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Mornings are supposed to be mine.

The quiet hour before everything unravels. The sun still pale against the glass, the air sharp and untouched, the world not loud yet. That’s when I can breathe.

I wake the same way I always do, before my alarm, in a room that looks untouched. My bed is a perfect square of white sheets, corners tucked sharp enough to pass inspection. The curtains are drawn just enough to let in the first slant of light, pale against the wall. On my nightstand, a glass of water, half-drunk but fresh from last night, my watch aligned to the edge, and my phone screen dark until exactly 6:00 a.m.

Everything has a place.

My desk is clear except for my planner, opened to today’s page, each subject block written in blue ink, underlined once, no smudges. My books are stacked by subject, spines unbroken. Even my pens rest in their holder according to color: black, blue, red.

Order before noise. Routine before interruption. That’s how mornings should be.

My breath steadies in the quiet. For a second, it almost feels like the world will listen to me today.

But today, there’s a sound. A pen scratching. A mug clinking.

I step into the living room and stop.

Diane.

Hair wild, legs tucked under her like a cat, sipping coffee and scribbling furiously into her notebook. My couch looks like it lost the battle.

“You slept here?” My voice comes out flat.

She looks up, unfazed. “Morning to you too, A.”

“You know I don’t like anyone else sleeping here.”

That gets her attention. She grins, wide and unapologetic. “Relax, A. I’m family. Besides, your couch loves me. Look, it’s practically hugging me back.” She pats the cushion for emphasis, then goes back to scribbling.

I press my lips together, already fighting the headache. “Diane…”

“What? I needed peace and quiet.” She sips her coffee with exaggerated elegance. “Your condo is like a sanctuary. You should start charging rent.”

“I should,” I mutter, heading to the kitchen to make coffee.

It’s pointless to argue. Diane always treats boundaries like suggestions. And yet, despite myself, I don’t throw her out.

By the time I return, she’s leaning back, eyes on me with that familiar spark. “So… OrSem. Wild, huh?”

I hum noncommittally. “Chaotic.”

“And fun. Admit it.”

I don’t. Instead, I check today’s classes on my planner. If I ignore her long enough, maybe…

“You met Mikha Cruz yesterday, didn’t you?”

My head lifts before I can stop it. “How do you know her?”

Her pen stills. Then slowly, her lips curl into a smirk. “Ohhh. Interesting.”

I frown. “What?”

“You. Asking about someone. That never happens.” She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Normally, I’m the one telling stories, and you’re the one tuning out. But now, wow. You’re the one initiating.”

I tighten my grip on my cup. “I was just asking.”

“Sure, sure.” She makes a show of flipping a page in her notebook. “First time in history, Aiah Ledesma voluntarily asks about someone. Mark the calendar.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

She grins wider, voice dropping into a singsong. “Curious ka…”

“Diane.”

“Which is new…”

“Diane.”

“So maybe…”

She lifts her mug in mock-toast, triumphant. “Type mo si Mikha noh?”

I don’t even blink. “I’m not.”

She laughs, loud and bright, unfazed. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth as she lifts her mug like she’s won something. “Snobby Aiah, interested in someone. What a headline. Breaking news.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t give her more than a stare. With Diane, every reaction is fuel. Better to stay still, let the storm pass. Except I know her too well. This isn’t the end. She’s seen something, felt something, and Diane never lets go once she does.

I sip my coffee to hide the heat crawling up my neck, flipping my planner open as if schedules can shield me. Order is my excuse. Denial is my defense. But her smirk lingers in my head, louder than I’d like.

Like a glitch I can’t debug, no matter how many times I rerun the program.

Grabbing her notebook, she finally stands, stretching like she owns the place. “Anyway, I’ll head back to my unit. Don’t be late, A. Oh wait, you’re never late.”

The door shuts behind her, leaving quiet in her wake. I sip my coffee, check the clock. 7:00 a.m. sharp.

Early is control. Late is noise. If I get to campus before everyone else, I can find my classroom, get familiar with the corridors, maybe even claim a spot in the library.

