“Okay,” she said, eyeing the table. “Why does this look like an intervention waiting to happen?”
I rolled my eyes because it absolutely was.
And before anyone could sit down and start diagnosing my life, a calm presence approached the table.
Mel didn’t announce herself. She didn’t have to.
She walked toward us in full pre-gym glory: high-waisted black leggings, sculpting legs that could probably deadlift my emotional baggage, a fitted athletic crop top, and clean white trainers that had clearly seen more discipline than any other women our age. A gym bag hung from her shoulder like a badge of honor.
Her skin was the fairest among us—paler than most Filipinos, courtesy of an American ancestor somewhere in her lineage—but she wasn’t fragile-looking. It glowed. Hydrated. Oxygenated. She wore no makeup, and didn’t need it. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, practical and sleek.
Mel was fit in a way that wasn’t performative. She didn’t go to the gym just for the aesthetic. She trained. She could lift weights most men used as ego props. She believed in proper hydration, boundaries, and progressive overload.
Where Andi radiated liberation and Honey commanded attention, Mel radiated certainty. She knew who she was. She knew what she could carry, whether it be light or heavy.
When she reached the table, she looked at the three of us and raised an eyebrow.
“So we’re unpacking James?” she asked in a joking way.
I exhaled. “Shut up!”
But then came the anomaly.
The only straight man brave and secure enough to voluntarily sit at a table with four opinionated, emotionally accurate people and survive it.
Andre walked in like he had absolutely nothing to prove.
White button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone just enough to reveal a strip of chest hair that felt aggressively heterosexual. Black trousers tailored but not tight. Clean white shoes. He wore rectangular shades that he removed when he arrived, scanning the table like he was assessing a business deal instead of brunch.
Andre exuded straight male confidence in the most non-threatening way. He wasn’t loud about it. Didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t flinch when stranger assumed things about him because of the company he kept. He stood comfortably in his masculinity. Secure enough to not feel diluted by ours.
He smirked. “Why do I feel like I’m about to hear about someone who didn’t text back?”
I stepped back.
I hated how accurate my friends were.
But I hugged him like a brother.
Now the table was complete.
Five seats. No more empty ones.
And so, chairs scraped. Bags dropped. Sunglasses came off like armor being worn off.
“Okay,” Andi started, waving for a server like she owned shares in the restaurant. “First of all, I need fries. I burned calories being stressed about my Japan plans.”
“You gotta move to actually burn calories,” Mel corrected, caressing Andi’s cheek.
Honey crossed her legs. “Only if you cry then calories get burned. And none of us are crying in public… yet.”
All four of them looked at me.
Andre leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm over the backrest. “So who are we mad at today?”
“I am not mad,” I said quickly.
“That wasn’t defensive at all,” Mel replied sarcastically.
