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The sun punctuates the San Francisco sky with sunlight, and wind hits me with a cold strike, freckling goosebumps along my arms.

Aprilette opens the door to her apartment, the entrance framing her in her usual outfit, black jeans and a cashmere sweater.

“Kumusta kayo!” Aprilette greets. Her grin accentuates her pink lip gloss.

We take turns hugging her. My mom rubs her hands against Aprilette’s back and squeals in Tagalog how much she’s missed her. My dad says it’s great to see her again. Now that a screen isn’t separating us, it feels nice hugging my Atè.

When we part, Aprilette gives me a once-over. “You look ... different.”

“What a perfect way to greet your little sister,” I tease.

“It’s true. You’re,” she gives me another once-over as she fishes for the right word, “glowing.”

It’s nice to hear this, like I’m no longer the World’s Most Invisible Person. “Salamat, Atè!”

Aprilette leads us to her apartment.

Upon opening her door, the first thing I hear is Piolo swearing in Tagalog as something sizzles.

He whips his head to us and grins crookedly. He’s holding a bowl of what looks like sinigang, but the broth is shallow, and all the vegetables and salmon are burnt. One whiff and the burnt stench clogs my nose.

“Kumusta!” Piolo greets as if he wasn’t just swearing in Tagalog. His black hair is parted into two arches that frame his forehead. “Uh ... hope you enjoy?”

Aprilette studies the bowl. “You tried, my love.”

“A+ for effort,” I chime in.

Aprilette swings a look my way, biting her lip to stifle a laugh. “Emi!”

“I appreciate it!” Piolo calls to me.

“I’m sure we’ll love it,” my mom says.

“Salamat,” my dad tells him.

“No problem!” Piolo glances down at his bowl of attempted sinigang. “Just don’t eat the burnt parts.”

This cracks a laugh from all of us. I think Piolo won over my Atè with his brains and sense of humor. He always lightens Aprilette’s serious mood while she keeps him grounded into reality.

For the next few hours, we eat lumpia (cooked by Aprilette), pancit (also cooked by Aprilette), and the somewhat-sinigang (even if we hadn’t seen Piolo cooking, it’s obvious who cooked what) while sitting on the cushiony, grey couches. We talk in Tagalog, and my family and Piolo are surprised that I’m talking so much. As Piolo tells us about his work in a pharmacy lab, I take in the space around us.

The window’s blinds are opened, patterning the glass with white strips and the outside, where the trees sway through the wind’s gust. Behind me, an oil painting of Gustav Klimt’s The Lady in Gold hangs across the wall, encircled by framed photographs, some of Aprilette with us, others with her and Piolo, and a few of her at her UC Berkeley graduation. My Atè admires the regal gold of the painting, once saying it radiates with power and strength. I can’t help but notice the grey tones and the sadness in the Lady in Gold’s eyes.

Once we finish, I help Aprilette wash dishes while Piolo chats up my parents in Tagalog. Her kitchen, which follows a white theme with the cabinets attached to the walls, the cupboards surrounding us like the top half of a photograph, is so clean the sink and counters gleam.

As she breaks down her itinerary for today and this weekend, my mind drifts to Nora’s text. She’s agreed to drive me from San Francisco to Sunlight in time for my final presentation. I’m plotting ways to escape quietly. Aprilette continues talking while I think about presenting my photograph.

“Sound good, Emi?” Aprilette asks.

It’s only then that I realize I haven’t processed anything she’s said.

“Yeah, it does,” I say as casually as I can muster, wondering what the plans even are.

Guess I won’t come prepared today, but tomorrow, I’ll need to come prepared for something not on the itinerary I completely ignored.

****

Crossing through UC Berkeley’s campus is almost enough to make me want to come here. Almost. The white buildings, their roofs a pop of orange, are square like store-bought cakes. In the middle of campus, a belltower sprouts to the sky like a pencil against sky-blue paper. The grass is trimmed so short that it almost looks like green carpet. Trees are everywhere, their branches quilled with thick, lustrous leaves. Students march by carrying their laptops, and their backpacks, which bulge with what I believe are textbooks and notebooks, sag down their backs. The campus is beautiful, but I can’t see myself marching along with everyone else here.