The city never slept. Manila at night was an orchestra of chaos—horns blaring, vendors shouting their last calls, neon signs humming faintly as if they too were weary of shining. Yet above the frenzy, the stars remained indifferent, scattered across a velvet-black sky.
Iris Velasco sat on the rooftop of her apartment building, cross-legged on a thin mat that had long since lost its softness. A battered sketchpad rested on her lap, her fingers stained with streaks of cobalt and ultramarine. She dipped her brush into the jar of cloudy water beside her and raised her eyes to the sky.
Painting the stars had become her ritual. It wasn't about astronomy, not really. She didn't know every constellation by name. What mattered to her was the way the stars seemed alive—like distant souls whispering secrets across time. Whenever she captured them on canvas, she felt closer to something infinite, something that reminded her she wasn't just one lonely artist struggling in the heart of a restless city.
Yet tonight was different.
Because she wasn't the only one looking up.
On the rooftop of the neighboring building, a figure sat quietly, legs dangling over the edge. Even from this distance, Iris could see how still she was, how utterly absorbed in the heavens above. The city's neon glow painted her outline in soft colors—long dark hair that glinted faintly silver under the moonlight, the slope of her shoulders, the delicate tilt of her chin as if listening for a voice no one else could hear.
Iris's brush hovered mid-air, paint dripping down onto her wrist. For three nights now, the girl had been there. Same place. Same time. Never moving, never looking down.
She should have been just another silhouette in the city skyline. But she wasn't.
Something about her was magnetic, impossible to ignore.
Iris found her hand moving on its own, tracing the stranger's outline onto her canvas. She painted her into the constellations, her silhouette blending with the stars as though she belonged among them.
Her chest tightened with a strange anticipation.
Iris lived in a cramped two-room apartment above a laundromat. The walls were lined with her canvases, leaning precariously in stacks against one another. Some were finished and vivid, bursting with color. Others remained half-done, abandoned when her inspiration faltered.
Her parents called often from Batangas. Her mother, Teresa, always began the conversation with, "Anak, have you eaten?" and ended with a gentle, "Don't forget you can always come home." Her father, Mario, usually slipped in practical advice about money, reminding her that her older brother Adrian had a stable job already. "Don't pressure yourself," he said, though the comparison was always implied.
But Iris was stubborn. She didn't want to come home, not yet. She wanted to prove she could stand on her own. She worked freelance commissions—digital portraits, logos, sometimes tutoring art classes at a small community center. It wasn't much, but it paid enough for rent, paint, and rice.
Still, nights were the hardest. Nights reminded her how alone she was in the city.
Until the girl appeared.
The following evening, Iris climbed the rooftop earlier than usual. She told herself it was because she wanted to capture twilight's fleeting colors—the lavender haze before the stars appeared. But deep down, she knew the truth.
She wanted to see if the girl would come back.
She did.
At first, Iris pretended not to notice, keeping her eyes fixed on the canvas. But the tension in her chest grew unbearable. Finally, she raised her hand in a hesitant wave.
The girl didn't move. Iris felt a flush creep up her neck. She probably thinks I'm weird.
But then, slowly, the girl lifted her hand and waved back.
A small smile curved her lips, visible even across the distance. And just like that, Iris's chest felt lighter, her brush moving with new energy. She painted until the colors blurred, the memory of that smile burned into every stroke.
The next night, and the night after that, the silent ritual continued: a glance, a wave, a smile.
And though they had never spoken a single word, Iris felt less alone than she had in years.
It happened on a Friday night, when the city below was alive with music from bars and the chatter of students celebrating the weekend. Iris had just dipped her brush in dark violet when the rooftop door creaked open behind her.
She froze. Few people came up here—it was her sanctuary.
Turning, she saw her.
Up close, the girl was even more striking than Iris imagined. Her eyes were pale gray, almost silver, catching the faint light as if reflecting the stars themselves. Her skin was fair, unblemished, with a softness that seemed untouched by the city's grit. She carried herself with quiet confidence, though her hands fidgeted slightly at her sides.
"Hi," the girl said, her voice low and melodic. "I'm sorry if this is strange. I've seen you… across the street."
Iris's breath caught. "Y-Yeah. I've seen you too."
The girl stepped closer, glancing at the unfinished canvas propped against the railing. "You paint the sky."
"I try to," Iris replied softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
The girl's lips curved into a half-smile. "It suits you."
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of traffic. Then she extended her hand.
"Luna," she said simply.
Iris stared at the hand for a moment before taking it. Warm. Firm. Real.
"Iris."
Their hands lingered a second too long, the air between them thick with something unspoken.
The stars above seemed to shimmer brighter, as though bearing witness.
From that night onward, Luna began joining Iris on the rooftop. She didn't reveal much about herself at first, only that she had just transferred from France where her mother lived, though her father's family was from Quezon City. She was studying literature at a nearby university but often skipped the noisy social gatherings in favor of quiet places.
She had a way of deflecting questions with a smile, redirecting the focus back to Iris's art. But Iris didn't mind. She found herself painting more than ever, inspired by Luna's quiet presence.
Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they sat in silence. But always, Iris felt her world expand with Luna beside her.
