"Every great journey begins with a single step—but mine began with a heartbeat."
Walking under this miserable heat was beyond murder–but here I am, enduring it.
I've been complaining to myself about the humidity for eleventh time since I left for school, my feet dragging along the dusty sidewalk, gym bag bouncing against my hip. Mornings were never my thing. And truth be told, I don't think they ever will be. Last night I played Honor of Legends with my cousin until two in the morning, and now my eyes felt like they've been sandpapered. But today was different. Today mattered.
The elimination match… The last spot on the Saint Williams Athletic Team is still up for grabs. I have one last shot.
I shifted the bag to my other shoulder. Inside was my racket—an older model my parents helped me save up for. The grip was worn smooth from hours of solo practice, wrapped and rewrapped until it followed every contour of my palm. It wasn't the newest nor was it one of the best. But it mostly did its job and it was mine.
And today, I pray that it will be enough.
My opponent was Carlo Mendez, a tenth grader with experience and equipment that made mine look like hand-me-downs. Which, honestly, they kind of were. But I had something going for me: I had nothing to lose and everything to prove.
Just then, the roar of an engine interrupted my brooding.
A motorcycle, black, deadly and illegally fast came racing downhill.
The rider's eyes were wild and unfocused. He zipped through the barangay road like he'd forgotten how brakes worked, and his trajectory…
Well, he was heading straight for me.
My body locked up. I felt frozen in my indecision. The motorcycle got louder and closer. The rational part of my brain screamed at me to move, but my legs had turned to stone.
This is it, I thought. This is how it ends.
Then I felt something... shift.
I wouldn't say that the world suddenly stopped nor did I feel it slow down. But my perception—it seemed to have expanded… Like I was forced to envelop a single point in time where that moment suddenly felt infinite.
I could see everything clearly.
I saw the motorcycle's front tire rotating, every groove in the tread visible as if it was inches from my face. The rider's eyes wide with panicked horror as he realized his mistake. But it was too late. The angle of his approach, the point of impending impact, the exact trajectory, they all pointed to one ending.
And in that wet-my-pants-deadly but crystalline moment, suddenly I understood: I could move.
My body came alive. I threw myself off to one side and rolled on the pavement, my bag flying free. The motorcycle passed through the space where I'd been standing—the loud screaming of the tailpipe ripping at my ears, the acrid smell of burned rubber flooding my nostrils, wind ripping at my clothes.
Then the moment shattered.
CRASH!
Metal screamed. The motorcycle slammed into a trash can, tumbling end over end. The rider hit the pavement, tumbled, then stopped against a tree. Around me, people started shouting in disarray. A few kids from school had their phones out, most likely going live on their social media platform, telling anyone who cared that they're okay. Someone was yelling at someone to call for an ambulance.
I lay on my back, staring at the sky, my heart hammering so hard I thought my ribs might crack.
What the hell just happened?
The sensation was already fading, slipping away like trying to hold water in my fists. Had it been real? Some kind of adrenaline-fueled hallucination? Or had time actually...
No. Oh, no… not that. No way! That was crazy. It was probably the adrenaline or the lack of sleep. Or some devilish combination of the two.
"Oi, hijo! Are you okay?!"
An elderly woman's face appeared above me, concern etched into her features. She asked someone to help me sit up, and check me for injuries. My hands were quivering. My whole body was trembling.
"You look pale. It's best that you go straight home," she insisted. "Ang putla mo."
I shook my head, grabbed my bag. "I can't. I have a match."
She stared at me like I'd lost my freaking mind.
Well maybe I had.
I checked my racket. The old Saber Arc S was undamaged. I almost let out a sigh of relief as I stood on wobbling legs, dusted off my pants and walked on with the incident weighing heavily on my mind.
Finally, the gymnasium loomed ahead, green walls bright against the morning sky. Through the open doors, I could hear the familiar sounds—shuttles being struck, shoes squeaking on polished wood, the rhythm of warm-ups and drills. It was comforting. Normal.
I needed "normal" right now.
Coach Sonny Belmonte was standing near court one, his ever-present clipboard in one hand. Everyone called him Coach B. He was in his late forties, about my height but stockier, with sharp gray eyes that seemed to notice everything. He walked with a pronounced limp—a car accident ended his playing career several years ago—but his mind and game sense were still as sharp as any professional coach.
He saw me enter and raised an eyebrow. "Velasco. You look like death."
"Motorcycle, Coach," I managed. "Almost hit me. But I'm fine."
His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me with an intensity that made me feel uncomfortably exposed, like there's nothing I could hide from him. For just a second, his eyes seemed grayer. Then something flickered across his face as I looked away. Was it recognition? Nah… I glanced back at him but it was gone before I could be sure.
"Get warmed up," he said indifferently as he shrugged me off. "Match starts in ten."
I nodded and headed to the side court. My heart was finally slowing down, but my hands still trembled as I pulled out my racket and started doing wrist rotations.
But I couldn't stop myself from thinking back to that moment–that impossible, crystal-clear moment where the world opened up and I could see everything.
It had to be adrenaline. Or survival instinct. Or even some kind of biological response to near-death experience.
It couldn't be anything else.
Right?
"Velasco! Mendez! Sa court three!"
