Chapter 10: The Confession
My face was buried deep in a sequined pillow that smelled faintly of hairspray and my own shame. The neon glow of the laptop screen felt like an interrogation lamp.
“Tangina,” I groaned, the word muffled by crushed velvet and iridescent plastic discs. I could hear Mateo’s low whistle, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the chaos of the living room.
“I think,” Chloe’s voice was doing that thing, that careful, slow reading-aloud thing that made every syllable sound a million times heavier, “I might love this weird goofball.”
Silence. Then a snort from Mateo. “That’s… heartfelt. Also gross.”
“It’s a private document!” I finally yanked my face from the pillow, my cheeks hot. “For me! You weren’t supposed to psychoanalyze it!”
Chloe ignored me, scrolling. “He uses the word ‘substrate’? In a love letter? Or, whatever this is.”
“It’s not a fucking love letter!” I sat up, snatching the laptop back and slamming it shut. The sharp click was final. But it was too late. The seal was broken. The David they knew—the one who shrugged off everything with a joke or a leer—had just vomited a vulnerable, tender confession all over the coffee table, right between a half-empty bottle of tuba and a crusty plate of chicharon.
“He’s an engineer,” I muttered, a weak defense.
“And you love him,” Mateo stated, leaning back on the frayed emerald couch, his arms spread across the back like a king holding court. “Your weird, glossary-having engineer. So, are we gonna know anything about him besides his preferred insertion terminology?”
Chloe nodded, tucking her pink-streaked hair behind her ear. “Yeah, David. You drop this bomb and then hide behind sequins.No. Come on. You have forty-six hours or whatever before he gets here. You’ve got time to spill.”
I sighed, a long, theatrical release. The confession was out. The scaffolding of my aloofness had collapsed. I hugged the laptop to my chest like a shield.“Fine. Fine, sinungaling. What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” they said in unison.
I told them.
I started with the bookstore. Not a meet-cute, but a ambush. I was looking for a specific book on the history of Queer Manila. He was in the Engineering aisle, looking profoundly lost. Not lost in the section—lost in general. He had this heavy backpack pulling at his shoulders, and he was just… standing there, staring at a wall of differential equations textbooks like they were written in hieroglyphics.
“So I walked over,” I said, a smirk finding its way back to my face at the memory. “And I said, ‘You look like you need a drink, not a textbook.’ He just blinked at me. His eyes are like this stupid, liquid dark brown.Gago. He said, ‘I don’t drink alcohol. The metabolic pathway interferes with my circadian rhythm.’ I almost kissed him right there, just for that.”
“Nerd,” Mateo chuckled.
“Shut up. He’s fascinating. So I said, ‘Okay, no booze. How about weed?’ He perked up immediately. ‘Cannabis is a cannabinoid receptor agonist. The effects are… varied.’ He had this little smile. So I said, ‘My place. Five minutes away. Let’s test your hypothesis.’ And he just… came.”
“David Omar, predator of lost engineers,” Chloe laughed.
“I’m a public service. Anyway, we came here.” I gestured around the cluttered room. “I rolled a joint. He got stupid high. Like, giggling-at-the-texture-of-my-velvet-couch high. He started talking about fractals and structural integrity and the tensile strength of spider silk. And then he just… stopped. Looked at me, all serious. And said, ‘I hypothesize your cock would feel superior to any of those things in my mouth. May I test that?’”
Mateo choked on his beer. “He asked for permission? Like, in a sentence with ‘hypothesize’ in it?”
“Yes! And I said, ‘Your experimental protocol is approved.’ And he did.” I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the memory burned brightly. “It was very… methodical. And surprisingly not terrible.”
Chloe’s eyebrows were practically in her hairline. “So that was it? You became his personal science project?”
“No. That was just the first session. A week later, I had a gig at The Bunker as Daphne.” I felt my posture change, a different kind of pride settling in. “He showed up. I didn’t know he was coming. He was in the back, just leaning against the wall, wearing the same boring hoodie. He watched the whole set. Afterwards, he found me backstage, still in full face, sweat dripping down my chest. And he said,” I cleared my throat, trying to mimic his flat, serious tone. “‘The kinetic application of sequins as a deflection mechanism for societal projection was… optimal.’ Then he grinned, this huge, goofy grin, and said, ‘Also, you lip-synced the shit out of that Celine Dion song, ate.’ He used ‘ate.’ Perfectly. I almost died.”
“I love him,” Chloe declared.
