Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
RENE
Rene chose to major in Economics, with a minor in Political Science, because of his hunger for power, politics, and money. Who in Maliwalu didn’t dream of those things? The best way to learn the tricks of the trade, he believed, was through higher education—specifically at Maliwalu State University, the country’s most prestigious institution.
State U didn’t just teach theory. It embodied the reality of social stratification. Maliwalu itself was a perfect example of what people often described in discussions about developing nations: a rigid divide between the poor, the middle class, and the elite. There were the educated and the illiterate, the proletariat and the bourgeoisie—each group existing in its own world, yet constantly aware of the others.
To borrow a line from Dickens, it was the best of times and the worst of times. Maliwalu was both Paris and London—alive with all kinds of people and social classes. But unlike those cities, it lacked a culture of independent thinking. Instead, its citizens prided themselves on imitation. They tried hard—sometimes too hard—to look, speak, and behave like New Yorkers, Londoners, or Parisians.
For Maliwalans, visiting the Eiffel Tower or London Bridge was a badge of status. Meanwhile, foreigners who came to Maliwalu were often seen as either criminals escaping justice, missionaries tending to the poor—or worse. Still, many locals didn’t mind. As one student casually put it, “Let them take care of our poor. I’m leaving for New York after graduation anyway. Better to be a New Yorker than a Maliwalan.”
This was the essence of class in Maliwalu. While the urban poor rallied for better housing in Tokando, the wealthy expanded their mansions in Follows Park. The middle class lived paycheck to paycheck, stuck in place. The poor got poorer, the rich got richer, and the middle class remained trapped in between.
“We’re living in a capitalist society,” professors would remind their sociology students. “Inequality is expected. What matters is economic growth.”
But the benefits of that growth never reached the poor. International observers pointed this out—London magazines wrote about it, Paris analysts criticized it. Human rights violations, they said, were part of the system.
At State U, social class wasn’t just tolerated—it was reinforced. Even the campus building reflected it. Each floor carried its own social meaning.
The first floor belonged to the upper class. It was the perfect stage for showcasing the latest fashion, flaunting wealth, and speaking in a hybrid language—a mix of English and Tagalog, twisted into something unrecognizable. From there, students could watch everyone entering the university and judge them instantly—based on clothes, looks, and mannerisms.
The criteria were shallow, but absolute. Anything Western was considered stylish; anything local was dismissed as cheap. These students—small, brown-skinned, yet dressed in punk-inspired outfits—desperately tried to resemble Western celebrities. They wanted to look like movie stars, like Tom Cruise or Madonna.
“Come on, man, you’ve got to be in style,” one of them once told Sonny. “Those bell-bottoms? That’s so outdated.”
Hollywood was their standard of perfection. They dreamed of becoming supermodels, beauty queens, or rock stars—anything that could catapult them onto the global stage. They followed celebrity culture obsessively, even admiring the extravagance and corruption of political elites.
They were modern versions of Doña Victorina—imitators who masked their identity in hopes of being mistaken for something else. They wore heavy makeup, experimented with flashy hairstyles, and covered their natural features with colored contact lenses. They spoke in borrowed slang—“damn it,” “oh shit,” “son of a—”—as if language alone could transform them.
They were the children of politicians, businessmen, doctors, and lawyers. With their wealth and appearance, they felt superior. Anyone who didn’t fit their mold became a target of ridicule.
Rene belonged to this group—but for very different reasons.
He carried a deep resentment toward his father, Germiliano Santos—known simply as “Germs” to his American employer, Robert Clarke.
After World War II, Clarke had acquired vast lands in Maliwalu through favorable agreements. Germs worked as his caretaker, managing the land and sharing in its profits. Over time, Germs became wealthy himself, acquiring trucks and businesses. By all standards, he had succeeded.
Yet to Rene, his father remained a slave.
Despite his wealth, Germs never shed his subservient behavior. Even when Clarke began treating him as an equal, calling him “Mr. Santos,” Germs continued to bow, laugh, and act like a man desperate to please.
As a teenager, Rene couldn’t understand it. Why couldn’t his father step out of the American’s shadow? Why cling to a mindset of submission?
Everything changed one day when Clarke visited and Germs proudly declared that Rene would someday take his place in their partnership. To Rene, it wasn’t praise—it was humiliation. A future as his father’s replacement felt like a sentence.
