Data Recovery

The ISO cafeteria is already humming when I arrive. Low-volume chaos like the campus is still deciding whether to be kind today. Condensation tracks down the glass of the chiller, a coffee machine coughs, trays clatter in a rhythm that never lands on the same beat twice. I pick the table near the window because it’s the only one with an outlet that isn’t dangling out of a cracked faceplate. Morning light slides through the pane and breaks into polite squares on the table, like it’s remembering how to be gentle.

I stack my things in the order that makes the world stop wobbling. Planner on the left, notes center, pen lined to the margin, highlighter parallel, laptop closed but ready. The whiteboard markers for my 10 a.m. seminar are rubber-banded into a neat bundle of black, blue, one sacrificial green that dies first. I open my planner to today’s spread, dots precise, boxes small. Empty squares are dangerous because they invite noise. I fill them with tasks, checkboxes, and scaffolded breath.

“Hey babes!”

The word hits the air with a grin. Chesca Santillan dropped into the chair across from me like gravity took one look and decided she deserved a softer landing. Two trays hit the table with tocino shining under a modest glare of oil, scrambled eggs that look like sunshine made edible, rice molded into a perfect half-moon. Two cups of brewed coffee steam between us. Her ribbon that’s in navy today catches the light, then settles against her hair like a verdict.

“You’re early,” I say.

“You’re earlier,” she counters, sliding one tray toward me. “And since the Lord invented interdependence and I invented being useful, I got you coffee.”

I hesitate. “I didn’t ask.”

“You never do,” she singsongs, pulling out her chair. “And yet here we are, both alive because I made decisions. Drink before your soul evaporates.”

I take the cup. The first breath off it is sharp, dark, correct. “Thanks.”

She plops her tote on the spare chair and peers at my planner like it’s a screenplay. “Okay, be honest. Why does your planner have more stickers than my life has structure?”

I lift an eyebrow. “Because structure prevents disaster.”

Chesca gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, you didn’t even blink when you said that. Aiah Ledesma, Devourer of Chaos. Wait, let me document.” She mimes typing. “‘Structure prevents disaster’ The Snob Queen, 8:06 a.m., ISO caf, under unforgiving fluorescence.”

“You’re loud.”

“I’m atmospheric.” She grins, already distributing cutlery like she runs the place. “Eat.”

We eat. Or rather, she eats like joy is something you can metabolize. I eat like I’m auditioning for calm. Her noise laughs in lowercase, commentary in italics should bother me. It doesn’t. It buffers the morning into something like a human temperature. She notices I pick around the edges first and pretends not to notice. This feels suspiciously like kindness.

“Okay, agenda,” she says, tapping the table with her fork as if the wood needs a metronome. “You have a quiz. I have a presentation. Together we have collective delulu management.”

I sip my coffee. “Collective what?”

“Delulu management.” Her eyes sparkle like she’s halfway to a punchline. “You know, the campus-wide condition where people see a small gesture and turn it into a feature-length film? Starring, incidentally, you.”

I press my mouth into a line that hopes to pass for neutral. Outside, two freshmen hover under the awning, whispering with the urgency of people who think volume can hide intention.

“’Di ba siya ’yung Snob Queen?” one says. “As in ’yung binigyan ng payong ni #16?”

“Oo,” the other says, reverent. “Like, hinawakan niya yung angle buong time para di mabasa ’yung notes. Sabi ni Liza sa BlueBoard, nag-adjust pa si #16 every time nag-shift si Snob Queen. Commitment.”

My pen pauses above my planner, mid-air. I don’t turn my head, but heat threads low under my skin, an electric filament, tidy and too bright.

Chesca notices but chooses the kind of discretion that makes me want to trust her. She tears a piece of tocino and chews thoughtfully, then leans in like she’s about to deliver a thesis.

“Okay,” she says. “Ship logic. Since denial is a river and we are chismosas apparently.”

“Don’t.”

“Gently, babes.” She softens her tone, making room. “People ship what repeats. That’s the whole science. One moment is cute. Two is coincidence. Three is pattern. And fandoms love pattern.”

I don’t comment. My coffee is suddenly very interesting.

“Exhibit A,” she continues, counting on her fingers. “Consistent caretaking. 8:10 coffee like clockwork, umbrella delivery with a precision angle. Hindi ko alam na may trigonometry ang kindness. Water bottle drop-offs, earplugs for the noise. And, this is key, wala siyang script about it. Hindi performative. No grand gestures with a live audience. Just… deposits.”