But Diane’s teasing lingers like static, clinging to the corners of my thoughts.

Curious.

Mikha Cruz.

I shake my head once, firm. Noise is temporary. Order is permanent. At least, that’s the plan.

I close my planner, slide it neatly into my bag, and dress the way I always do: pressed clothes, hair brushed back, shoes polished enough that I could see the floor reflected in them. Every button fastened, every edge sharp. My ID lanyard lies flat across my chest. No chaos. No room for it.

The streets are still damp from the night’s rain when I step outside, Katipunan already stirring with students spilling out of dorms and condos. Vendors roll up their carts of pandesal and coffee sachets, tricycles groan past with music leaking from their radios. It’s noisy, but I tell myself the walk is part of the ritual step by step, system by system.

Crossing into Ateneo feels like stepping into another code altogether. The roads curve wider here, lined with acacia trees bending low enough to scatter light and shadow across the pavement. I pass through the gates, nodding at the guards who glance at IDs like clockwork. Beyond them, the campus opens into long stretches of green. The Blue Eagle Gym standing firm in the distance, the Church of the Gesù catching the morning sun, the Rizal Library looming with its glass façade. Students cluster in groups, voices bouncing under the canopy of trees, flyers already thrust into hands for org sign-ups.

I keep walking. I don’t slow down.

MIS. Management Information Systems. It sounded like a contradiction the first time I heard it. Management and information, people and machines. But that was what I wanted. Something practical, something structured, a program that built systems for the world to run on. Numbers and logic, but also strategy. Clean lines in the middle of the chaos.

And Ateneo, my parents called it tradition, my guidance counselor called it prestige. For me, it was control. A name that opened doors, a campus where everything had its place. At least, that’s what I told myself when I signed the forms. Order, built into the very system I’d chosen.

The first day of classes is supposed to feel orderly. New notebooks, clean pens, a schedule already printed in blue ink across my planner. If my life is a system, this is the launch sequence.

I arrive at the JGSOM steps ten minutes before call time. Early is control, late is noise. The building is glass and stone, sharp lines against a too-blue sky, its walls already humming with students who treat the day like a festival instead of an obligation. Flyers flap in the breeze, voices scatter into laughter. I adjust the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and remind myself that noise is temporary. Order is permanent.

Or it should be.

Because she’s there.

Mikha Cruz.

Waiting at the base of the steps like she planned it, sneakers untied, lanyard crooked, hair catching sunlight it doesn’t deserve. She spots me instantly. The grin hits first, fast and unfiltered, like she’s been holding it in her pocket since yesterday just to aim at me now.

“Good morning, A.”

The sound of it caught me off guard. Familiar already, though it shouldn’t be. I stopped on the last step, spine straight. “Don’t call me A. You’re not my cousin.”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with a mischief that felt dangerous. “Eh… pwedeng B?”

My brows pulled together. “What?”

Her voice dropped lower, teasing but steady, like a string pulled tight between us. “B as in… Babe?”

I froze. Just for a second. The word landed harder than it should have, echoing in a place I didn’t want touched. Heat flared under my collar, a quick rush I swallowed down before it could betray me. “You’re ridiculous.”

Her smile widened like she’d won something. “Ridiculously consistent,” she said, already falling into step beside me. The squeak of her sneakers fell into rhythm with my pulse, unwelcome, uneven. I kept my eyes forward, forcing stillness onto my face even as something restless stirred beneath it.

I keep my face still, eyes forward, but I can feel the grin radiating off her like static. “Yesterday was first impression,” she says easily. “Today’s second. Don’t worry, I’ve got at least ninety-eight more ready.”

My grip tightened on the strap of my bag. Ninety-eight. The number clung, absurd and stubborn, like her.

She leaned in just slightly, enough for me to catch the warmth of her voice. “One hundred days or more… I’ll do anything to get your attention.”

I should have cut it down right there. I should have told her no, should have filed this under Noise and walked faster. Instead, the words stayed with me, bright and reckless, like a line of code I hadn’t written but suddenly couldn’t delete.

