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The bus was a pressure cooker by 7:20 a.m., every stop adding more bodies until personal space was just a memory. I was pinned behind her, briefcase jammed between my shins, one hand death-gripping the overhead rail. She stood facing forward, left hand on the vertical pole. The brown daster—thin, worn cotton, the kind…

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Manila traffic is hell, but sometimes hell hands you heaven on a silver platter. I hopped on the EDSA Carousel at Ayala, already packed like sardines. That’s when I saw her: pure Makati corporate fantasy. Jet-black blazer cropped just above the waist, white silk camisole peeking underneath, and a black pencil skirt so tight…

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Man, I still get hard just thinking about it. This happened on one of those packed evening buses – the kind where everyone’s squeezed in like sardines, AC barely working, and the windows are cracked open because it’s hotter than hell. I was sitting near the back, trying to zone out after a long…