I am not from Manila. I could not navigate the streets like you draw them on the back of a receipt while we wait for the microwavable sisig in 7-Eleven. I pin my location and pin the destination. Sometimes, I yield to the illusion of a one-way route, of something that can be determined and predicted. The city is kind in the afternoons; this baywalk stretches into a sight. On the sides, people were watching the sun set. From this position, the artificial white sand is a spread, but from a high-rise view, it’s just a portion of what we thought. In Tacloban City, I rode a jeep and a van with just a few Binisaya words in hand. “Gamay,” I lied when they asked me if I could speak or understand Binisaya. Then they proceeded to talk to me in Filipino. In Ilocos, I spoke Ilokano and they responded to me in Filipino. There were other words you taught me, yet I am scared to say them to strangers. While walking, I slip into my typical Ilokano “ngarud,” and you ask me what it means. Before even explaining, I said “sorry” for speaking a language you don’t understand. I could not explain. “An expression,” I slide with a smile. You proceeded to say that your maternal grandmother is Ilokano; I said that my maternal great-grandfather is Bisaya. Perhaps, this is how we stretch and find common ground. This is how our tongues splinter into difference yet branch out for a trail. This is how we confess to each other. My problem is that this city takes so much and gives so little to me. I want to see you, without language, and understand your impulses and frailties. Bite your lips. Coil your pinky to mine. Trace me with your lingering eyes. Own me and all these things that are lost in tongues, and make me feel that I belong, for once, without explanation, without the need to translate.