We cross the courtyard together. She matches my pace like she’s rehearsed it. I keep my silence, but Mikha Cruz doesn’t need silence. She fills it on her own.

“Uy, nag-breakfast ka na ba?” she asks, holding up a pandesal wrapped in tissue. “Extra piece. Para sa’yo dapat.”

“I don’t eat bread in the morning,” I reply, clipped.

“Ah, healthy ka pala. Sige, next time, banana na lang.” She grins like she’s already planning tomorrow.

I ignore her. She takes it as encouragement.

“What about coffee? Coffee is universal. Strong, sweet, or kahit three-in-one? Alam mo, kaya kong hulaan order mo.”

I exhale slowly. “Don’t.”

“Don’t? Okay fine. Pero… iced Americano?”

My head turns before I can stop it.

Her grin grows smug. “Aba. Tama ako noh?”

I roll my eyes, refusing to answer. But she takes silence as victory, scribbling an invisible checkmark in the air.

We pass the Rizal Library, its glass catching the morning light. I glance at it once, already marking it in my mental map: quiet, structured, predictable. A sanctuary. Mikha points at it like it’s a carnival tent.

“First stop for the nerds,” she teases. “So… ikaw pala yun?”

“I prefer libraries,” I say.

“Figures,” she replies, grinning. “Ako, I prefer people. Mas maingay, mas masaya.”

Noise versus order. The difference hangs between us.

Further ahead, the Church of the Gesù towers over the hill, sunlight crowning its sharp lines. Students linger at the steps, some laughing, some praying. I feel a tug in my chest at the symmetry of the place, its discipline. Mikha whistles low.

“Wow. Ang fancy. So do you go there to, ano, pray for higher grades?”

I glance at her. “I don’t pray for grades. I earn them.”

Her grin returns, unbothered. “Ako kasi, I pray for my future.” She pauses just long enough for me to look at her, then adds, softer but smug. “For you.”

And then she winks.

Heat surges to my cheeks before I can stop it. My steps falter, not enough for her to notice, but enough for me to feel the crack in my composure. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag, spine straighter than the chapel’s sharp edges.

Ridiculous.

Except my pulse doesn’t agree.

But the word lodges in my chest, stubborn and bright, refusing to be dismissed as easily as it should.

We turn down the covered walk, concrete archways funneling voices into echoes. Students jostle past us, laughter bouncing between the pillars, and Mikha doesn’t miss a beat.

“So, A,” she says, still ignoring every warning I’ve given her, “if you’re the type to earn grades, does that mean you never fail?”

I give her a look. “Failure is avoidable.”

She grins wider. “Challenging. I like you.” Her eyes flash, and then she fumbles, quick correction tumbling out of her mouth. “Ay, I like it pala…”

I stop for half a second, spine stiffening. Her words hang in the air like a glitch in a clean line of code, impossible to un-hear.

Mikha scratches the back of her neck, pretending it’s nothing, but that grin that’s too cheeky, too pleased with itself, betrays her.

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous!

I quicken my pace, but she matches it without effort, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

Noise, I tell myself again.

Temporary.

Except… this noise feels alarmingly persistent.

“Fine, next question,” she says. “Favorite subject?”

“Math.”

“Figures. Numbers are boring but reliable.”

“They make sense,” I correct.

“Unlike people?” She bumps her shoulder lightly against mine, all casual bravado.

I don’t answer.

We pass the Rizal Library again, its glass catching the sun. Students wave, shout names, and yet Mikha keeps her attention pinned on me, as if I’m the only one walking beside her. She’s persistent. Unapologetic.

“So A,” she says, unbothered by my earlier warning, “MIS din pala course mo. Bakit MIS?”

I hesitate, not because I want to tell her, but because the question lands closer than I expected.

“Systems,” I say at last. “I like order. Precision. If there’s a process, the result is predictable.”

“Order?” She nudges her shoulder lightly against mine. “So ako yung noise?”

I glance at her, ready with a retort, but she’s smiling like she already knows the answer.

