Ibarra Monologue

Person A is a pickpocket. Person B is an ordinary commuter. Person A tries to grab Person B's phone, but at the same time they do, Person A's hand flies to their pocket. Their hands touch. You decide what happens after that.
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The heat seemed to press on him, wearing him down as if he's got a heavy load on his back. On top of that, Ibarra was late. He was supposed to meet Clarita in five minutes, yet there he was, still stuck in EDSA traffic, in a cramped and smelly G-Liner, drenched not only in his sweat but also in the sweat of all the others pressing in around him.
In addition to that, he was sure he already got groped—whether accidentally or not, he didn't know—four times since he got on the bus.
He turned his face towards the bus's dirty ceiling, towards the dimming fluorescent light; as if praying for salvation. Dear god, if they couldn't do anything about the traffic, they damn well should've gotten better buses. Ones with better air-conditioning. Ones which didn't look as if they were one gas pedal away from falling apart.
Ibarra sighed. He promised
His eyes reminded him of sand between his toes and diving headfirst into rivers, of rallies and protests and heated arguments and leaving, only to never look back. His head hurt from the staccato burst of fragmented memories, bits and pieces that don’t fit together or make sense. His chest ached with a pang of regret that seemed to come out of thin air but shocked him senseless nonetheless. His entire being trembled with frustration from not remembering someone who made him feel so much. Hell, even the stitch that lay at his side, the one which closed a bullet wound that nearly killed him; burned. Ibarra had to check to make sure it hasn’t split open. That man tried to steal his phone, for God’s sake. He shouldn’t be making Ibarra feel… weird. Nostalgic. Frazzled.