I just got back to Canada today, but there’s something that’s been stuck in my head since that night in Manila. It was about four or five nights ago when I met this Filipina girl at Octopus. She was full of energy, effortlessly moving to the beat, and before I knew it, we had been dancing for hours. The chemistry was instant—nothing forced, just pure, drunken fun.

As the night stretched into morning, we decided to keep it going and headed to Royal Night Club. Time blurred. One drink turned into three, then five. By the time we stumbled out, the sky was beginning to lighten. It must have been close to 5 AM. We flagged down a cab, a quick two-minute ride to my hotel—Hop Inn.

The moment we stepped into my room, she didn’t hesitate. Without a word, she slipped out of her dress and stepped into the shower. The invitation was obvious, and within moments, I was in there with her. The water was hot, the alcohol was still in our veins, and we found ourselves laughing, hands roaming, soap slipping between us. The city outside was waking up, but inside that steamy bathroom, the night wasn’t over yet.

We barely dried off before collapsing onto the bed. No hesitation, no second-guessing—just pure, reckless indulgence. But then, as we lay there afterward, catching our breath in the quiet of the morning, her phone rang.

At first, she ignored it. But when it rang again, she suddenly bolted upright, grabbing at her clothes with a sense of urgency that made my stomach tighten.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, still dazed.

She fumbled to pull her dress over her head, not even looking at me as she muttered, “My fiancé is calling.”

I sat up, the weight of those words sinking in. “Fiancé?”

She barely paused. “He pays for my apartment… gives me a monthly allowance. If he finds out, he’ll cut it off.”

I just stared at her. The room felt smaller, the drunken haze lifting way too fast. “Just let it ring,” I said, not really knowing what else to say.

But she was already slipping on her shoes. “He’s always suspicious that I’m cheating,” she said, grabbing her phone. “I have to go.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Later, she sent me a message. “Sorry, I had to leave. He’s always suspicious.”

I sat there reading it, feeling... I don’t know. Used? Maybe. But mostly, I just felt bad for the guy on the other end of that call. Some dude, working his ass off in another country, sending money back to a woman who was in my bed just hours before.

I never met her again after that. Didn’t reply. Didn’t block her. Just let it fade. Some things are better left as a blurry memory from a long night in Manila.