It takes me a second too long to realize what just happened. I don’t do this. I don’t explain myself to people, not in hallways, not on first days, not ever. Normally I shut conversations down before they start, file them under noise and move on. But with her… I slipped. I gave her something real.

Why?

The question needles at me, uncomfortable and insistent. She shouldn’t matter, not enough to pull words out of me I usually keep guarded. And yet here I am, still walking beside her, still answering.

I glance at her again, maybe to remind myself who I’m dealing with. Untied sneakers, lanyard crooked, hair catching the light in a way that looks careless instead of planned. Her smile, wide and unfiltered, shouldn’t hold its shape this long and yet it does, steady, as if she hasn’t run out of reasons to use it. Everything about her is disorganized, asymmetrical, off-balance. The kind of noise I should tune out.

So why can’t I?

Noise is supposed to be temporary. But walking through campus with her beside me, sneakers squeaking, laughter breaking rules I didn’t write, I realize that this noise lingers.

And I don’t know yet if that’s a problem.

Her words from earlier flicker back, one hundred days. Ridiculous. Except… why do I almost believe her?

The corridors funnel us toward our first classroom, the tide of students swelling as the clock edges closer to eight. Block A, MIS freshmen. My block. My system for the next four years. The door is already open. Inside the room, the air carries the faint tang of new paint and marker ink, the screen’s glow still dim. Desks cluster in tidy rows, ready for commands.

At the front, the professor writes his name on the board with sharp strokes, his presence already commanding the room. “Attendance is non-negotiable,” he announces without turning. “Tardiness will not be tolerated. Grades will be earned, not given.” His tone is clipped, final, as if he’s laying down the law of this universe. Order. Exactly how it should be.

And then, of course, Diane.

She waves at me from the second row, already sprawled across two chairs like she owns them. “A, I saved you a seat!” Her grin is wide, conspiratorial. Before I can object, she’s yanking the bag off the chair beside her and sliding it somewhere else.

By the time I reach her, it’s too late. Mikha Cruz is already slipping into the seat she’s cleared, sneakers tapping, grin unbothered.

“Perfect timing,” Diane whispers loudly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Groupmates tayo for life.”

I don’t dignify it with a response. My spine stays straight, my gaze on the board, the professor’s voice a lifeline.

And yet, out of the corner of my eye, I see her. Mikha Cruz, uncapping a pen, sliding an extra across the desk toward me without a word. When I don’t take it, she pulls out a small sticky note, scribbles something quick, and nudges it just close enough to catch my attention.

#002/100: Logged In.

I keep my face still, my hands folded neatly on my desk, my notes aligned with the edge. Outwardly, she’s nothing but another blockmate. Inwardly, I can’t stop noticing the curve of her handwriting, the way she leans back in her chair like she belongs here already, like she belongs beside me.

Assigned. Not by the professor, not by me but by Diane, by gravity, by whatever strange current keeps pulling her closer.

The professor clears his throat, marker tapping against the board. “Block A, welcome to MSYS 20: Introduction to MIS. This will set the tone for the rest of your degree. I’ll keep it simple: punctuality, participation, and precision.” His eyes sweep the room like a scanner. “If you’re late, don’t bother coming in. If you’re absent more than three times, you fail. Questions?”

Silence, except for pens scratching. Order. Discipline. Exactly what I want.

Beside me, Mikha Cruz is quiet. No jokes, no whispering. Her pen moves steadily across the page, writing down every word as if it matters. Her brows knit slightly in focus, her grin replaced with something sharper, steadier. I almost do a double take. For someone who treats the world like a playground, she listens like this is survival.

Diane, of course, doesn’t miss her cue. She raises her hand. “Sir, may intro-activity ba tayo?”

The class chuckles. The professor sighs, adjusting his glasses. “Fine. Keep it brief. Name and one thing about yourself.”

One by one, the room goes around. Names blur into hobbies like basketball, guitar, travel, photography. Diane goes before me, of course, announcing herself like she’s auditioning for a variety show. “I’m Diane. Life of the party, future alipin ng salapi, and your next best friend.” The class laughs, she bows dramatically.

I give the minimum. “Aiah Ledesma. MIS. I like systems.”