“We took him to the after-party at Harmony’s loft. All drag queens, glitter, cheap vodka.He just observed. Took mental notes, I swear. He tried to explain the acoustics of the room to Mx. Luster while she was hot-gluing rhinestones to her tits. They became best friends. He fit. Not like he was trying to, but like he was a weird piece that just… clicked into our weird puzzle.”
I paused, taking a swig from a forgotten warm beer on the table. The story was pulling me along, revealing more than I’d planned.
“Then there was the Santa Monica Pier. Our first actual, like, outside-during-the-daytime date. We were eating shitty cotton candy, and these two bros walked by and called us a… well, you know. The f-slur. I was getting ready to turn around and eviscerate them in Tagalog and English, a whole production. But Omar… he just stepped forward. Didn’t raise his voice. He looked at the bigger one and said, ‘Your comment indicates a low social-inclusivity quotient, likely stemming from an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex and latent homosexual neurosis. I’d recommend a cognitive behavioral therapist, but your cranial density suggests it’s a permanent condition.’ He delivered it like he was reading a lab report. The guys just stared, mouths open. One of them actually stuttered ‘What?’ Omar just shrugged. ‘The translation is: you’re stupid and gay. Good luck with that.’ Then he took my hand and walked away. Left them standing there like idiots.”
Mateo was howling. “That’s… that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard!”
“It was,” I said, the warmth of the memory filling my chest. “He’s an orphan, you know. Parents died in a car crash when he was twelve. Has uncles back in Riyadh who just manage his money. He calls his trust fund a ‘numeric ghost.’ He used it to get the hell out after high school. UCLA, engineering. He doesn’t ever want to go back. Says Saudi Arabia for him is just… a suite of rooms and a bank statement.”
The mood in the room sobered. The neon lights from my barong wallpaper seemed to hum a little softer.
“And he really, really loves weed,” I added, lightening the tone. “Like, it’s his primary recreational activity. He says it ‘optimizes his sensory input processing’ and ‘enhances pattern recognition.’ Which, for him, means he gets high and draws schematics of my dick.”
Chloe smiled. “He sounds… real. Like, you’re not just performing for each other.”
That was the thing. He’d seen Daphne, the full, shimmering, intimidating spectacle, and hadn’t been scared off. He’d seen David, the demanding, crude, possessive top, and hadn’t run. He’d seen the pieces, analyzed them, and decided he wanted the whole, fractured, complicated system.
“He is,” I said quietly, my earlier defensiveness gone. “He’s the realest thing that’s happened to me. And it’s terrifying.”
“Because he’s gonna leave,” Mateo said, not a question.
“Yeah. The trust fund isn’t infinite. The student visa expires. He’s got a brain that’s gonna take him to… Boston, or Singapore, or Dubai. Somewhere that isn’t this shitty apartment.” I looked around at the peeling wallpaper, the crushed velvet throne, the glorious, beautiful mess of my life. “This is a layover for him. A really fun, really complicated layover.”
The silence that followed was comfortable, shared. They’d met Omar now, through my words. He was in the room with us.
My phone, still on the coffee table, lit up.A text.
It was a photo of an airport terminal gate. Flight information on a screen: LAX, ON TIME.
Underneath, a message: NUMERIC GHOST SUCCESSFULLY BOARDED AIRCRAFT. COMPONENT O INBOUND. ETA: 21:30. INITIALIZATION SEQUENCE READY.
I showed them the screen. Mateo nodded. Chloe gave me a soft, knowing look.
“So,” Mateo said, standing up and stretching. “Your weird goofball is on his way. And you’re in love with him. What’s the plan, boss?”
The plan. The anxiety and the anticipation churned together, forming a new, solid resolution in my gut. The vulnerability of the confession had burned away, leaving something harder and clearer in its place.
I looked at the countdown on my phone. The numbers were no longer a passive wait. They were a clock on a mission.
I stood up, the laptop falling to the couch beside me.
“The plan,” I said, my voice dropping back into its familiar, dominant register, but layered now with something deeper, “is that when he walks through that door, he’s not just coming over for a recalibration.”
I walked to the center of the room, the neon patterns casting long, dramatic shadows across my face.
“He’s entering my territory. And I’m not letting him forget it. Or forget where he belongs.” I looked at them, my roommates, my found family. “Forty-six hours just became forty-four. And I have a set to prepare.”