My chest tightens, then loosens. I take a bite of egg because chewing is a good place to put feelings that don’t have names yet.

“Exhibit B,” she says, wiggling another finger. “Mirroring. You two page-turn like a duet. Your breath cadence? Girl, don’t even get me started. Four in, six out ka. Six and six siya. Tapos somewhere in the middle you meet, magiging five and six na kayo soon, I swear. Pens aligned. Notes aligned. The internet calls that intimacy.”

“It’s coincidence,” I say, too fast.

“And Exhibit C,” she says, ignoring me like a professional. “Boundary-reading. She teases, then stops when you tighten. After your ‘talk less’ week na kasing subtle ng earthquake you noticed she changed tempo? People did. She recalibrated to you. That’s not just crush behavior, that’s good listening.”

I stare at her. “You treat this like a dataset.”

“Everything is a dataset if you’re nosy enough.” She winks. “But seriously, I’m not trying to make your life a telenovela. I’m saying…the reason people ship you isn’t because they’re delulu. It’s because your patterns are readable.”

I’m saved by the sound of a ladle hitting steel.

“Andito pala kayo, mga anak.” Aling Nena says, materializing with the inevitability of sunrise. Her apron is crisp, her gold necklace throws back the light like a small, steady sun. She sets a small brown paper packet on our table with a reverent thump. “Para sa inyo, yema. Para ganahan kayo sa quiz ninyo.”

She calls me anak the way people do who’ve decided to care without permission. Her palm lands on Chesca’s shoulder for a quick squeeze, and Chesca melts half a centimeter on contact.

“’Nay,” Chesca says, eyes widening like she’s being proposed to. “You’re an angel in an apron.”

“Libre ang kabaitan, anak,” Nena says, tapping the packet like she’s blessing it. “Kaya wag puro kape. Mag sweets din minsan.”

The paper is warm, like it’s been sitting on the edge of the oven just long enough to remember heat. I open it. The smell hits first, condensed milk caramelized into a note that sits somewhere between childhoood and now. The yema is imperfectly round, sugar-gritted at the edges, sticky-sweet. I pinch one gently and it yields, soft as a good apology.

“’Nay Nena,” I say, surprised by how my voice thins, “thank you.”

“Anak,” she replies, as if I’ve said nothing unusual, “kapag masyadong mapait ang araw, yema muna.” Her smile is mischief half-contained. “Tsaka sabihin mo dun sa favorite mo sa field—”

“Nay,” I warned quietly.

She grins wider. “Sabihin mo kumain nang maayos. Hindi puro sisig. Magkakasakit ’yon.” She winks and floats away, tray balanced like she’s performing a physics experiment no one else could pass.

We split the first yema. The sugar clings to my fingers, and Chesca licks off hers with zero shame, eyes fluttering in exaggerated bliss. “Do you hear the angels?” she says. “They’re in falsetto, yung isa medyo wala sa tono but still.”

The sweetness hits my tongue and then my chest. It’s sun-warm, slow, stubborn. The kind of simple you can’t fake. It softens something I didn’t know I was bracing.

Chesca notices. She chews, then lowers her voice. “Okay. Real talk?”

I nod, bracing without meaning to.

“Noise sometimes covers my nerves,” she says, eyes on the table. The confession arrives like a bird light, wary, ready to fly if I make the wrong sound. “Like, if I don’t fill the air, the air fills me. And the thoughts aren’t always… nice.”

I set the yema down, sugar print on my fingertip shining like a tiny constellation. “I use reading to hide in plain sight,” I answer, quiet enough to feel like treason. “If my eyes are busy, people assume I’m somewhere else.”

She meets my gaze and smiles, not triumphant, just relieved. “Mutual camouflage.”

“Mutual permission,” I edit, because vocabulary is how I maintain control when the ground shifts.

“Permission to what?” she asks.

“To sit in silence without being lonely,” I say, surprising myself with the accuracy. “And to talk without… auditioning.”

Chesca’s eyes brighten in that damp way that makes people look more themselves. “You’re good at words when you think no one’s grading you. Mabait naman pala ang Snob Queen.”

“No one is,” I remind her.

“Exactly.” She tips her head toward my planner. “Tell me something true. Not capital-T true. Just… yours.”

