I have yet to pick up smoking, but seeing Raizen's punchable face in person almost made me. Almost. The bloke had the nerve to saunter towards me while I gathered more leads from the officers about the bombing an hour ago.

The invaders had long since fucked off, tails between their legs, when the mothership called them back. According to one of the captains, the voice from the other side of the intercom could not have been more angry. "That's how you can tell they're really raging," the captain said with a wink during our conversation. "When you can understand what they're saying without knowing a single word, that is the sweet spot right there."

Now, after finishing the headlines and shooting them Ma'am Mich's way, I texted Raizen for our stalled meet-up. It was a poor excuse to see his idiotic face and maybe give it a piece or two of my mind. He replied not even a minute later, as if he hunkered over his phone for any word from me. I watched soldiers pile chunks of asphalt and concrete into rusty wheelbarrows borrowed from the nearby eco-farmlands, carting them away to an unknown place after being uprooted by temporary residents of the sky. Years in the making, funded by a politician who aimed to build a legacy of cementing roads—all of that effort and money only to be burned to ashes.

Raizen's frame bobbed past the horizon of crew cuts and rifle stocks, lips moving in muttered apology. His boots thumped on the ground with heavy thuds, telling me enough about how new they were. Where did he go to nab those? BGC? Alabang? It was not like I was curious nor would I ask. Once he got started on shoes, he would not stop. Raizen was particular about his shoes.

When he reached the shade the captains stuck me into after finishing our interview, he pushed his wild curls off his forehead. His hair had gotten longer since the last time we saw each other, and his facial hair entered a revolution. I did not know he had natural waves most women would die for.

"Did you wait long?" he asked, still a bit out of breath. I did not hold it against him. The heat was creeping to unbearable levels. Add the fires, the sonic barrages, and the tons of smoke curling to the sky every air raid, it was a miracle the invaders had not called their war off and hiked back to their winter wonderland. I never understood the logic of forcing their people to adjust to an entirely new climate just because of their bruised ego.

I handed him the two sheets I plucked from the stash and shoved into the bag. With all the chaos of the past week, I even forgot to take them out to at least give the creases time to breathe. Instead, a crumpled pile resembling discarded train tickets rested on Raizen's palm. He blinked at it as if I deposited chump change.

"That's it?" His eyes rose to meet mine in askance. "You...didn't even complete a manuscript?"

I looked around me, spreading my arms to illustrate my point. "Do you see a printer with me?" I asked. "Finding the time for laundry was hard enough. Do you expect me to type words on a computer and compile a manuscript?"

And did he not tell me to bring two? I brought two. What was he complaining about?

A sharp breath flew out of his lips. He closed his eyes in defeat, tucking my poems deep into the front pockets of his clumpy laptop bag. If I recall correctly, it was the same one he used from his college days. That brand could use some patronage. Someday, maybe. "Fine. Whatever. Those folks should make do with what they get, yeah?" Raizen said, scratching the back of his neck. "If they ask for more, can you send them a proper compilation? I can mail them the documents. You just write it for me."

I looked around us as if some of the invaders remained from this afternoon's prisoner exchange and eventual bombing. Could they tap into our phones, listen in on our conversation, and pinpoint our exact location? I have used a flip phone since the war started because of these fears. While everyone gallivanted around with their fancy screens and advanced technology, it also made them susceptible to spycrafts and hacking. With me in the media industry, I could not afford to step on the wrong toes.

"Kuya, tell me, is this safe?" I said, lowering my voice in case they listened in on Raizen's phone. "I know they don't like word of the war from reaching international ears. They wouldn't have spent billions on their anti-speech campaign last year if they wanted to let us speak about all of this to anyone who wasn't Filipino."

Raizen leaned away as if he found the entire conspiratorial stance ridiculous. "It's just a few poems. Maybe it's about love or some shit—they wouldn't know. Not when they couldn't read properly," he said. "But AI translators exist, so maybe they're using that. Hmm."

He tapped a finger against his chin, lost in thought. A second passed. Two. He snapped his fingers. "We have enough time for the publisher to review your poems and your eventual manuscript," he said. "This is potentially dangerous, but if we can get word out there, it will be worth it. The world isn't clueless about the war. They're clueless about who was experiencing it from the ground. Ordinary civilians, like us. If you can't speak at the UN Assembly, might as well scream here."

It did not sit well with me, but if it could stop the war, even as a fraction, I would give it a try. Surviving alone did not make my life worth living, and the same was true for other people. If this war continued, and if we stayed here longer, it would not matter. We would die, because this place was determined to swallow us and everything we held dear. It already took one from me, and it would continue taking one, if not all at once. But not when I could do something about it in the long stretch.

I could not save my father, but maybe I could save those who remained. To be saved and to save—it was as complicated as figuring out who was really winning in this war.

"You have to find a way outta here as soon as I send this," Raizen said, sensing the shift in my demeanor. In a snap, maybe he saw my resolve form out of the void of loss, guilt, and fear. "Good luck, Maian."

I nodded. "Take care of yourself too, Kuya," I said. "I didn't ask you to be my messenger. Don't blame me if they went after you too."

