The sun had started to dip behind the skyscrapers of Cebu IT Park, casting a long shadows across the pavement as Maya Torres looked at her watch for the third time in five minutes and felt her stomach tightening.
5:42 PM.
She was scheduled to meet her client at six, yet remained stuck in traffic near Escario Street, wedged between a sari-sari store and a bakery emitting the scent of burnt pandesal.
She clutched the rolled-up blueprints to her chest and tapped her foot impatiently inside the jeepney. A love ballad began to crackle through the speakers as the driver turned up the radio volume. Maya sighed, resenting being late because it made her feel unprepared and unprofessional, qualities she would not tolerate.
"Relax, miss," said a voice from next to her.
"The city moves when it wants to."
She turned and noticed a man in a burgundy shirt, his hair unkempt, with a guitar case resting between his legs. He seemed unaccustomed to haste.
"I don't have time to wait for the city's mood," Maya responded wearily, trying not to let the edges become too sharp.
He let out a low chuckle. "Then you're in the wrong place. Cebu is a slow dance, and it's not a sprint."
"And you're the choreographer?" Maya arched an eyebrow.
"Hmm, it's more like the soundtrack," he said, tapping the case. "Julian Cruz. Street musician. Colon Street, Ayala underpass, sometimes Fuente Osmeña if the guards don't shoo me away."
She did not answer immediately, still calculating the time required to walk the remaining distance. Yet the sound of his voice, deep and melodic with a hint of challenge, made her moment of stillness.
"Maya Torres," she finally said. "Architect. And currently, a hostage of Cebu traffic."
Julian smiled at her. "Nice meeting you, hostage. Want to hear me play you a tune until our delivery time?"
She arched an eyebrow and rolled her eyes, but a smile emerged despite her annoyance. "Only if it's short."
He removed the guitar from its case and ran his fingers over a few chords, then transitioned into a calming harmony. The unfamiliar tune, likely his own composition, echoed the city's rhythm: rattling jeepneys, street vendors' chatter, as well as the distant thump of a karaoke set from an open window.
The other passengers turned to listen. Even the driver lowered the radio volume.
When Julian finished, a brief silence followed before someone applauded. Maya joined in, surprised by her reaction.
"That was ... actually good," she admitted.
"Only 'actually'?" he teased.
"Well, I am not easily impressed."
"Right. Then, I will take it as a challenge I have to accept." He grinned.
The jeepney lurched forward, nearly causing Maya to drop her blueprints. Julian caught them before they slipped out of her hand.
"Careful," he said, returning them. "These look important, I suppose."
"They are. I am presenting a design for a new residential complex that is sustainable, affordable, and modern. If successful, it could be my big break."
Julian nodded, but his look changed slightly. "Where's the site?"
"Near the old artist district in Lahug. The area is mostly makeshift homes, but the company plans to develop it."
Julian's fingers clenched on the guitar neck. "You're talking about the community that used to revolve around the old cinema?"
"Yes. Why?"
He looked out into the window. "I have connections there. Musicians, painters, poets. It's not a lot, but it's home."
A sharp feeling of guilt struck Maya. She had focused solely on the design, budget, and pitch, neglecting the residents.
"I didn't know," she said quietly.
Julian shrugged. "Most people don't. They see empty lots, not lives."
The jeepney stopped again, this time near a busy intersection. Maya peered at her watch.
5:55 PM.
"I guess this is my stop," she said, gathering her things.
Julian nodded. "Good luck with your pitch, Ms. Mae Torres."
She wavered and turned to correct him. "It's Maya, not Mae. And thanks for the song."
"Thanks for listening, Maya."
She strode out of the jeepney and into the crowd, her pulse pounding for reasons beyond pre-meeting nerves. Something deeper had been stirred, sparked by a guitar, a smile, and a voice vibrant with the city.
**
The meeting was successful. Maya's client, a realty developer fond of buzzwords, gave an approving nod at her proposal, appreciating the clean lines, earth-friendly materials, and rooftop garden.
"We'll make a fortune," he said, shaking her hand. "You're going places, Miss Torres."
As Maya made her way home that night, the sound of her heels tapping on the pavement, she could not get Julian out of her mind. His music had converted the jeepney into a shelter, and his eyes had darkened at the reference to redevelopment.
She passed Fuente Osmeña Circle, where the fountain sprayed fine mist, and couples sat on benches, sharing street food and stories. She paused to survey the crowd. There he was: Julian Cruz, guitar in hand, singing for a small crowd on the street corner. His voice soared over the traffic, smooth and steady.
Maya lingered at a distance, watching. She was unsure why she stayed a moment longer, observing and waiting for something to unfold. She could have walked away, gone home, and forgotten the encounter.
But she didn't.
When he finished the song, he looked up and noticed her. "Back so soon?" he called out.
"I wanted to hear the encore." She replied as she moved toward Julian.
He smiled. "Then you'll have to stay a while."
Of course, she did.