One evening, as Iris added the final touches to a canvas, Luna leaned close enough for their shoulders to brush.
"You always paint the sky," Luna murmured. "Do you ever paint people?"
"Sometimes," Iris said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But only if they're unforgettable."
Their eyes met, gray into brown, and the air between them thickened. For a heartbeat, Iris thought Luna might close the distance, but instead she looked away, her expression unreadable.
Still, the question lingered in Iris's chest long after Luna left:
Was she unforgettable enough?
The next day, Iris tried to distract herself with work. She had two commissions due—a digital portrait of a couple for their anniversary and a stylized logo for a coffee shop. She hunched over her laptop in the living room, brushes and paint tubes scattered across the table though she wasn't using them. Her phone buzzed.
Mom.
With a sigh, she answered. "Hi, Ma."
"Anak, kumain ka na ba?" Teresa's voice came warm, motherly, carrying all the comfort of home.
"Yes, Ma. Don't worry, I'm fine."
Her father's voice joined faintly in the background. "Tell her Adrian got promoted. Engineering supervisor now."
"Congrats to Kuya," Iris said, her throat tight.
Her mother lowered her tone. "Don't pressure yourself, anak. You don't need to compare. You're doing your art. That's important too."
"I know," Iris whispered, though part of her didn't believe it. She ended the call gently, staring at the half-finished logo on her screen.
But her mind wasn't on her work. It drifted to gray eyes under starlight, to the way Luna's smile lingered like a secret.
That night, Iris brought two cups of instant coffee with her to the rooftop. She wasn't sure if Luna would come, but she hoped.
The air was cool, the city lights flickering in restless patterns. She set the cups on the mat, one waiting for her mysterious companion. She picked up her brush and tried to focus, but her heart leapt when the rooftop door creaked open.
Luna stepped out, her hair tied loosely, strands escaping to dance in the wind. She noticed the second cup and tilted her head.
"You brought coffee?"
"I thought… maybe you'd like some," Iris said, cheeks warming.
Luna smiled faintly, sitting beside her. "Thank you." She lifted the cup, blew gently, and sipped. "Too sweet. But I like it."
They sat shoulder to shoulder, sipping from mismatched cups, the stars spread endlessly above.
"Do you believe in constellations?" Iris asked.
Luna's gaze flickered upward. "I believe in the stories people attach to them. Sometimes they're myths. Sometimes memories."
"What about you?"
"I believe," Luna said softly, "that the stars remember us even when we forget ourselves."
Iris studied her profile, the curve of her cheek, the seriousness in her eyes. "That's… beautiful."
Luna turned, their eyes locking, and for a moment Iris forgot to breathe. She felt the pull between them—like gravity, like destiny.
But Luna looked away, her fingers tightening around the coffee cup. "Do you paint them because you want to remember too?"
The question struck deeper than Iris expected. She had no answer, only a trembling smile.
Later, as they packed up for the night, Luna reached to steady Iris's canvas. Their fingers brushed, a spark rushing through Iris's veins.
"Sorry," Luna murmured, pulling back.
"It's okay," Iris whispered, though her heart thundered.
They lingered there, close enough that Iris could see the faint shadow of freckles across Luna's nose, the way her lips parted as if holding back words.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" Iris asked.
Luna hesitated, then nodded. "Tomorrow."
And she was gone.
Iris pressed her palm against her chest, steadying the wild rhythm there. She had painted hundreds of skies. But none felt as vivid, as alive, as the night she met Luna.
A week later, Iris noticed something strange. She was painting the constellation Lyra when Luna stiffened beside her.
"You know this one?" Iris asked casually.
Luna's lips pressed thin. "Lyra. The harp. Orpheus's instrument."
"You sound like you've known it forever."
Luna stood abruptly, setting down her cup with trembling hands. "I should go."
"Wait, did I say something—?"
But the rooftop door closed before Iris could finish.
She stared at the half-finished constellation on her canvas, confusion gnawing at her. Why did the stars unsettle Luna so deeply?
That night, Iris dreamt of a harp string snapping under a stormy sky, and Luna's silver eyes staring back at her, filled with sorrow too ancient for someone so young.
The following evening, Iris didn't bring her paints. Instead, when Luna arrived, she suggested, "Do you want to go for a walk?"
Luna studied her carefully, then nodded.
They wandered through quiet streets, the hum of the city distant. They stopped at a small street vendor selling grilled bananas. Iris bought two, handing one to Luna.
"You eat street food?" Iris teased.
Luna smiled faintly. "First time." She bit into it, eyes widening. "It's… good."
The sight of her—this mysterious girl with starlight eyes, laughing softly while eating banana cue under a flickering lamppost—burned into Iris's memory.
And in that moment, Iris realized she didn't just want to paint the stars anymore.
She wanted to paint her.
That night, as they walked back, their hands brushed once, twice—until Luna let hers stay, fingers sliding into Iris's.
Neither spoke.
The stars above shimmered, as if whispering their approval.
Iris knew then: her life was no longer just her own canvas. Luna had stepped into it, bringing with her colors Iris had never dared to imagine.
And for the first time in years, the city didn't feel so lonely.