From that moment on, he rebelled. He abandoned his studies and threw himself into drinking, drugs, and reckless living. Eventually, he was expelled from school.
His final year of high school was spent at an obscure institution, much to his father’s embarrassment. His allowance was cut off. Their relationship deteriorated completely.
Not long after, Germs died of a heart attack. He left nothing to Rene. Everything went to his younger son, Ramon—the obedient one. Rene’s mother remained indifferent, more concerned with maintaining her social image than her family.
Rene grew up determined to become the opposite of his father. He wanted to be like Robert Clarke—the powerful, the dominant, the one in control. He vowed never to be a servant.
For six years, he worked relentlessly. Construction jobs, hauling lumber through mountain roads, selling anything he could—he did it all. His goal was simple: earn enough money to buy his way into education, influence, and ultimately, the upper class.
He believed that adopting Clarke’s mindset—aggressive, assertive, even ruthless—was the key. In a country built on imitation, it wouldn’t be difficult.
That was how Sonny first noticed him—standing among the upper-class group on the first floor.
Rene smoked a Marlboro cigarette, looking like a caricature of the Marlboro Man—an “Oriental” version of a Western icon. At twenty-six, he stood out awkwardly among the younger students, yet tried hard to blend in.
When Sonny walked past, dressed in simple clothes from a flea market, the group stared. Their laughter echoed long after he had climbed to the third floor.
Sonny paused, wondering who looked more ridiculous—himself, or Rene trying to belong where he didn’t quite fit.
Sonny belonged to no class. He moved through campus indifferent to judgment.
Back on the first floor, the group mocked him openly.
“How would you rate that guy?” one asked.
“Negative ten,” another replied.
When someone pointed out that Sonny was Rene’s roommate, the ridicule intensified.
“Don’t worry,” Rene said casually. “I’ll get rid of him. He’s got money—but no class.”
Laughter erupted—until it was interrupted by the arrival of Minnie.
She was stunning—tall, elegant, with the body of a model and the face of an angel. The pride of State U, she had just won Maliwalu Supermodel and was preparing to compete in the United States.
The boys immediately shifted their attention.
“Minnie, you’re a perfect ten. Sit with us.”
She smiled, fully aware of every eye on her.
Their admiration, however, quickly shifted again when Rose arrived—a recent beauty queen. The two women exchanged polite but insincere greetings, masking their rivalry.
Rose bragged openly about a date with a wealthy man from one of Maliwalu’s elite families. She spoke dramatically, romanticizing the encounter, dismissing studies as trivial.
Minnie listened, forcing a smile, but inside she felt something else—disgust.
Not just for Rose.
But for herself as well.
2026-07-07 00:06:06
4students
I am bewildered by his aura. In the dark, he seems wrapped in a faint glow—like a halo you’d see in paintings of saints. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked when I finally have the money. But with clients like this, I’ll probably go blind before that ever happens.
He stared out toward the far edge of the bay as we stood side by side in silence. The scattered lights from boats and ships shimmered across the water. One vessel passed by like a moving diamond, its glow drifting across the surface. We followed it with our eyes until it vanished into the distance.
The night carried its own quiet music—the rustling of palm leaves, the soft hush of waves folding into shore, the steady chirp of crickets. Familiar sounds. Almost comforting. Dark silhouettes slipped in and out of the shadows beneath the trees. Figures moved forward, reaching, brushing shoulders, touching, passing. A quiet choreography.
Normally, I’d leave by now. This kind of scene isn’t for me. My hustle is legit. I don’t work parks like this. I still have some self-respect left.
But I couldn’t leave Roberto. Not tonight. He looked like someone who needed a friend—badly. And for some reason, I felt responsible for him.
A cruiser walked past us, flashing a knowing smile. A few steps later, he stopped, glanced back, as if expecting we’d follow—drawn in by his walk, his wink, his invitation into the dark.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “Not my type.”
Roberto let out a soft laugh.
“Do you feel it?” someone nearby asked.
A voice answered—loud, theatrical. I glanced over. A drag queen stood there in a loose blouse, sky-high heels, oversized earrings, and wild, multicolored hair straight out of a Cyndi Lauper video.