I left them in the living room, the ghost of my confession and the taste of my stories lingering in the scented air. In my room, I didn’t open the laptop. I didn’t write. I went to the heavy, beaten-up trunk in the corner—Daphne’s arsenal.
My fingers didn’t go for the sequins or the feathers. They went for the base layers. The leather harnesses. The heavy, industrial-looking chains. The items that weren’t for the stage, but for the private show. I laid them out on the bed, a curator preparing an exhibit.
Then I pulled out my phone. I opened a fresh message to Omar. The plane would be in the air, phones off. He wouldn’t get it until he landed.
My thumbs flew over the screen.
WELCOME HOME PROTOCOL INITIATED. UPON ARRIVAL, REPORT DIRECTLY TO PRIMARY COMMAND CENTER (THIS APARTMENT). ALL PREVIOUS AUTHORIZATIONS ARE SUPERSEDED.
NEW DIRECTIVE: YOU WILL NOT WEAR UNDERWEAR.
YOU WILL KNEEL AT THE DOOR.
YOU WILL PLACE YOUR FOREHEAD AGAINST THE WOOD AND STATE YOUR NAME AND YOUR PURPOSE.
DO NOT SPEAK AGAIN UNTIL SPOKEN TO.
ACKNOWLEDGE THIS TRANSMISSION WITH A SINGLE PERIOD UPON RECEIPT.
I sent it. The message vanished into the digital ether, a tightening of the leash across the sky. This wasn’t just about possession anymore. It was about re-establishing a truth, with brutal, loving clarity.He belonged here. To this city. To this apartment. To me.
The love I’d confessed to my laptop was real. But my love wasn’t soft. It was a claim. And in forty-four hours, I was going to stake it, deep and permanent, into the pliant, welcoming substrate of his skin.
And in forty-four hours, I was going to stake it, deep and permanent, into the pliant, welcoming substrate of his skin.
Forty-four hours was a geological age. It stretched, a barren, glittering desert of waiting that my hyperactive mind insisted on filling with frantic, useless motion. I cleaned. I didn't just tidy—I performed a holy war on dust, attacking every sequin-strewn corner of my bedroom with a militant fervor. The usual comforting chaos felt suddenly shameful, like evidence of a life too unserious for someone like him. I organized my makeup case by hue and finish. I folded the leather harnesses and chains into the trunk with ceremonial precision, my fingertips lingering on the cold, heavy links.
My phone remained silent on the nightstand, a black rectangle of pure tension. Every buzz from the living room—Mateo’s video games, Chloe’s TikTok scroll—sent a jolt through me that settled into a dull, hollow ache when it wasn’t him.
"Naglolokohan ka ba? You’re actually folding your thongs?" Mateo leaned against my doorframe, holding two cans of Red Horse. He tossed one to me. The cool aluminum smacked against my palm. "He’s got you whipped, pare. It’s beautiful and pathetic."
"I'm creating an environment," I said, cracking the beer open. The hiss was loud. "An optimal habitat. You wouldn’t understand."
"Habitat for what, a very confused astronaut?" He took a long drink, watching me smooth a velvet pillow for the third time. "Relak ka lang. He’s just a guy."
"That’s the problem," I said, the truth escaping before I could costume it in a joke. "He’s not. He’s the guy."
The words hung there, simple and devastating. Mateo’s smirk softened. He nodded, clinking his can against mine in a wordless toast to the inevitable, terrifying plunge. "Then kill the time. Daphne’s got that gig at The Pumphouse tomorrow, 'di ba? Go be fabulous. Sweat it out."
He was right. Performance was my native language, my exorcism.
The next night at The Pumphouse was a raucous, wet roar of a crowd. The air conditioner was broken, turning the black box of a club into a steam bath. I was Daphne Omar, in a molten gold lamé gown I’d painstakingly reconstructed from a vintage terno pattern, the shoulders sharp as knives. I was lip-syncing to a Sharon Cuneta power ballad, pouring every ounce of frustrated longing into the over-the-top choreography. Sweat poured in rivers through my chest contour, dripping onto the sticky stage floor. The spotlight was a physical weight, a glare that felt punishing and holy.
In that moment, under the heat and the noise, I didn't think. I simply was. The hyper-awareness of the ticking clock, the vulnerability of the confession, the fierce possessiveness of my text—all of it burned away in the white-hot focus of the performance. For three minutes and forty-two seconds, I was pure, glorious release.