A few nods, polite, uninterested. Exactly what I wanted.

Then Mikha Cruz.

She leans back in her chair, voice casual but clear. “Mikha Cruz. MIS. Professional faller, ay baller pala. I’m a soccer player. You’ll see.”

Laughter bursts across the room, easy and unforced. She takes it in stride, shrugging with that same unbothered grin. And yet, when the professor turns back to the board, her posture shifts again. Pen in hand, attention locked forward, as if she’s carrying two selves: the chaos everyone sees, and the quiet focus I can’t stop noticing.

Noise versus order. And somehow, she’s both.

The professor dismisses us with a list of readings and a reminder to “never be late.” Desks scrape, chatter explodes, and the room shifts into a social marketplace. Blocks forming, alliances brewing. Diane dives straight into the noise, laughing with two girls behind us like they’ve known each other for years.

I pack my things neatly, stacking pens, closing my notebook exactly on the line.

“Hey, Aiah, right?” a boy leans over from the next row. “What high school were you from?”

I give a clipped nod. “Assumption.” Then I zip my bag.

He waits, expectant. “Oh, cool. So… why MIS?”

I adjust the strap on my bag, already standing. “It made sense.”

I don’t add more. I don’t slow down. I’m out the door before his awkward laugh fades.

Another girl catches me in the hallway. “Hi, are you part of any orgs already? They’re recruiting later—”

“I’m not interested.” My steps don’t falter.

By the time I reach the covered walk, I can feel it. Whispers chasing at my back, curious glances. Detached. Cold. Snob. The words aren’t said aloud, but they hang in the air like labels waiting to stick.

And maybe they should. Distance is simpler. Systems are easier when there are no variables.

From a few paces behind, I hear Diane’s laugh cut through the noise. “That’s my cousin. Snob Queen!” She says it like a joke, like it’s nothing, but I catch Mikha’s voice right after, lower, amused.

“Snob Queen? Interesting.”

I don’t turn around.

I walk faster.

The whispers trail me out of the classroom, faint but sticky: snob… cold… don’t bother.

Noise. Background chatter I refuse to process. I walk even faster, bag steady against my shoulder, until I find the quiet I’ve been craving, an empty stretch of corridor, sunlight cutting neat lines across the tiles.

It doesn’t last.

It never does.

By the time Diane catches up, she’s already in mid-laugh, two new friends trailing behind her like satellites. “A! Caf time. Sama ka na.” She loops her arm through mine before I can decline, steering me toward the swarm of voices and trays clattering in the cafeteria.

The room hums with chaos. Lines at the food stalls, chairs scraping, upperclassmen calling dibs on tables. I scan for an exit strategy, but Diane is stronger than she looks. Within seconds, we’re weaving between tables until she lands on an empty one with a triumphant grin.

“Seat saved!” She plops her notebook onto the chair across from me. “For my new bestie.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since just now.” Her grin widens as she waves across the room. “Hoy, Mikha!”

Of course.

Of course it’s her.

Mikha Cruz navigates the crowd with a tray balanced in one hand, two bottled waters tucked against her chest. Sneakers squeaking, lanyard crooked, same grin she wore this morning like it was built for her. She slides into the seat Diane cleared, placing one bottle in front of me without asking.

“Hydrate,” she says simply.

I stare at it. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Exactly.” She leans back in her chair, unbothered. “You wouldn’t.”

Diane claps her hands like she’s orchestrated a miracle. “Look at us! Block A’s power trio. Life buddies. Mark my words.”

“I didn’t sign anything,” I reply flatly.

“You don’t need to. Destiny signed for you.” Diane wiggles her eyebrows, already tearing into her sandwich.

Mikha leans forward, elbows on the table, chin propped up like she’s been waiting for this moment. “So, A… first day thoughts?”

“Efficient,” I answer.

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.” Then she points her fork at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll get a longer answer by Day 10.”

Diane nearly chokes on her drink. “Day ten?!” She slams the cup down, grinning wide. “Wait, are you—”

“Don’t encourage her,” I cut in, sharper than I intend.