“Of course, darling,” the drag queen said, letting out a sharp, playful laugh. “They’re not lost. They’re just like the rest of us—looking for action.”
He gave his companion’s backside a quick pinch.
“Hey!” the other snapped.
“Quiet, witch,” the drag queen shot back. “You’re disturbing the angels. Angels with dirty minds.”
Someone from the darkness shouted, “Careful—you might choke, girl!”
Laughter burst out, then faded just as quickly. The figures melted back into the shadows. Even the wind seemed to pause. The insects went quiet.
And then it began.
The night came alive. More men appeared along the worn, unpaved edges of Lawton. They moved like ants—appearing, disappearing, circling back. They paused, studied each other, measured, sniffed out intent. When two found a match, they vanished together into the dark.
Everyone except me and Roberto.
We stayed where we were, watching this strange parade of men—different faces, different bodies, different styles—coming and going like waves.
Roberto broke the silence first.
“You go to college, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a student.” My eyes drifted again, catching a guy in tight shorts. Something about him felt familiar.
I looked back at Roberto. “What about you?”
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“A what?”
He glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “A doctor.”
“Really?”
That caught my attention. Not every night Manila Bay hosts someone from med school. Where I come from, medicine means status—money, respect, a whole different world.
“So what brings a future doctor out here?” I teased. “Looking for… organ donors?”
“I’m looking for someone to talk to,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Although… now that you mention it… interested in a transplant?”
I gave him a look. “That was terrible. Seriously—what do you want to talk about?”
Now I was curious. And hopeful. Guys like him usually had money.
He hesitated, then said, “Jeff… I want to talk about myself. My world. The things I’ve been pretending are real. I think… I think everything’s starting to fall apart. I need to face it. I need to take off the mask—before anyone else does.”
Except me, I thought.
We moved and sat on the grass behind the Film Center. During the day, it looked bright and soft. At night, it felt cold, damp against my skin.
I was still hoping—at least five hundred pesos. Something.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Cold? I hadn’t made a single cent all night. That’s what I was.
I decided to be blunt.
“Look,” I said, “you’re good-looking, and I know you can pay. So before anything happens, let’s be clear—I don’t take less than five hundred.”
I’d never seen someone get offended that fast.
“You son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you—”
“I know, I know,” I cut in. “Just doing my job.”
He stood up. I grabbed his arm.
“I’m sorry. Sit. If you want to talk, then talk.”
The image of my landlady flashed in my head—my stuff dumped out on the street if I came home empty-handed.
He slowly calmed down. Tilted his head back, staring at the sky. God, he looked exhausted. Just like me.
“Lie down,” I told him. “Don’t worry about your shirt. The grass gets cut every day.”
He did, stretching out, eyes fixed on the stars.
Great, I thought. A love story. Fine. One night. I can handle that. Who knows—maybe someday I’ll even write it down.
I lay back beside him.
“I’m still trying to figure out that glow around you,” I muttered. “Seriously, I need my eyes checked.”
He didn’t react.
“Imagine this,” he said after a moment. “You’re me. Roberto Policarpio.”
I closed my eyes. Sure. Why not.
Then he shifted—rolling over onto his stomach, hovering slightly over me. The angle, the closeness—it triggered something.
A memory.
When I was fourteen, locked up in juvie. Daily sessions with some old, bearded shrink. “Behavioral modification,” they called it. He’d lean over me just like this, writing down everything I said like it was gospel. Always half-aroused, the sick bastard.
I played along. Did what I had to do.
That’s how I got out.
“What are you smiling about?” Roberto asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
I turned away, propping myself up on my elbows. I couldn’t look him in the eye—not if this was going to get serious.
He went on.
“I wish I could escape everything,” he said quietly. “My past… my present… even the future. The past is full of regret. The present hurts. And the future…” He paused. “There’s nothing there.”
I felt it hit me, even though I didn’t want it to.
I tried to shake it off. “Nice line,” I said. “Who wrote that?”
He ignored me. Sat cross-legged like some kind of monk.
“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking up. “The stars… I keep thinking—what if one of them is another world? Another Earth. Somewhere I could go… and just be accepted. For who I am.”