Raizen pressed two fingers at the base of his eyebrow before giving me a small, mocking salute. A smirk painted his features in pure, Raizen fashion. "Ah, you don't know me, Mai," he said. "I wouldn't be this lax at the job if I ain't good at sneaking past watchful eyes. Journ power, as we call it."

Ah, was that how he could get the juiciest gossip from thin air or how he always had the most recent leads despite the event happening not an hour ago. He was a darling at university, and now, his company must adore him to the bone too. The approval ratings between my parent company and his were staggeringly different. Ma'am Mich said those ratings did not matter as long as we were delivering news to our audience, but maybe she only ran out of people to blame and was only trying to make herself feel better.

"I'll be off, then." He tilted his head at me in a brief acknowledgment before blending with the stream of soldiers and civilians dispersing across the camp. Within seconds, it was as if he had not been here at all. He cleaned up his traces well. Really well.

I wished I could say the same thing to myself.

Part of those messes to clean was the dark cloud hanging over the house like a damp cloth in need of sunning. I kicked off my sneakers when I locked the door behind me, tramping across the ante and the creaky floorboards on my way to the kitchen. The clatter of cooking implements was loud, even louder than my mother's off-key singing. They said Filipinos slayed in karaoke, but they have not obviously met her.

"Hey, mom," I blurted when I passed the wooden calado framing the end of the living room and the beginning of the dining room. My hands crawled deep into the back pockets of my jeans. "Can I talk to you?"

She turned, her expression more on the mellow side than the sour. It had been with me for the past week since our altercation in the camp. Her words still rang at the back of my head and made surprise visits in my stress-induced sleep, but like her, I was good at pretending it was not the case. "Where's Lola?" she asked. "It's almost time for her treatment."

I clenched my jaw. "I'm sure she knows," I said. "But I really need to talk to you. There's this opportunity—"

"Ay! The menudo!" My mother screamed, rushing toward the steaming pot on our stove. Bubbly broth frothed from the mouth, spilling down the pot's walls. It would be hell scrubbing those spills later, and as usual, it would be left to me. Not when my mother could not be bothered to pick up after herself. If not for my Lola, she would not be here with her two hands holding a glass lid in one and a wooden ladle in the other. "Mayan, go and set up the table. We need to eat early if we are to make it to the last appointment hour. Call Lola. Come on."

My teeth ground against each other, but I stepped back when she trotted to the shaky dining table, bearing a pot holder against the pot's teflon handle. I flicked another on the usual spot of ulam on the table just as she set the smoking pot down. I marched to the cabinets and started pulling out the plates and spoons before trudging towards the basement door. My bare heel tamped against the entrance, jarring the hinges and the lock into clinking with every contact. "Lola, let's eat!" I called.

A muffled Sige, sige rang from the other side, and the familiar scuffle of feet up the rickety basement stairs told me she was on her way. I laid the plates on the table, the cutlery clinking against the melamine plates in dull rings. We sat down to eat, the sun setting down on us from beyond the small kitchen window. Lola arrived, flicking the switch beside the ill-placed fridge, almost by mere habit. A bright, incandescent light beat the creeping darkness from the outside world, poking me in the eyes. Her chair creaked when she sat down after my mother.

Without stopping to thank any unseen presence, we dug into our food. My fork pushed the clumps of fluffed white rice around my plate, my appetite staying at the back of my head. From across the table, my mother stared at me. Let her comment on them. At least, she would have said something longer than a sentence to me.

I took a bite. And another. It was bland. Not a shred of flavor remained in this watered-down version of my father's favorite dish. He always cooked it better. Lola sipped the fountain of orange sauce she scooped into her plate. Knowing my mother for as long as she did, perhaps she learned how her son's wife always cooked dishes with too much sauce. Still, I kept my head down. What right do I have to complain? I have not stepped foot in the house in almost two days, and I knew next to nothing about cooking.

Raizen's urgency nipped at the edges of my thoughts. I flicked my gaze towards what was left of my family. Lola, absorbed in her quest to slurp the orange soup, did not notice me, but my mother did. Instead, she chose to never utter a word about it.

I pushed thickening words further down my throat. It was too soon. For me to break the news of their possible need for relocation would send my mother's brain into overdrive. Lola needed access to her treatments, and part of the reason we settled in Longos was that it was a jeepney's ride away from Santo Domingo. We needed those lower rates compared to the hospitals in Mandaluyong, as hard life was for us.

If we moved overseas, would Lola get the same access? Would we get the similar treatment as if we were part of their country as well? Or would we be second-class citizens or refugees—not the priority in anything? A small laugh caught in my throat before it exploded into a full, sardonic chuckle. Then again, we were second-class citizens in our own country even before the war. What was the harm, right?

But the news could wait. My right to be happy, to push my needs so I could make their lives better, could sit on the burner for a while. Until certain aspects of my life line up into pretty, little queues, Maian Dizon should stay in the background and let others drive her life the way they wanted it to.

After all, I killed my father. Maybe this was the universe's way of making me pay for it.