I glance at the window. The freshmen have migrated to a new patch of shade, still whispering. A third has joined them, animated, telling a story with her whole body.

“Okay,” I say. “My favorite pen ink is blue, but I bring black because professors respect black ink.”

She laughs. “That’s the most Aiah Ledesma thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Your turn.”

“Okay.” She leans in conspiratorially. “I pretend to drink my second coffee, but I just hold it for warmth. My tolerance is a myth created by marketing.”

“Liar.”

“Public figure.” She grins, then shrugs. “Also true.”

We let silence bloom. Not awkward, intentional. The cafeteria hums around us, metal on tile, laughter pitched a little too high, the dull drone of a TV in the corner playing a morning show that always sounds like a Friday even when it isn’t. It occurs to me that her noise, nested in this larger noise, has started to sound like… an anchor. Not something to fight, but something that knows how to hold.

“By the way,” she says eventually, twirling her fork like a baton she learned to control after breaking a lamp as a child. “The ship thing.”

“I thought we were done with that.”

She gives me a sympathetic no. “We’re never done with fandom. It just changes channels. I’m not saying you owe anyone a story. I am saying… the story people think they see isn’t coming from nowhere. They cite sources now.”

“Oh God.”

She counts on her fingers again. “Let’s recall. Reason one: caretaking, done quietly. Reason two: mirroring. Page turns, breath cadence, pens aligning like choreography. Reason three: boundary-reading, she teases, then stops. You said ‘talk less’? She did. People noticed when she changed tempo. That’s rare. Especially from someone who, no offense, has a lot of people wanting pieces of her.”

I swallow. The yema has made my mouth sweet, which feels like a betrayal to my carefully maintained neutrality.

“And reason four,” Chesca adds softly, like she’s setting a fragile thing on the table, “You. The way you look at her when you forget you’re trying not to.”

My pulse stutters. “I don’t—”

She raises both hands. “Wala akong sinabi. I’m just… an observer with a ribbon and a wi-fi connection.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“The most.” She smiles and the edges of it are free of mischief for once. “I won’t post on BlueBoard, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your life isn’t content to me.”

The relief lands so suddenly I see it before I feel it. My shoulders lower a millimeter, my jaw stops clamping. “Thank you.”

“Friends?” she asks, like she knows the word is heavier in my mouth than in hers.

I don’t do fast. I don’t do messy. But I recognize a bridge when someone builds one and backs away to let me cross by myself.

“Friends,” I say, and because I am who I am, I add… “On a trial period.”

She claps once, delighted. “Six-month probation, deliverables include honesty and snacks. Noted.”

A shadow slides across the table. “Masarap ba yung yema?” Aling Nena says, passing again with a tray. She taps the packet with two fingers. “Eto yema pa, pambaon niyo para pag nastress kayo mamaya, kainin niyo lang yan.”

“Copy, ’Nay,” Chesca chirps.

I fold the paper closed with a care I reserve for important documents and brittle feelings. There’s one yema left. I don’t pocket things that melt. I don’t save sweetness for later because ‘later’ is where regret lives. But I slide the last one into my planner’s inner sleeve anyway, a small bulge under the month’s calendar. Insurance, I tell myself. Or evidence. Or maybe proof that I am practicing… softness.

Diane appears in a blur of ponytail and iced coffee, a comet streaking through our atmosphere. “Snob Queen! Chesca! I need ten pesos or an exorcism.”

“Both cost the same,” Chesca says.

Diane digs through my coin purse without asking, which is allowed because she’s family and also because she’s annoying. “Thanks, A. By the way, rumor says Summit Axis is back to their villain arc. You didn’t hear it from me.”

“We didn’t,” I say. “Now go.”

She salutes sloppily. “Bye, children. Make good choices. Or at least make choices.”

When she’s gone, the air resets. Chesca finishes her eggs, then pushes her tray aside and props her chin on her palm, studying me with a curiosity that doesn’t feel predatory.

“Do you always sit like this?” she asks. “Back straight, ankles crossed, escape routes memorized?”

“I don’t memorize escape routes,” I say, lying with the confidence of a trained professional.

She smirks. “Okay, Captain Structure. Teach me how to not combust before my presentation.”

“Breathe four in, six out,” I answer. “And pretend you’re the only one in the room who knows what the whiteboard marker wants.”

She snorts. “Flirt with the marker. Got it.”