2026-05-25 23:57:15
masquerade
Four Students 8
RENE
Rene chose to major in Economics, with a minor in Political Science, because of his hunger for power, politics, and money. Who in Maliwalu didn’t dream of those things? The best way to learn the tricks of the trade, he believed, was through higher education—specifically at Maliwalu State University, the country’s most prestigious institution.
State U didn’t just teach theory. It embodied the reality of social stratification. Maliwalu itself was a perfect example of what people often described in discussions about developing nations: a rigid divide between the poor, the middle class, and the elite. There were the educated and the illiterate, the proletariat and the bourgeoisie—each group existing in its own world, yet constantly aware of the others.
To borrow a line from Dickens, it was the best of times and the worst of times. Maliwalu was both Paris and London—alive with all kinds of people and social classes. But unlike those cities, it lacked a culture of independent thinking. Instead, its citizens prided themselves on imitation. They tried hard—sometimes too hard—to look, speak, and behave like New Yorkers, Londoners, or Parisians.
For Maliwalans, visiting the Eiffel Tower or London Bridge was a badge of status. Meanwhile, foreigners who came to Maliwalu were often seen as either criminals escaping justice, missionaries tending to the poor—or worse. Still, many locals didn’t mind. As one student casually put it, “Let them take care of our poor. I’m leaving for New York after graduation anyway. Better to be a New Yorker than a Maliwalan.”
This was the essence of class in Maliwalu. While the urban poor rallied for better housing in Tokando, the wealthy expanded their mansions in Follows Park. The middle class lived paycheck to paycheck, stuck in place. The poor got poorer, the rich got richer, and the middle class remained trapped in between.
“We’re living in a capitalist society,” professors would remind their sociology students. “Inequality is expected. What matters is economic growth.”
But the benefits of that growth never reached the poor. International observers pointed this out—London magazines wrote about it, Paris analysts criticized it. Human rights violations, they said, were part of the system.
At State U, social class wasn’t just tolerated—it was reinforced. Even the campus building reflected it. Each floor carried its own social meaning.
The first floor belonged to the upper class. It was the perfect stage for showcasing the latest fashion, flaunting wealth, and speaking in a hybrid language—a mix of English and Tagalog, twisted into something unrecognizable. From there, students could watch everyone entering the university and judge them instantly—based on clothes, looks, and mannerisms.
The criteria were shallow, but absolute. Anything Western was considered stylish; anything local was dismissed as cheap. These students—small, brown-skinned, yet dressed in punk-inspired outfits—desperately tried to resemble Western celebrities. They wanted to look like movie stars, like Tom Cruise or Madonna.
“Come on, man, you’ve got to be in style,” one of them once told Sonny. “Those bell-bottoms? That’s so outdated.”
Hollywood was their standard of perfection. They dreamed of becoming supermodels, beauty queens, or rock stars—anything that could catapult them onto the global stage. They followed celebrity culture obsessively, even admiring the extravagance and corruption of political elites.
They were modern versions of Doña Victorina—imitators who masked their identity in hopes of being mistaken for something else. They wore heavy makeup, experimented with flashy hairstyles, and covered their natural features with colored contact lenses. They spoke in borrowed slang—“damn it,” “oh shit,” “son of a—”—as if language alone could transform them.
They were the children of politicians, businessmen, doctors, and lawyers. With their wealth and appearance, they felt superior. Anyone who didn’t fit their mold became a target of ridicule.
Rene belonged to this group—but for very different reasons.
He carried a deep resentment toward his father, Germiliano Santos—known simply as “Germs” to his American employer, Robert Clarke.
After World War II, Clarke had acquired vast lands in Maliwalu through favorable agreements. Germs worked as his caretaker, managing the land and sharing in its profits. Over time, Germs became wealthy himself, acquiring trucks and businesses. By all standards, he had succeeded.
Yet to Rene, his father remained a slave.
Despite his wealth, Germs never shed his subservient behavior. Even when Clarke began treating him as an equal, calling him “Mr. Santos,” Germs continued to bow, laugh, and act like a man desperate to please.
As a teenager, Rene couldn’t understand it. Why couldn’t his father step out of the American’s shadow? Why cling to a mindset of submission?
Everything changed one day when Clarke visited and Germs proudly declared that Rene would someday take his place in their partnership. To Rene, it wasn’t praise—it was humiliation. A future as his father’s replacement felt like a sentence.
