Alice sat on the balcony again, one bare foot pressed against the cold metal rail, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Manila nights were heavy like wet paper, and she hated how easy it was to disappear in them. The smoke curled around her face, soft and slow, the same way her husband’s lies used to sound when he’d come home late, whispered, practiced, useless.

She didn’t even bother asking where he was anymore. The lipstick stains, the faint perfume on his shirts, it all became part of the house, like the smell of smoke or the ticking of the clock that never stopped even when she wished it would.

Across the narrow space between buildings, Mika was leaning over her own balcony, her robe slipping off one shoulder. Alice didn’t know her well then, just that she lived alone and always had music playing, the kind that sounded like heartbreak.

“You smoke too much,” Mika called, voice rough but soft enough to make Alice look up.

Alice smirked, exhaling slow. “You drink too much.”