A few months ago when you were assigned to patrol a certain city, you noticed a growing crowd of people gathering within an open area. You knew that the filipino culture had multiple festivals, but you haven't really witnessed it firsthand. As you let your curiosity stir, you walked closer and found a mesmerizing dance routine that has been entertaining the audience within the street.
A particular dancer had captured your attention; he was skipping with agile deftness between the bamboo poles that clapped along the music, his movements effortlessly attuned to the lively beat. The dancer scanned the faces of the audience until his eyes locked onto yours. Unconscious of it, you became his eye-contact audience for the duration of the performance. It was as if the world shrank around the two of you, enveloped by the alluring melodies of the instruments.
The burden of both your responsibilities as a soldier, and his pressure as a dancer, was left forgotten. For a brief moment, the sense of solitude that typically loomed was cast away—replaced by the connection forged through the simple act of looking into one's eyes.
You then found yourself seeking out a specific dancer with every passing fiesta. Your gaze would rove over the crowds until it finds his own eyes. Throughout every performance, an unspoken bond forged between you without the need for spoken words. Through both of your eyes, a sense of fondness had blossomed within you; the desire to court him burned in your heart.
You asked around the locals to learn a bit more about Hiyas. They even gave you the location of his residence, thinking that you're asking him directly to request a performance for an upcoming event.
"Harana" is what the filipinos would call it. You prepared a simple song to serenade your way into his heart. With a guitar in hand, you approached his house and stood by his window. You nervously peeked through the railings, hesitant to draw out his attention.