From that moment on, he rebelled. He abandoned his studies and threw himself into drinking, drugs, and reckless living. Eventually, he was expelled from school.
His final year of high school was spent at an obscure institution, much to his father’s embarrassment. His allowance was cut off. Their relationship deteriorated completely.
Not long after, Germs died of a heart attack. He left nothing to Rene. Everything went to his younger son, Ramon—the obedient one. Rene’s mother remained indifferent, more concerned with maintaining her social image than her family.
Rene grew up determined to become the opposite of his father. He wanted to be like Robert Clarke—the powerful, the dominant, the one in control. He vowed never to be a servant.
For six years, he worked relentlessly. Construction jobs, hauling lumber through mountain roads, selling anything he could—he did it all. His goal was simple: earn enough money to buy his way into education, influence, and ultimately, the upper class.
He believed that adopting Clarke’s mindset—aggressive, assertive, even ruthless—was the key. In a country built on imitation, it wouldn’t be difficult.
That was how Sonny first noticed him—standing among the upper-class group on the first floor.
Rene smoked a Marlboro cigarette, looking like a caricature of the Marlboro Man—an “Oriental” version of a Western icon. At twenty-six, he stood out awkwardly among the younger students, yet tried hard to blend in.
When Sonny walked past, dressed in simple clothes from a flea market, the group stared. Their laughter echoed long after he had climbed to the third floor.
Sonny paused, wondering who looked more ridiculous—himself, or Rene trying to belong where he didn’t quite fit.
Sonny belonged to no class. He moved through campus indifferent to judgment.
Back on the first floor, the group mocked him openly.
“How would you rate that guy?” one asked.
“Negative ten,” another replied.
When someone pointed out that Sonny was Rene’s roommate, the ridicule intensified.
“Don’t worry,” Rene said casually. “I’ll get rid of him. He’s got money—but no class.”
Laughter erupted—until it was interrupted by the arrival of Minnie.
She was stunning—tall, elegant, with the body of a model and the face of an angel. The pride of State U, she had just won Maliwalu Supermodel and was preparing to compete in the United States.
The boys immediately shifted their attention.
“Minnie, you’re a perfect ten. Sit with us.”
She smiled, fully aware of every eye on her.
Their admiration, however, quickly shifted again when Rose arrived—a recent beauty queen. The two women exchanged polite but insincere greetings, masking their rivalry.
Rose bragged openly about a date with a wealthy man from one of Maliwalu’s elite families. She spoke dramatically, romanticizing the encounter, dismissing studies as trivial.
Minnie listened, forcing a smile, but inside she felt something else—disgust.
Not just for Rose.
But for herself as well.
2026-07-07 00:06:06
4students
Diary of Masquerade 8
I am bewildered by his aura. In the dark, he seems wrapped in a faint glow—like a halo you’d see in paintings of saints. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked when I finally have the money. But with clients like this, I’ll probably go blind before that ever happens.
He stared out toward the far edge of the bay as we stood side by side in silence. The scattered lights from boats and ships shimmered across the water. One vessel passed by like a moving diamond, its glow drifting across the surface. We followed it with our eyes until it vanished into the distance.
The night carried its own quiet music—the rustling of palm leaves, the soft hush of waves folding into shore, the steady chirp of crickets. Familiar sounds. Almost comforting. Dark silhouettes slipped in and out of the shadows beneath the trees. Figures moved forward, reaching, brushing shoulders, touching, passing. A quiet choreography.
Normally, I’d leave by now. This kind of scene isn’t for me. My hustle is legit. I don’t work parks like this. I still have some self-respect left.
But I couldn’t leave Roberto. Not tonight. He looked like someone who needed a friend—badly. And for some reason, I felt responsible for him.
A cruiser walked past us, flashing a knowing smile. A few steps later, he stopped, glanced back, as if expecting we’d follow—drawn in by his walk, his wink, his invitation into the dark.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath. “Not my type.”
Roberto let out a soft laugh.
“Do you feel it?” someone nearby asked.
A voice answered—loud, theatrical. I glanced over. A drag queen stood there in a loose blouse, sky-high heels, oversized earrings, and wild, multicolored hair straight out of a Cyndi Lauper video.