Diane smirks, eyes darting between us like she’s watching her favorite teleserye unfold in real time. “Oh, I don’t have to encourage. This one doesn’t need it.”

Mikha doesn’t deny it. She only shrugs, grin still intact.

I want to argue, to say this isn’t part of any plan. But as Diane launches into a story loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear, Mikha watches me with that same steady grin. Like she knows something I don’t. Like she’s already logged today into her invisible system.

I sip my water, pretending not to notice the heat climbing up my neck. 

Noise.

Temporary.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But as Diane barrels through her second story and Mikha leans back in her chair, grinning like she’s already won something, I know one thing with certainty: temporary feels far too present.

Students scatter trying to get to their next class, trays abandoned, chatter spilling into the hallways. Diane loops her arm through mine, tugging me along before I can protest.

“MIS lab orientation, let’s go! This one’s fun.”

Fun is not how I’d describe a computer lab. It’s fluorescent lighting and clicking keyboards, the faint hum of machines booting up. Predictable, orderly, until Diane pulls the chair beside me back with a flourish.

“For Mikha.”

I narrow my eyes. “Diane—”

She waves me off, plopping into the seat on my other side. “Relax, A. Lab partners, destiny, blah blah.”

Mikha drops into the chair, grinning like she belongs there. “Don’t worry, I’m good at this.”

The professor doesn’t waste time. “Your first exercise, a basic logic puzzle. Work with your seatmates. Solve it, explain your process.” He writes the puzzle on the board. Simple in form, layered in complexity.

Mikha leans forward immediately, sketching rough boxes and arrows on scratch paper. “Okay, so ganito. If A is true, then B has to flip—pero wait, pwede rin baliktad kung may condition C. Gets?” Her pen moves fast, her explanations half-chaotic.

I glance at the mess of arrows and contradictions. “It’s not precise.”

She grins, unbothered. “But it works.”

I take the paper, redraw the lines cleanly, symbols aligned, conditions marked properly. “Now it works.”

For a moment, she’s quiet. Then her smile softens. “See? Spark and stabilizer. Perfect combo.”

I ignore that, typing the refined solution into the computer. Her hand brushes mine on the keyboard, warm and unintentional, or maybe intentional. My spine stiffens, but she doesn’t move away.

Diane leans across the desk, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Exhibit A: chemistry.”

I don’t look at her. I don’t look at Mikha either. My eyes stay fixed on the code compiling neatly on the screen. Order. Precision.

But beneath the hum of machines, I can feel it, the noise of her grin beside me, lingering longer than it should.

Last class of the day. Chairs scrape, zippers rasp, the hum of machines dies into the buzz of voices pouring out of the lab like carbonated air. Fluorescent light gives way to afternoon soft and low, the kind of light that makes everything look kinder than it really is.

We step into it. The SOM steps are bathed in gold, stone warm beneath the soles of my shoes. Below us, campus unravels into motion. Org banners twitch in the breeze, a guitar strums somewhere near JGSOM, laughter ricochets off the columns. The air smells faintly of grass and hot concrete, a little like the inside of a book left in the sun.

Diane’s phone buzzes. She glances once, grins like she’s just been invited to trouble. “Org meeting. Babalikan ko kayo,” she says, already backing down the steps. She points two fingers at her eyes and then at us, theatrically suspicious. “You. Be good.” Her gaze flicks to Mikha, wicked. “Okay, fine, be awesome.”

“Diane—” But she’s gone, swallowed by the river of students. Her laugh trails behind like confetti.

Which leaves me here. With her.

Mikha Cruz doesn’t fill the silence right away, and that throws me more than any joke could have. She stands one step below me, level with my shoulder, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. Her lanyard is crooked again, of course it is and the tiny rectangle of her ID bobs against her chest as the wind shifts. Her hair catches the light and refuses to let go.

I adjust the strap of my bag just to do something with my hands. “Your logic sketch earlier,” I say, voice even, careful. “It was messy. But it helped.”

