directing this observation of hers to be about me, but I knew better.

Sure, I was certainly the type of student to be reckless at times. I was never very close with my
parents since they were both overseas workers, and it was indeed through her influence that I
began to love learning and to take myself more seriously.

Between the both of us, though? She was the greater victim.

Camille came from an extremely patriarchal household. Everyone in her family, including her
mother, was terrified of her father. They'd never hear the end of it if they made even the simplest
of mistakes. The Flores patriarch would do anything to command the total loyalty of his wife and
daughter, even if it meant hitting them or depriving them of what they held dear. I could barely
hold back my tears as I paused my walk near the old bar to let out a short cry. Her eyes, full of
desperation as she ran to my doorstep before school and borrowed my make-up to conceal her
bruises and scars still fresh from the night before, would come back to haunt me, and the sound
of my own tears would come to remind me of the ones she cried during our phone calls. I went
on to recall instances when, whenever I mentioned running into him, her first reaction would be
to apologize.

At the same time, she wasn’t exactly the healthiest girl alive. She was very much underweight
and prone to being sick, and I often had to remind her to eat at times lest she’d forget or do it
on purpose to harm herself.

These past few months, I genuinely thought she was getting better. She started smiling more
often, had no visible injuries, seemed livelier and happier, and was even gaining some weight. I
genuinely thought she really was back on track and that she’d finally make it through, but I’m
afraid I was a fool. At the end of the day, she was right. They do have the prettiest of smiles.

That night, I was an incoherent, unpredictable mess. My heart felt more like a box from which I
pick what emotion to feel. On one hand, I felt useless. I’ve always felt useless to her, since I
could never really help her solve her problems. All I could really do was be the shoulder she could
cry on, and yet during her last moments, I failed to do just that, and I can never make up for it
ever again. On the other hand, I felt betrayed and wanted to scream and cry in public, despite
the fact that it was already eight o'clock in the evening. I felt duped, if not outraged, that she
would do such a thing without telling me. Knowing that I could've done more to help her but
wasn't given the chance to hurt.

Dealing with my emotions was like walking down a dark alley with no clue where you were going.
They may appear incoherent now, but they felt genuine, even when they weren't. All I know for
sure is that I would do anything I can to see her truly alive and well, since the world didn’t let
her.

It was around this time that, out of some random notion, I finally got an idea of where to go to.
For the first time since the beginning of my walk, a sense of calm filled my being, and I finally
felt everything falling into perspective. I looked around for a second and there weren’t too many
cars as usual. The street lights served as my guide, and each step felt lighter than before. It
didn’t take too long for me to arrive at my destination, the school where we both grew up. Luckily,
the gates were still open at this time of night, and a rather tall, elderly guard was standing near
them, keeping watch. Still dressed in my university’s uniform, he pointed towards the gate, as if
to ask me if I was going inside, and I nodded. He nodded back and gave me a signal to go in.
"Thank you po kuya, I won’t take too long." I told him, with a faint smile on my face, although
somewhat surprised that he never questioned what I was planning to do. There were lights inside
still on, but they gave off a rather faint light, with one of them even blinking and malfunctioning,
and so, equipped with my phone’s flashlight, I looked around for a minute or two and found a
familiar sight: near the fountain, there was this small, plain bench that we’d always hang out on.
I took a seat and had a sip of water from my tumbler, silently pondering.

Sitting here was a unique staple of ours from the very beginning of our childhood, especially for
watching the sky and admiring the colors it would change to for each time of the day. The gloomy
scenery got me to recall a time when we were in elementary school and the sunset was coming
to a close for the day. She told me, on this very spot, her plans to take over the world, and like
the child I was, I believed everything she told me. She was way smarter than me, so she probably
knew that what she was saying made zero sense. I find it remarkable now how she told me that
on the same day that I was really upset since I stained my new uniform.

I took a glance at my phone again, which had been on airplane mode since I heard of the news,
and looked at my messages with her. “Thanks, Ligaya” was the last text she ever sent me, and
it was sent around seven days ago. I put it down, gently placing it on the bench’s surface, and
took another look at my surroundings, with that one blinking lamp post catching my attention the
most. A singular tear rolled down on my cheek as I took a deep breath.

On the day my best friend died, a little part of me died with her.
But I won’t let her memory die too.