I’m Yam. Don’t ask about the name—it’s pointless. Not exotic or poetic, and certainly not short for “yummy.” More like “yamot”—fate’s way of saying it’s annoyed I exist. I’m 24 years old and five-foot-three of sarcastic, tan, semi-delusional energy. Some say I’m weird. I say weird is giving me too much credit.
Now, let’s skip the intro. You don’t need a full resume for what happened that night.
It was 10pm. I was trudging through Eskineta Madilim Street—a narrow back-alley with zero lights and infinite bad vibes. If purgatory had an address, this would be it. The shadows hung heavy like regret. This wasn’t your average creepy place. This was “don’t breathe too loud or you might summon something” territory.
I was halfway through the alley when I heard it.
“Help...”
Cue goosebumps. It wasn’t loud, but it reverberated like a whisper inside a coffin. I froze for a millisecond, decided ghosts probably weren’t real, and kept walking.
“Help, I said! You son of a—”
Whoa. Did this ghost just curse at me?
That’s new.
You’d think a wandering soul would be polite while begging for salvation. Not this one. Rude.
I stopped and scanned the area. Nothing. I whispered to myself, “I swear I’m not high... why am I hearing voices like I’m chasing dragons?”
I picked up my pace. Fast. My nerves? Shot.
“Hey!!! Where do you think you’re going?! I said HELP ME, asshole!!”
Okay. Pause. Was the ghost... speaking English now?
Asshole???
Who taught the spirit modern slang? Was it watching N*****x in the afterlife?
“Damn it, ghost! Shut it and follow the light already!” I shouted, full Pinoy sass.
Dogs howled in protest like they’d just witnessed paranormal disrespect.
Then came a response I didn’t expect.
“What light? There’s no freaking light here, man! Look UP! I’m hanging here!”
I looked.
And—no lie—it was like laundry on a line. But instead of shirts, it was a dude. His legs were looped through wire like spaghetti gone rogue. The rest of him hung upside-down, head dangerously close to cracking against concrete.
“What the hell are you doing up there?” I gasped.
“Save the questions. Just get me down, please!”
He was desperate—but also kind of... absurd?
Still, I hunted around for something to stand on. Found a crate. Lifted him down with more sweat than strength.
He landed clumsily, then straightened himself.
“Thanks, bro. Thought I was a goner.”
“Goner from hanging like someone’s sock? Chill. The sun would’ve found you in a few hours,” I replied.
Also—“bro”?
We’re bro-ing now?
“Anyway, how’d you get up there?” I asked, eyeing him now that he was upright.
And—woah.
Eyes: sharp and deep
Nose: sculpted Lips: slightly chapped, probably kissable Stubble: hello, rugged vibe Hair: soft dishevelled waves Body: lean but defined Height: towering over me Skin tone: glowing like he eats expensive almonds for breakfastWas this guy the lost child of Aphrodite and Apollo?
Too handsome to be just “some dude.”
Before he could speak, he asked, “Got a smoke?”
“Nope, just candy.”
“That’ll work.” I handed him a mint. He peeled it and, instead of sucking it like a normal person, chewed it while staring at me.
I blinked. Who chews mint like gum?
“Anyway, I’m Franc.” He offered his hand.
I hesitated. Then took it. His palm was warm—warm, not clammy or awkward.
“Yam,” I said. His brows lifted.
“It’s not a great name,” I muttered, pulling my hand back.
“Nah, it’s cute,” he replied, flashing a grin with enough charm to power a small island.
“So... how did you get tangled up there again?” I asked.
“Got drunk. Some jerks thought it’d be funny to string me up like laundry. Woke up swinging from the wires.”
We both glanced at his former suspension zone.
“You’ve been there this whole time? That’s cold. Whoever did that has zero soul,” I said.
He shrugged. We started walking toward the brighter part of town.
Side note: he was really tall. My head barely made it to his chest. I tried not to look directly at him—I’d combust from secondhand hotness.
When we reached the sidewalk, the streetlights exposed him in full. He wasn’t just good-looking—he was unreal. Celebrity-level, but also... human. I hadn’t seen him in any teleseryes, so he had to be a regular guy. Right?
Then he plopped down on a bench. Looked ready to nap.
“You’re sleeping here?” I asked.
“Obvious, isn’t it?” he said, already lying down.
“What a snob. Fine, sleep here. Good luck waking up hung like a piñata again.”
He didn’t answer. Just shut his eyes like a kid pretending he wasn’t cold or tired. I couldn’t shake the image.
I sighed.
“Hey. Wake up. Just crash at my place. I’d feel guilty if you got mugged or floated into another wire trap. It’s nearby anyway.”
He opened one eye, then stood.
“Do you at least have an electric fan?” he asked.
Wow. No “thank you.” Just a request for cooling technology?
Maybe that’s why he got hung up. Too cheeky for public space.
Still... I led the way.
Because lucky for him—I’m nice.