For a heartbeat she doesn’t react, and then her face breaks open at sunrise, unfiltered. “Wow,” she says softly, like she doesn’t want to scare it away. “A ‘thank you’ from Aiah Ledesma. Achievement unlocked.”

“It wasn’t a thank you,” I counter automatically. “It was a statement of fact.”

“Same vibes,” she teases, but the edge is gentle. “Tinatanggap ko pa rin.”

I should leave it there. Walk away. Fold this moment into something small and harmless. Instead, the quiet stretches warm and elastic between us. The gold in the air makes the edges of everything softer. The curve of the handrail, the distant blue of the gym, the smudged fingerprints on the glass doors behind us. Students drift past in pairs and clusters. Somewhere a whistle pierces the noise and then disappears.

“You don’t have to wait for me in the mornings,” I say at last, because system restoration is my reflex. “Don’t do that. I don’t need anyone.”

Her head tilts, and for once, the grin thins into something steadier. “I know you don’t,” she answers, simple as weather. “But I want to, Aiah.”

I look at her. “That isn’t the point.”

“Eh, that’s my point.” She smiles, but there’s a thread of seriousness stitched through it now. “So no matter what you say, I’ll be here every morning. Waiting for you.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my face still. Past the steps, a gust of wind lifts a paper flyer from the pavement and spins it, a brief white bird, before it lands in the grass. I watch it as if it matters.

“Persistent,” I say.

“Consistent,” she corrects, softly pleased. “There’s a difference.”

She pulls a small notepad from her back pocket with edges frayed, cover bent like it’s been sat on. With a flourish that would be ridiculous if it didn’t feel like a vow, she flips to today’s page and holds it where I can see. It’s the same words from the sticky note she gave me earlier.

#002/100: Logged In.

The ink is bold, almost arrogant. Day two. I should roll my eyes. I should tell her to erase it, to stop pretending time is a staircase she can climb toward me. Instead I just… look. There’s a smudge on the corner where her thumb pressed too hard. Below the line is a cramped scrawl, coordinates? Doodles? The page smells faintly like cheap ballpen ink and the sugar of something she must have eaten earlier.

“Day 3 tomorrow,” she says, tapping the number with her pen, like I might miss it if she doesn’t.

“It’s not a game,” I answer, words crisp. “You can’t quantify people.”

“Who said I was?” Her eyes meet mine, and for once there’s no joke hiding underneath. “Hindi to scoreboard. Log lang. Proof na I showed up.” A beat, then lighter. “Look it’s cute. Aminin mo.”

I won’t. I don’t.

Someone shouts a name from the bottom of the steps; two boys race each other toward the road, brandishing a basketball. The light slants lower, laying long shadows along the risers. A small flock of birds lifts off the Gesù roofline and wheels once, then twice, like an animated loop someone forgot to end.

“Why MIS?” she asks suddenly, voice softer than it was an hour ago. “For real. Hindi ‘yung safe answer.”

“I gave you the real answer,” I say. “Systems. Order. Precision. If there’s a process, the result is predictable.”

“Predictable,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word. “Do you like predictable?”

“Yes.” I hesitate, then tell the truth because it seems safer than silence. “It’s restful.”

Her mouth curves. “Then I’m probably, what’s the term, unrestful.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Gagawin ko siyang word.” She angles her body a little, so we’re both facing the same view. The campus spilling gold and green below us, the road cutting clean as a sentence through the trees. “Alam mo, minsan gusto ko yung hindi predictable. Like today.” She gestures lazily between us. “Hindi ko in-expect na you’ll say ‘thank you.’ Sulat ko na nga ‘yon.”

She scribbles something beneath #002/100 and I hate that I want to know what. The urge is unfamiliar and unwelcome, like a hiccup that refuses to pass.

“You’re ridiculous,” I say, because it’s easier than admitting anything else.

“Pero irresistible,” she replies automatically, then bites her lip, laughing at herself. “Kidding. Half kidding.” She tucks the notepad back into her pocket and rocks once on her heels, sneakers giving a soft squeak against the stone. “Can I ask one thing? Promise, one lang.”

“No.”

