The Empty Battery
The screen has a web of cracks, not just one clean line—each fracture a memory from that afternoon Aljon dropped it while choking on his bubble tea. Every night at 11:43, Patricia's fingertips hover over these imperfections before plugging in his phone. These jagged lines have become her rosary beads now.
Their cramped Makati apartment feels emptier during blackouts. When the Samsung tone breaks through the darkness, her chest tightens. The charging animation sputters before steadying—12%. It's dying faster these days.
His last messages mock her from the screen:
"Order some Chickenjoy. I'm starving."
"Sure love. We still have extra gravy."
"Low battery. Should charge but I'm running late."
She should have insisted he stay to charge it. Then maybe he would have missed the monsoon rain, the oil-slicked street near Ayala, the delivery truck that ran the red light.
During tonight's blackout—the fourth this week—she huddles on their unwashed sheets, the phone's glow reflecting off the dusty Santo Niño. Her thumb trembles through their gallery: Aljon wearing that ridiculous Santa hat at last year's office party, his failed attempt at cooking sinigang, the blurry selfies from their Tagaytay weekend when the fog was too thick to see Taal.
A system update notification appears again. Her finger stabs "Later," like she has for months. She can't risk losing his voice commands, those fragments of him saying "Hey Bixby" that she plays during her sleepless nights, when even the karaoke bars below finally shut up.
The phone hiccups—another birthday reminder. She keeps meaning to delete them but can't bring herself to open the calendar app. It still marks everything: his mother's check-ups, their monthly date night at Jollibee, the insurance premium that arrived three days after the wake.
Last week, she found a draft: "I found the perfect anniversary gift at..." The cursor still blinks there, waiting for words that will never come.
The battery icon crawls upward—91%, 92%, 93%. The charging port is loose now, the cable wrapped in too much electrical tape. She's hoarded five spare cables, though finding ones for this old model gets harder each month.
Sometimes at SM Makati, that generic Samsung ringtone freezes her between clothing racks. Once, at Mercury Drug, it sent her stumbling into a display of vitamins, the pharmacist's concerned face swimming through her tears.
She knows the exact count: 947 photos (two accidentally deleted during a bus ride), 2,156 messages (including the spam), and 8 voicemails that take longer to load each time. Every Sunday after serving at St. Anthony church, she recounts them, watching the battery health slip from 89% to 84% to 80%. His last voicemail, recorded during his lunch break at the call center, begins with static before his voice cuts through: "Hello my love" and ends with "Take care always," though the audio sometimes cuts out now.
The phone company emails weekly about upgrades. His model isn't just obsolete—it's ancient. But she'll keep charging it, night after night, at exactly 11:43, her fingers memorizing each crack in the screen.
Because in a city where nothing lasts—not even the tall buildings that keep replacing their old neighborhood—some things weren't meant to be permanent. But grief, like a dying battery, just needs constant recharging, even when you know it will eventually fade to black.
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