Kinabukasan, hindi ako ginising ng alarm.Ginising ako ng tanong ni Marcelo.Is there something between you and my son that I should know?Paulit-ulit iyong bumalik sa utak ko habang nakaupo ako sa harap ng vanity mirror, surrounded by strangers touching my hair, my face, my skin.Last night, I said no.Hindi ko alam kung paano lumabas sa bibig ko ang sagot. Hindi ko rin alam kung naniwala ba si Marcelo.“Ma’am, chin up po.”Napakurap ako nang itaas ng makeup artist ang baba ko.“Sorry,” I whispered.Sa likod ko, may dalawang stylist na abala sa rack ng gowns. May garment bags, boxes of jewelry, perfume bottles, and people moving around me like my body was no longer mine.Today, I was the girl who had to stand beside Atlas De Silva and pretend she wasn’t thinking about Enzo Montemayor’s mouth on her skin.“Ang ganda ng skin mo, ma’am,” sambit ng makeup artist. “Almost no need to cover anything.”Bumaba ang brush niya papunta sa may collarbone ko, then stopped.Humigpit ang kapit ko sa
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