She pretends not to hear me. “Do you always walk this route? Gate to SOM, then loop past Rizal, then the covered walk?”

I think of this morning, of the way she kept time with me without asking, how she seemed to know when to slow, when to match my pace. “Yes,” I say before I can stop myself. “I like… consistency.”

“Good,” she says, brightening like I just handed her a map. “Mas madaling abangan.”

“Mikha.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t.” The word comes quiet, a thin line drawn in chalk.

“Okay,” she says, and for a second I’m startled until she adds, gently stubborn, “I heard you. I just don’t agree.”

The honesty lands heavier than any joke. We stand there while the campus exhales around us, while the sky slides from honey to something deeper. A boy behind us tries to impress a girl with a coin trick. It drops, clinks, rolls, and the three of them scramble after it, laughing. A guard passes by and nods, I nod back. Mikha lifts two fingers in a salute, and the guard grins, familiar already with this girl who calls everyone kuya.

I catalog these useless details because they’re easier to name than whatever is happening inside my chest. Order is naming. Order is counting. One: the way her voice loses its bravado when she says something real. Two: the triangle of sun warming the notch of her collarbone. Three: the way she tracks me without crowding, giving me a step’s worth of space like she measured and decided that was as close as she’s allowed to stand today.

“Do you always do this?” I ask, surprising myself.

“Do what?”

“Decide on something and then… show up for it.”

She thinks about it, gaze drifting to the trees. “Sometimes,” she says. “If it feels worth it.”

“And I feel worth it?” The question is an error message. I want to delete it the second it leaves my mouth.

“Since the moment I saw you,” she answers, no flourish this time. It lands like a truth that doesn’t need defending.

I open my mouth and then close it again. The sun slips another fraction down the sky. A runner jogs past, breath in steady rhythm, laces smacking softly against the stone. Somewhere, a choir warms up, sound floats thin and silver, barely there.

“I’m not—” I start, then shake my head. “Never mind.”

She waits. She’s good at that, I realize with a spike of irritation that isn’t really irritation. She waits without pressing, as if patience itself is her language. The Mission Log might be a joke on paper, but in her hands it feels like a steady drumbeat. Day one. Day two. Day three.

“Why are you nice to everyone?” I ask, because the other question, the one threading heat through my pulse is not safe. “You greet the guards. You share food with strangers. You—” I stop.

She shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “Mas masaya kapag hindi tipid sa bait.” Then, quieter “And sometimes people need it. Kahit ‘di nila hinihingi.”

“I don’t need it,” I say.

“Alam ko.” Her smile tilts. “Pero gusto ko pa rin ibigay.”

I stare at the line of her mouth and hate that I notice the way it softens at the edges. The sky is full-on amber now, shadows long and dramatic across the steps. A dragonfly hovers, iridescent for a moment, then darts away.

“I’m going,” I say, because my system requires exits.

“Copy,” she replies, cheerful again. “Walk you to the gate?”

“No.”

She nods, accepting the limit as if I drew it on a whiteboard. “See you tomorrow, A.”

“Don’t call me—”

“Okay. Aiah,” she corrects, and the way my name sounds in her voice makes something small and traitorous go quiet inside me.

She takes one step backward, then another, walking the line between leaving and staying. “Day three,” she says, tapping her pocket where the notepad rests. “Mission Log continues.”

“Do not—”

“I heard you,” she says again, soft. “Good night.”

“It’s not night,” I say, because precision is easier than honesty.

She laughs. “Good golden hour, then.” She gives a small, ridiculous bow and turns away, merging with the flow of students until the color of her shirt blends with the rest.

I should feel relief as the space she occupied collapses back into air. Instead, the absence draws an outline around everything she left behind. A numbered promise, an uninvited warmth, a crack in a system that prides itself on being airtight.

I stand there for one more measured minute, watching the campus shift from day to something in between. My shadow stretches long on the stone. I adjust my bag, align the strap with my shoulder seam, check the time because that is what I do when I don’t want to check my pulse.

This wasn’t in the plan.

But maybe the variable wasn’t meant to be erased.