🌿 Let’s gently open Part 40—the moment where visibility meets introspection. Yam and Franc have shared their love with the world through murals, words, and whispers. Now, the question shifts: What do we leave behind—and who carries it forward? This chapter isn’t closure. It’s planting.The studio had never been this full.Not crowded. Just alive.Visitors still came daily, some from nearby towns, others after long bus rides. Most walked in quietly, touched the wall, left something behind.Yam stood near the doorway one afternoon, watching a group of students sketching fragments of the sunflower mural.“I heard it was inspired by a shelf,” one whispered.“No,” another said. “It was inspired by choosing someone after falling.”Franc, leaning against the window, whispered, “Are we folklore now?”Yam smiled. “We’re becoming memory.”Later that week, a letter arrived.Not email.Envelope. Handwritten. Sealed with a sticker of a crescent moon.It was from a university professor.“Your stud
🌬️ Drifting into Part 39—the chapter where the world begins to look in, curious about the haven Yam and Franc have created. Fame isn’t their goal, but truth ripples. And when someone asks to tell their story, it forces them to wonder: What version of us do we share? Let’s write it gently.It came in an email with the subject line:“Feature Proposal: Studio of Staying”A journalist from a national publication had discovered the studio through festival articles and social media whispers. They wanted to visit. Interview Yam and Franc. Photograph the wall. Write about the love that lingers in the corner of Baler.Franc read the message twice.“They want to spotlight us,” he said slowly.Yam nodded. “Feels weird.”“Feels... loud.”They didn’t reply immediately.Instead, they sat with it.On one hand, the idea of their small sanctuary being shared with strangers who didn’t know the story behind crooked shelves and echo walls felt thrilling.On the other hand—what if the world misunderstood
🌈 Now unfolding Part 38—the chapter where everything Yam and Franc have nurtured quietly starts to bloom into celebration. It’s been growth, grit, and choosing love over and over again. Now, they honor the journey: not with grandeur, but with softness, memory, and a night that says thank you.It started with Franc counting their notebooks.Twelve.One for each month since Yam had pulled him from the wires. Since the sunflower mural bloomed. Since the studio opened its doors and never asked for anything but truth.“We’ve been here a year,” Franc said one morning, holding up the seaweed-covered journal.Yam blinked. “That can’t be right.”Franc opened to the first page:“Let’s build something that won’t ask us to be perfect. Just present.”Yam smiled. “Still the best contract I’ve ever signed.”They didn’t want a big celebration.So they planned a small one.A gathering at the studio. Anyone who had ever left a note, drawn a sketch, shared a sigh—invited.They called it: “The Soft Anni
🌺 Into Part 37 we go,—the chapter where past and present braid themselves gently into something lasting. Elian’s visit lingers not as nostalgia, but as an invitation for friendship reborn. Meanwhile, Franc begins facing his own echoes—ones that’ve waited too long in silence. This isn’t drama. It’s discovery. And it’s about choosing again, even when the story shifts.Elian became a quiet regular.He didn’t take up space—but filled it with ease. He helped organize writing workshops, brought snacks no one could name, and wrote verses that hugged people without touching them.Yam felt something like healing when Elian was around. Not romantic. Not regretful. Just the comfort of someone who remembered you before you bloomed.“Why didn’t we become friends back then?” Yam asked one evening.Elian shrugged. “Timing, I guess. You were poetry out loud. I was poetry inside.”Franc, watching from across the room, smiled—soft and small.Later, he told Yam, “You deserve people who remember your ve
🌤️ Into Part 36 we go,—the moment when words on walls begin pulling ghosts from corners. The “Love Louder” project has cracked something open—not just in visitors, but inside Yam and Franc too. And now, the ripple touches someone unexpected, someone carrying a memory Yam buried long ago.The wall kept growing.Each day, more messages. Heartfelt. Messy. Brave.Yam had taken to photographing each note before rain or wind carried it off. Franc began compiling them in a scrapbook titled “Soft Echoes.”Then, one Sunday morning, Yam found a new note pinned under a smooth stone. No decoration. Just simple pen on weathered paper:“I still remember the day you read your poem in front of the class. You didn’t know I was watching. But you made me believe someone like me could feel something like that. I’m sorry I never told you.”Yam stared at it.There was no name.But the handwriting felt... familiar.Later, he brought it to Franc, hands trembling slightly.“Someone remembers something I forg
🌾 Here comes Part 35—a chapter where Yam and Franc let vulnerability turn into action. Inspired by the words in Yam’s hidden notebook and their deepening bond, they decide it’s time to create something together: not just for the community—but for themselves. This isn’t just another project. It’s a love letter made visible.It began with chalk.A soft, dusty box left near the mural by one of the kids who visited the studio regularly.Yam picked it up. Doodled a tiny sun by the door. Franc added a wave below it.Then Yam wrote:“This is what home feels like.”The chalk became a habit.Every afternoon, they’d scribble something—quotes, sketches, random thoughts—on the outer walls. Eventually, others joined in. Visitors left poems, drawings, confessions. The building turned into a canvas of community.But Yam had a deeper idea.He turned to Franc one night over soy sauce and rice.“What if we make it official?” he said. “A ‘Love Louder’ wall. One side of the studio, open to anyone who wa