“Not flirt. Command.”

“Oooh,” she says, impressed, eyes wide. “You’re scary.”

“Efficient,” I correct, which makes her laugh again.

We split the last of the tocino like people who trust each other enough to share the best parts. Outside, the freshmen break apart, finally late enough to move. One turns back for a last look at our window, eyes bright with secondhand story. I pretend I don’t see it. Chesca pretends she does and says nothing.

“Come on,” she says, standing and gathering both trays with a competence that borders on art. “Walk me to class. We can test your respiration theory.”

“Fine,” I say, closing my planner. The yema in the sleeve makes it heavier somehow, like I’ve tucked a small sun inside.

We move through the cafeteria’s door into the day’s first true heat. The hum shifts to the open-air version of itself. Our shoulders almost, not quite, touch as we merge into the current of students.

“Hey,” Chesca says after a few steps, tone easy, like we’ve done this forever. “If the day goes bitter, I’m around. Yema theory of the legend Aling Nena. I’ll bring more.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’ll do it.”

I don’t answer. We pass under the acacia, leaves whispering the kind of gossip trees have long, patient, impossible to fact-check. My breath finds four and six. Hers lands on four and four, then, almost without looking, she lets hers stretch to match mine, adjusting like someone learning a dance by watching feet.

“People ship what repeats,” she says, mostly to herself. “Sometimes that’s how we notice we’re repeating.”

“Don’t start,” I warn, but it doesn’t have teeth.

She grins, ribbon catching light again. “Okay, okay. Trial period. I’ll behave.”

At the CTC steps we split, her toward a room full of other voices and me toward a seminar room with a whiteboard that always erases clean only if you talk to it first. We pause at the landing, a brief overlap in a day that will inevitably pull us into separate orbits.

“Break a leg,” she says, then leans in with the lightness of someone who’s learned the weight of touch. She taps the planner tucked against my side. “And eat yours later.”

“I don’t pocket sugar,” I say.

“You do now.” She starts backward, walking away with the confidence of a person who trusts the ground. “Bye, Aiah.”

“Bye, Chesca,” I say, and the name sits warm in my mouth like the last line of a good book you immediately want to read again.

When I turn toward my classroom, the yema shifts in its sleeve. A small, secret gravity tugging the corner of the day toward sweetness. I let it. For once, I let the day choose soft.

The next morning, the air feels sharper, brighter than it has any right to be. Katipunan hums like a system rebooting with trikes honking, vendors unstacking bottled water under the overpass, and the acacia above the SEC benches shaking out its first batch of sunlight.

I’m early again. Old habits, unbroken routines. My planner’s open on my lap, pen aligned to the spine. Diane’s iced coffee sits dangerously close to my notes, condensation forming a slow ring that creeps toward my margin.

“Hey, A!” Diane flops down beside me, her voice one decibel below a public announcement. “Guess what? The IT floor has a new meme, pero ngayon, Ateneo version daw.”

I don’t look up. “That sounds terrifying.”

“It is,” she says cheerfully, opening her phone. “Behold the ‘Snob Queen OS v1.3 (Stable Build).’”

I exhale. “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

She scrolls dramatically. “Patch notes daw. Improved sun-blocking feature, reduced teasing by twenty-three percent, added emotional firewall, and bonus is limited edition yema plug-in.”

I can’t help it. My mouth twitches upward. “Someone had too much free time.”

“Correction,” she grins. “Mikha had too much free time.”

Before I can form a reply, a voice cuts in behind us, smooth and low, carrying a hint of mischief that doesn’t need to try.

“Correction to the correction,” Mikha says, stepping into sunlight, hair still slightly damp from practice, jacket slung over her shoulder. “I was optimizing user experience.”

Diane snorts. “User experience? You mean flirting disguised as code updates?”

Mikha raises her brows in mock offense. “Excuse me, I am a professional.”

“Professional flirt?”

“Professional listener,” Mikha corrects, then shifts her gaze to me, brief, harmless, or at least it’s supposed to be. “Morning, Aiah.”

“Morning,” I answer, tone even. The word lands too soft for how loud my pulse feels.

She drops her duffel bag by the bench and sits across from us, stretching her legs like she owns gravity. The campus morning light finds her too easily as it always does.

“Okay, update time,” Diane declares, tapping her phone. “#Mikhaiah is still trending on BlueBoard.”