Coach B's voice snapped me out of my reverie. This was it.
Carlo was already on his side of the net, doing light shadow drills. His racket was top-of-the-line, an Astro 100ZZ, and it probably costs more than my monthly allowance. He was also taller than me and moves with the easy confidence of someone who has been playing competitively for years—or someone who's about to play against an inferior opponent. That inferior opponent being me.
But I had reach—my arms were longer than average for my size, giving me decent coverage despite my slim build. And I can always try to compensate for lack of power with placement and precision.
I took my position, bounced on the balls of my feet a few times as I did half a dozen split steps, trying to ease my heart into a familiar rhythm.
"On my left, Mendez. On my right, Velasco. Singles game to 21, best of three sets," Coach B started announcing as he climbed up the umpire's chair. "This match determines our final spot for SWAT's official roster this year. Mendez to serve, love all, play."
Carlo served—low, tight, and with exactly the right amount of pace.
And we were off.
The gap in our skill levels were apparent right from the start. His clears sailed deeper, his drops fell tighter, his smashes came harder. He moved like someone who'd spent every waking moment on the court, every step deliberate, and every swing with purpose.
I scrambled to keep up, relying on hustle over technique. My slim frame meant I had to work twice as hard for power, desperately throwing my whole body into each shot.
Five minutes in, the score was 7-3 in his favor.
Lagot na. This isn't working, I thought to myself as I retrieved the shuttle. I can't overpower him. I most certainly can't out-experience him.
So what do I have?
The memory of the motorcycle flashed through my mind. That moment of impossible clarity.
What if...
Snap out of it. There's no way. That was insane.
But I was losing anyway.
Carlo served again, a high deep clear this time. I watched the shuttle arc through the air, and without really meaning to, I tried to recreate that feeling. That state of perfect awareness.
Nothing happened. The shuttle sailed high over me and dropped on my rearcourt at normal speed.
8-3.
I tried again. Nothing.
9-3.
And again. Still nothing.
The score climbed—11-5, then 14-7. My lungs felt like someone poured hot arroz caldo inside them. My knees felt like lead. This was it. My one chance slipping away, point by point.
At 16-9, something inside me broke.
Not in a bad way. More like a dam cracking, pressure finding release.
I stopped trying to force it. Stopped worrying about winning or losing, about being good enough, about everything except...
This moment.
This rally.
This shot.
Nothing else. Just now.
Carlo served again.
The shuttle left his racket, and the world once again... shifted.
Not dramatically. No sudden gust of wind, no eerie sound effects. Just an expansion of perception, as if I'm now suddenly using blue light to reveal something that had always been there and an odd sensation that time for me has no past and no future.
There is only this moment. And that moment is now.
The shuttle's flight became absolutely clear–its counterclockwise rotation, every wobble, the exact point where it would reach the apex of its flight and where it would descend—all its secrets laid bare before me like an open book.
Time didn't slow. I did. My consciousness savored every microsecond, filling each instant with more information, clarity, and more understanding.
I moved to the shuttle with unexplainable confidence. My racket met it at the optimal angle, and I placed a tight net shot that barely cleared before dying.
The blue-tinged sensation faded as the rally ended.
16-10.
I blinked, trying to process what had just happened. My brown eyes felt different somehow, though I couldn't say how. Was it–what's that word when one sense triggers another? Synesthesia?
"Liam, ayos yun a" Carlo said, respect–or was it disbelief–in his voice. "Nice setup."
I could only nod, my heart thudding wildly for entirely new reasons.
It happened again.
"Service, Velasco," Coach B called, his voice carefully neutral. But when I glanced at him, he was gripping his clipboard like he was trying to break it, his knuckles white.
The match continued. That strange blue-tinged clarity came twice more—once at 18-13, letting me intercept at the net for an impossibly lucky net kill, and once at 20-18, when I somehow knew where Carlo's drive shot would go before his Astro 100ZZ even slammed into the shuttle.
Each time, Coach B's expression grew more agitated.
The final score: 21-19.
I'd won.
I'd actually won.
Carlo came to the net and we shook hands. He was dejected but gracious, congratulating me on my "amazing reads." I mumbled my thanks, still too dumbfounded about what had happened.
As I walked off the court, legs barely holding up, Coach B approached me. His hand landed on my shoulder, his grip firm.
"Good match, Liam," he said quietly. Then, quieter still: "We need to talk. After practice. Alone."
I looked up at him and saw something in his gray eyes that made my stomach lurch, as if I'm back on one of those rides at Enchanted Park. Recognition.
He knew. He saw something. And he definitely knows something.
"What—"
"Mamaya," he cut me off gently. "For now, congratulations. You're on SWAT team A."
He walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding for entirely new reasons.
From somewhere in the darkness near the storage room, I heard a voice mutter in a strong Japanese accent:
"I guess Coach found another one. Let's see if this one's actually any good."
I turned, but whoever had spoken was gone, as if swallowed up by the darkness.
I should have felt excited. I'd made the team after all. I achieved my goal.
But all I felt was a creeping and chilling certainty that my life had just changed in ways I couldn't begin to understand.
The last spot was mine.
And I had no idea what I had awakened to claim it.