There’s no reason for anyone to enter a competition unless they intend to win. Yet, the radio blares with enthusiasm, encouraging listeners to sign up in the upcoming MassKara Festival competitions, already three weeks away. “Participate for the experience!” the announcer insists, as if the mere act of joining is its own reward.

My hands move methodologically, pushing the needle through the fabric—up, down, through, and back up again—faster and faster, sewing to the rhythm of the voice. The ceaseless motion blends with the relentless hammering of carpentry outside, and the clucking of what should have been my morning alarm (the noise of a persistent chicken), circulating with the long, loud beeps of jeepneys and the sputtering engines of tricycles. Vendors call out from the sidewalks, their voices rising and falling in a chaotic symphony.

And then, there’s humming—a sweet, soft hum, no particular melody, yet it cuts through the noise, somehow louder than everything else. It’s soothing, yet distracting, and my focus wavers.

The needle slips, and I prick my finger.

Hisss. I abruptly dropped the fabric and the needle onto the wooden table, the tiny clink of metal barely audible over my sharp inhale. I glared onto the bead of blood welling at the tip of my finger. “Can you stop that?” I snapped, my voice cutting through the air like the prick of the needle.

My eyes stayed fixed on the crimson droplet threatening to fall, but I could feel her confused gaze burning into my back. “Stop what?” She asked, her voice tinged with naivete. “My humming?”

“It’s distracting me,” I said, as if it were obvious.

“I thought you liked my humming,” a lingering pause. “It’s our thing.”

“I have three costumes to finish by the end of the week, and I’m nowhere near done for the MassKara costume contest,” I said, my voice tight with frustration. “I have to focus.”

“Oh… well, I’m sorry. I hope you finish it,” she replied, her voice trailing off. I could tell she was about to hum again but stopped herself abruptly. Now, all I could hear from her was the faint tapping of the keyboard and the relentless growl of the bustling city outside.

I went back to sewing, my hands moving instinctively as the radio shifted to a topic I couldn’t care less about. My eyes glanced at the design I was copying, one I wasn't fond of. It was amateurish, poorly sketched, and far beneath what I knew I was capable of. I grew up dreaming of crafting garments that would grace runways and models, not… this.

“Are those the costumes for my students’ play performance?” she asked, trying to ease the tension.

I rolled my eyes and let out an aggravated sigh. “Yes. The design they sent doesn’t make sense for a Filipino Romeo and Juliet. The barong and tapis barely resemble period-appropriate styling, and the silhouette choices feel more European than anything remotely native. They obviously didn’t bother researching local textiles or historical influences,” I scoffed. “I can’t believe I’m wasting my time on this.”

“I mean, they’re just junior high students,” she blatantly pointed out. “They just need cheap costumes for their school project.”

“It’s humiliating,” I retort.

There’s a pause. I couldn’t keep working, so I just stared down at the fabric in my hands. I clenched it—firm enough to show my disdain, yet gentle enough to acknowledge the artistry behind it.

“Penny, what’s wrong?”

My name, carried by a melodic voice I don’t deserve, made me catch myself. I realized I had been taking my frustration out on her. I didn’t mean to, but I just didn’t know what else to do—and she made it too easy to be angry at. Even though she didn’t deserve it. Even though she never returned the anger. “Maybe I’m just nervous about the contest,” I finally admitted.

“I’m sure you’ll do great. It’s your expertise!” She confidently exclaimed. “And, whatever the results may be, we can celebrate right after my gig!”

“I don’t hope to win—I need to,” I stated. “This is a huge opportunity. The winner gets to be the apprentice of a nine-time National Fashion Week champion, the designer of the 1995 Reina del Mundo winner’s dress, and the most renowned fashion designer from Negros, Amara Locsin.”

I envisioned myself on stage, the spotlights glinting off a heavy, glittering trophy. Beside me stood the poised and collected Amara Locsin, her gaze steady, yet a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “That’s where I’m meant to be. Not here. Not doing this.”

A hesitant gulp ran down her throat. “That sounds lovely, but we all start somewhere—”

“I’m not like you, Louise,” I sighed heavily.

A sharp exhale escaped her lips. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just…” I averted my gaze, composing myself. “I don’t want to be stuck here forever, wasting my expertise on forgettable clothes for people that don't care. I want to become a world-renowned fashion designer someday, and I’m actually trying to get there.”

“I’m trying, too,” she said, her voice rising slightly in defence. “I know I procrastinate a lot, and I’m more ‘careless’—clumsier—than you, but I do try. I work full-time as an English teacher, then teach guitar part-time at the music studio after classes. I take gigs wherever I can. I know you’re doing more than me, but that doesn’t make my efforts any less valid.”

The bustling city is loud, but the tension is deafening.

“You can’t just… keep doing this to me,” Louise said, her voice trembling. With a shaky breath, she continued, “I know you’ll win. I can see it: you holding the trophy, standing beside Amara Locsin. You’ll open stores across the country with your designs, someday. I just… I just won’t be there.”

Years passed, but the silence remained.

I remind myself that in three weeks, I’ll be back in my hometown for the Masskara Festival costume contest—as a judge.

My hands move methodologically, pushing the needle through the fabric—up, down, through, and back up again—faster and faster. The room was silent, except for the soft, steady sound of thread gliding through fabric. It was quiet. Still. Pristine.

From time to time, my eyes drifted to the trophies on my desk. They gleamed under the light, a testament to everything I had dreamed of and more. I stopped upon realizing that I had been humming softly for a moment. It was a futile attempt to recreate what had once felt perfect. But now, there was nothing to distract me. Nothing at all.

Then the needle slips, and I prick my finger.

Articles by Nik Deloso

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