“Again?” I ask. “Didn’t that die down yesterday?”

“Apparently not.” Diane scrolls. “Listen to this. ‘When #16 adjusts the umbrella angle for the Snob Queen, you just know it’s love.’ May photo pa!”

“Photo?” Mikha leans over. “Wait, what photo?”

Diane turns the screen. “Someone caught you mid-umbrella tilt. Parang cinematic pa nga. May caption na, ‘Truly, a masterclass in precision.’”

Mikha groans, dragging a hand through her hair. “Oh great. Next time I’ll wear a disguise.”

“You mean next time, don’t be obvious,” Diane says, smirking.

“I wasn’t obvious,” Mikha counters. “I was considerate.”

I sigh. “You all realize this is absurd.”

“Absurd? Yes.” Diane grins. “But kilig? Also yes.”

Before I can reply, Chesca’s voice floats in from behind the benches. “Kilig daw, pero may planner open. Priorities.”

She sets down her iced coffee beside Diane’s, slides into the seat with a grin that could power half of SEC, and leans forward, eyes glinting. “Morning, team chaos.”

“You’re late,” Diane says.

“I was emotionally early,” Chesca replies, unbothered. “Also, yema delivery check.” She pulls out a small brown packet from her tote and slides it across the table toward me. “Aling Nena’s orders. ‘Para daw sa consistent na estudyante na mahilig mag-deny ng feelings.’ Her words, not mine.”

Mikha coughs. “Feelings?”

Chesca smirks. “If the shoe fits, Miss Umbrella Technician.”

Diane laughs so hard her straw nearly flies out of her drink. “Please, I’m writing that down.”

I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me. The group dynamic is its own weather system, unpredictable but somehow safe.

Mikha leans back, sipping her water, and for a moment it feels like everything slows. Students pass by, some greeting her as they go. She greets back casual, polite but every time, without fail, she turns slightly toward me as she answers. Like I’m the anchor point of her radius.

Diane notices. Of course she does.

“See?” she whispers conspiratorially. “That’s why people ship you. The micro-orbit.”

“The what?”

“She faces you when she talks to anyone else,” Diane says, whispering like she’s revealing national secrets. “It’s gravitational. Like you’re her north.”

“Stop analyzing me like a thesis,” Mikha mutters, though her ears tint the faintest pink.

I focus on my notes, pretending not to hear.

A group of sophomores walk past, giggling behind their hands. One of them not-so-subtly raises her phone. The shutter sound clicks before she can mute it.

Chesca catches it instantly. “Hey you, girl in a pink dress that doesn’t match your yellow shoes” She waves her straw like a sword. “Consent muna bago mag-documentation, ha!”

The girl stammers an apology and scurries off.

“Honestly,” Chesca mutters, shaking her head. “Next time maglalagay ako ng sign. ‘No paparazzi zone.’”

Mikha chuckles quietly. “You’ll need a whole union for that.”

“Union leader ka, obviously,” Diane says. “With matching banner: Protect #16’s peace.”

Mikha grins, playful again. “Then you’d be my PR head, Diane.”

“And Aiah?” Chesca asks with a smirk.

Mikha pauses just long enough to make the air tighten. “Quality control,” she says. “She’ll tell me when to stop talking.”

I look up. “Do you ever listen?”

Her smile softens. “Every time you speak.”

It’s too casual. Too public. Too easy. And yet it lands like static under my skin.

Chesca makes a face like she’s physically allergic to tension. “Okay, bago pa mag-sparks, let’s focus on our topic. Midterm survival.”

Diane flips open her tablet. “Quiz in five minutes, pero gusto pa rin natin mag-sitcom sa gitna ng SEC. Priorities.”

Mikha’s bottle leaves a faint ring on the bench table, dangerously close to my planner. Without a word, she takes the hem of her shirt and wipes the condensation away before it touches my notes. No commentary. No smirk. Just quiet reflex.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It’s just a gesture, the kind that happens before thought. But that’s the thing with Mikha Cruz. Her smallest actions are louder than most people’s sentences.

Chesca’s eyes flick between us, amused. “You know, that’s Exhibit D.”

“What?” I ask.

“The care pattern,” she says, counting off fingers. “Consistent. Automatic. Not performative. You can’t teach that.”

Diane laughs. “You sound like a guidance counselor.”

