Page 6 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

“I’m just saying,” I continued, reaching for the menu. “We’re here to eat. And vibe. And be normal.”

“Normal?” Andi laughed. “We’re friends because we’re unhinged.”

The others nodded in agreement, save for Andre.

“I don’t know how I got adopted into this,” he said.

“You like the chaos,” Mel pointed out, putting her sunglasses on.

“I like observing it,” he corrected.

The waiter came, took our orders, and left us in a comfortable mess of overlapping conversations.

I listened. Really listened.

The clinking glasses. The small arguments about nothing. The way Honey touched my hand mid-sentence. The way Mel passed me water without asking. The way Andi defended me in hypothetical scenarios I hadn’t even described yet. The way Andre reasoned things out.

I didn’t say much after that. I missed this. I missed my friends.

Five months I had been gone to find myself after getting lost within the orbit of someone who eventually decided to give up on me.

I just sat there, watching my friends exist around me.

Then, Andi suddenly went silent as the others continued their conversation.

She turned to me and then asked softly, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

I smiled and shook my head. “Not now.”

Not because I didn’t want to, but because if I started talking about him, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d know how to stop.

“Okay,” she said, her smile soft but threaded with worry.

But I was fine.

I was surrounded by the people I loved.

“Let’s now plan James’ birthday!” Mel said excitedly.

The others chimed in with excitement as well.

“I have some ideas!” Honey said.

Maybe this was what stability felt like. Not fireworks. Not butterflies. Just a table for five.

CHAPTER 2

IT WAS ONLY THREE MONTHS!

The sun hung low over Southside—golden and lazy. The kind of light that made even pedestrian traffic look poetic, like everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be.

I sat at an outdoor table in front of Lost Books, frappe sweating against the wood, the hum of the city pressing in from one side and the soft murmurs of passersby from the other.

I stared down at my frappe, extra ice—the one drink I ordered most often here—and let my gaze drift to the shelves tucked just beyond the glass façade.

Visayan novels sat beside experimental poetry. Classics leaned against local art books and slim, self-published titles. The place looked was peaceful. Intentionally.

The bookshop was tiny but enchanting, painted green like it wanted to calm you down before you even stepped inside.