“Of course, darling,” the drag queen said, letting out a sharp, playful laugh. “They’re not lost. They’re just like the rest of us—looking for action.”
He gave his companion’s backside a quick pinch.
“Hey!” the other snapped.
“Quiet, witch,” the drag queen shot back. “You’re disturbing the angels. Angels with dirty minds.”
Someone from the darkness shouted, “Careful—you might choke, girl!”
Laughter burst out, then faded just as quickly. The figures melted back into the shadows. Even the wind seemed to pause. The insects went quiet.
And then it began.
The night came alive. More men appeared along the worn, unpaved edges of Lawton. They moved like ants—appearing, disappearing, circling back. They paused, studied each other, measured, sniffed out intent. When two found a match, they vanished together into the dark.
Everyone except me and Roberto.
We stayed where we were, watching this strange parade of men—different faces, different bodies, different styles—coming and going like waves.
Roberto broke the silence first.
“You go to college, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a student.” My eyes drifted again, catching a guy in tight shorts. Something about him felt familiar.
I looked back at Roberto. “What about you?”
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“A what?”
He glanced around, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “A doctor.”
“Really?”
That caught my attention. Not every night Manila Bay hosts someone from med school. Where I come from, medicine means status—money, respect, a whole different world.
“So what brings a future doctor out here?” I teased. “Looking for… organ donors?”
“I’m looking for someone to talk to,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Although… now that you mention it… interested in a transplant?”
I gave him a look. “That was terrible. Seriously—what do you want to talk about?”
Now I was curious. And hopeful. Guys like him usually had money.
He hesitated, then said, “Jeff… I want to talk about myself. My world. The things I’ve been pretending are real. I think… I think everything’s starting to fall apart. I need to face it. I need to take off the mask—before anyone else does.”
Except me, I thought.
We moved and sat on the grass behind the Film Center. During the day, it looked bright and soft. At night, it felt cold, damp against my skin.
I was still hoping—at least five hundred pesos. Something.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Cold? I hadn’t made a single cent all night. That’s what I was.
I decided to be blunt.
“Look,” I said, “you’re good-looking, and I know you can pay. So before anything happens, let’s be clear—I don’t take less than five hundred.”
I’d never seen someone get offended that fast.
“You son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Didn’t I tell you—”
“I know, I know,” I cut in. “Just doing my job.”
He stood up. I grabbed his arm.
“I’m sorry. Sit. If you want to talk, then talk.”
The image of my landlady flashed in my head—my stuff dumped out on the street if I came home empty-handed.
He slowly calmed down. Tilted his head back, staring at the sky. God, he looked exhausted. Just like me.
“Lie down,” I told him. “Don’t worry about your shirt. The grass gets cut every day.”
He did, stretching out, eyes fixed on the stars.
Great, I thought. A love story. Fine. One night. I can handle that. Who knows—maybe someday I’ll even write it down.
I lay back beside him.
“I’m still trying to figure out that glow around you,” I muttered. “Seriously, I need my eyes checked.”
He didn’t react.
“Imagine this,” he said after a moment. “You’re me. Roberto Policarpio.”
I closed my eyes. Sure. Why not.
Then he shifted—rolling over onto his stomach, hovering slightly over me. The angle, the closeness—it triggered something.
A memory.
When I was fourteen, locked up in juvie. Daily sessions with some old, bearded shrink. “Behavioral modification,” they called it. He’d lean over me just like this, writing down everything I said like it was gospel. Always half-aroused, the sick bastard.
I played along. Did what I had to do.
That’s how I got out.
“What are you smiling about?” Roberto asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
I turned away, propping myself up on my elbows. I couldn’t look him in the eye—not if this was going to get serious.
He went on.
“I wish I could escape everything,” he said quietly. “My past… my present… even the future. The past is full of regret. The present hurts. And the future…” He paused. “There’s nothing there.”
I felt it hit me, even though I didn’t want it to.
I tried to shake it off. “Nice line,” I said. “Who wrote that?”
He ignored me. Sat cross-legged like some kind of monk.
“It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking up. “The stars… I keep thinking—what if one of them is another world? Another Earth. Somewhere I could go… and just be accepted. For who I am.”
2026-05-25 23:57:15
masquerade