Then the song ended. The applause was a wave of sound that crashed over me and receded, leaving me hollowed out and suddenly, acutely alone in the center of the stage. My eyes, searching the smoky dark of the back wall out of habit, found nothing. No lone figure in a hoodie. No clinical gaze observing the kinetic application of sweat and sequins.
Of course he wasn't there. He was thirty thousand feet over Nebraska, or eating a terrible airplane pretzel, or sleeping.
The crash was visceral. My smile for the curtain call felt brittle, a facade of glitter glue threatening to pop. Backstage was a riot of half-dressed queens and congratulations. Mx. Luster patted my damp shoulder with a jeweled hand. "You were giving real pained widow, honey.Who died?"
"My patience," I mumbled, already tearing at the hooks of my gown.
The Uber ride home was quiet. I watched the neon smear of Sunset Boulevard, my phone a dead weight in my lap. The countdown had bled into the single digits.Nineteen hours. Eighteen. The numbers were now so small they induced a kind of vertigo.
I spent the final day in a state of suspended animation. I moved through the apartment like a ghost, touching things—the chain on the trunk, the specific pillow where he liked to bury his face—as if for the last time. My roommates gave me a wide, understanding berth.
At 8:45 PM, the air in my bedroom was thick enough to drink. I had changed my clothes four times, finally settling on simple black jeans and a tight, grey cotton tee.No harness. No theatricality. Just me. The trunk remained closed. The directives I’d sent were my armor enough. I stood in the center of the room, listening to the groan of the apartment building’s pipes, the distant wail of a siren, the hammering of my own heart.
9:15. His flight had landed. Baggage claim. The ride-share queue. The slow crawl of LA traffic on a Sunday night. My calculations were precise, agonizing.
9:28. I stood by the front door of the apartment, my hand resting on the cool metal of the deadbolt. The living room behind me was dark; Mateo and Chloe had strategically vanished to her room, leaving a profound, supportive silence. I could smell my own clean skin, the faint halo-halo scent from the kitchen, the crisp ozone of anticipation.
9:29.
My phone, clutched in my other hand, vibrated once.
A notification glowed on the screen. A single message from Omar.
It contained no words. No confirmation. No long-winded engineering update.
UPON LANDING HE SENT A DOT.A period. A full stop. The barest, most minimal pixel.
Acknowledgment. Acceptance.Submission.
The breath left my lungs in a quiet, steady stream. All the tension, the frantic energy of the past two days, coalesced into a single, sharp point of focus. My world narrowed to the grain of the wood on the other side of this door, and the boy who should now be approaching it, walking down the shabby corridor, his steps silent on the cheap carpet.
He had obeyed.
The dot was his signature on a contract written in desire and fear.
I flipped the deadbolt. The sound was a shotgun blast in the quiet. I pulled the door open, just six inches, enough to see a slice of the empty, yellow-lit hallway. Then I turned and walked back to my bedroom, leaving the apartment door ajar.
An invitation. A trap.A homecoming.
I did not wait in the living room. I did not perch on the couch. I went to the one place that was unequivocally mine, the command center. I sat on the edge of my neatly made bed, my back straight, my hands resting on my knees. The overhead light was off; only the warm glow of my neon barong lamp illuminated the space, casting long, dramatic shadows.
I listened.
The elevator dinged, faint and distant. A soft shuffle of footsteps grew closer, hesitating outside our apartment number. There was a long, silent pause. I could imagine him there, reading my text again, taking a breath that shuddered in his plump chest.
The footsteps entered the apartment. The door clicked shut behind him. A softer, nearer shuffle across the living room linoleum, then onto the hallway’s worn wood.
They stopped outside my bedroom door.
Another pause, thicker this time, viscous with the weight of the performed ritual. I didn’t breathe.
A soft rustle of fabric—knees meeting the floor. A low, quiet thud as his forehead touched the wood.
His voice, when it came, was muffled by the door but perfectly clear. It was steady, stripped of its usual clinical curiosity, reduced to a bare, essential truth.
"Omar." A beat of silence, filled with the echo of his name. "My purpose is you."
Then, nothing. Perfect obedience.He was here. He was kneeling. He was mine.
I closed my eyes, letting the words, the reality of him just on the other side of that thin barrier, sink into my bones. The love was a deep, resonant hum in my chest. The possession was a sharp, electric current in my veins. They were the same thing now, finally and irrevocably fused.
"Come in," I said, my voice not a shout, not a growl, but a low, resonant command that carried all the distance between the stars and the waiting, welcoming earth.