Halo-halo? A chaotic shambles. It’s like a fruit salad had a meltdown—gulaman, leche flan, bananas, beans, all fighting for dominance like a budget orgy gone wrong. No one’s topping, just a sloppy mess. So when I first spied bingsu, I wasn’t exactly pulsating with desire. ₱200 a bowl? My wallet wasn’t up for it, and my pride was positively flaccid. Probably noticing the horrified look on my face, you jumped in, all charm and cheek. “Libre ko na,” you said, with a grin that could undo a chastity belt. I kept my cool, opting for the stingiest option—strawberries and red bean paste. Frugal, no fuss. But my brain was already whispering: Is this a date?

A Spoonful of Bingsu

That first spoonful wasn’t a tease—it was a full-on seduction. Shaved ice so fine it dissolved like a lover’s promise, strawberries tart enough to make my lips quiver, and creamy cow’s milk that slid down my throat with filthy precision. Vegan? Not this afternoon. When you’re this hot for someone, you’ll swallow anything. Judge me when you’re not drooling.

I moaned, just soft enough to pretend it was an accident. You smirked, sliding half your bowl my way. “Hati tayo,” you purred, voice dripping with suggestion. I was done for.

Cheeky Glances

The girls at the counter were lapping it up, whispering like they’d caught the opening act of a very specialised film. The air crackled. Our knees grazed under the table, a quiet rebellion in a country still grappling with queer visibility.

Fridays became our ritual. Bingsu or no bingsu, we’d share bowls and glances that lingered like a slow, deliberate lick. You’d talk—sometimes chatty, sometimes quiet, but always with that electric pause, like the moment before a button pops. One night, we strolled Quirino Avenue, Fairview Terraces to Fatima University and back, no plan, just rhythm. Your tales of almost-lovers and near misses were foreplay for my ears. I wanted to suck every word dry, even if it stung like a poorly timed thrust.

The FX ride home was cold, but not as cold as the empty seat where you should’ve been. I was aching for you, and you were nowhere near.

The Dubai Drop

Then you dropped it: Dubai. A year, you said, tossing “opportunity” around like it wasn’t a kick to my balls. I wanted to yell. To protest. “Stay, you feckin’ idiot. Feck Dubai. Feck the money. Feck everything but this.” And actually, I did. But eventually, I accepted the hard truth. With reluctance, I texted, “Ingat ka dun, ha,” like a spineless prat who’d flubbed the money shot.

The bingsu joint shuttered soon after, as if it knew our love story was knackered. I don’t haunt Fairview anymore—too far, too painful. But that first spoonful? It’s a sharp little jab I can’t shake. Sweet, cold, gone.

You’re still in Dubai, strutting as some influencer, all glitz and thirst traps. Me? I’m licking my lips, chasing a taste that melted faster than my resolve. That July night wasn’t about vegan dogma—it was about hunger, raw and unapologetic. Six years later, I’m still peckish. I pass new dessert spots, eyeing their overpriced bowls, wondering if they’ll ever hit like you did. They don’t. Like Filipino dishes born of trade and conquest that we’ve made our own, that bowl of bingsu lingers as a borrowed chill in my heart.