“I’m just observant,” Chesca says. “Maybe I’ll minor in Behavioral Science. Specialization: slow-burn idiots.”

“Hey!” Mikha protests.

“Statistically proven,” Chesca says, lifting her coffee. “You all just proved my hypothesis.”

I shake my head, but the sound of their laughter threads through the morning like something alive.

Diane starts showing another meme on her phone. “Look oh, may nag-edit ng Snob Queen OS logo. May splash screen pa! ‘Welcome, user Mikha Cruz. System uptime: 20 days, 12 hours.’”

Chesca nearly chokes on her drink. “Uy! Accurate ‘yung timestamp!”

Mikha presses a hand to her forehead. “I hate this school.”

“No, you love it,” Diane says, teasing. “Because someone’s here.”

“Who?” Mikha asks, feigning innocence.

Diane raises a brow. “Don’t test me.”

The banter loops like oxygen. And under it, a rhythm builds. Quiet, unspoken, but steady.

Mikha leans back again, gaze flicking briefly toward the field. “You all done with your quizzes later?”

“Almost,” I say. “You?”

“Training again at five. Coach’s orders.”

Chesca nudges her with her elbow. “Pagod na ‘yung katawan mo, pero ‘yung flirting muscles mo never napagod.”

Mikha laughs that full, reckless sound that fills every corner of the bench area. Students passing by glance over, some smiling, some whispering.

A familiar pang hits somewhere in my chest. Not sharp, just unfamiliar. A twinge that feels halfway between irritation and… something else. Because she’s laughing with them now. Easy, unbothered and I catch myself noticing how her eyes crease slightly, how sunlight catches on her hair.

Then I hate myself a little for noticing.

Diane glances at me. “Uy, you okay? You zoned out.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just thinking about my quiz.”

“Sure,” she says, unconvinced but merciful.

Chesca smirks. “Don’t worry, Aiah. You’re not the first to experience delayed system response around her.”

Mikha looks over, half-grinning, half-curious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Chesca singsongs. “Just… data collection.”

I inhale slowly. The breeze smells faintly of rain and cut grass.

Someone from a nearby bench drops a pen, and it rolls toward my foot. I pick it up, hand it back, and when I straighten, Mikha’s already watching me.

Her expression isn’t teasing this time. It’s soft. A little searching. Like she’s trying to read code that doesn’t compile.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “You okay?”

The question is simple, but it lands heavier than it should.

“Yes,” I say. “Just thinking.”

She nods slowly, still watching me for a moment before looking away.

The sunlight shifts, catching the edge of her wrist, the same wrist that once held my black elastic band.

I glance down, then back at her. She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and decides not to mention it.

Diane suddenly claps her hands. “Alright, geniuses. Quiz time. Last one to the classroom treats everyone to taho.”

“Deal,” Chesca says, grabbing her tote.

“Not fair,” Mikha protests. “I’m in a different class!”

“Then run faster,” Diane calls out, already jogging ahead.

Mikha stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You coming, Aiah?”

“In a minute,” I say.

She nods, lingering just long enough to brush the edge of my planner with her fingertips, a silent, steady rhythm. Then she jogs after them, laughter echoing down the path.

When they’re gone, I stare at the empty spot her water bottle left, the faint condensation mark she wiped away before it could reach my notes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s nothing. And yet, it feels like something I shouldn’t want to understand.

I close my planner and tuck it under my arm. The yema from yesterday shifts inside its sleeve, still intact, still waiting. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to eat it yet.

The bell rings just as the heat decides to arrive early. The air outside the SEC feels baked, the kind of warmth that makes even optimism sweat. We spill out from the benches in a half-formed line. Diane is still laughing about some meme, Chesca tapping her straw like a drummer, Mikha spinning her marker between her fingers.

Our Calculus lab sits on the third floor, one of those glass-walled rooms that looks like it’s built entirely out of reflections. Inside, light ricochets off every surface. The whiteboards gleam like unspoiled snow, markers line up in little color armies, and the projector hums a faint, nervous note.

Professor de Guzman stands at the front, half-smiling, half-plotting. “Good morning,” he says, voice steady, deceptively kind. “Let’s test your survival instincts today.”

Groans ripple through the room. Someone mutters, “Sir, it’s a Tuesday, be merciful.”

He ignores it, writing across the glass board with looping confidence: Optimization with Constraint + Geometric Interpretation (5 pts bonus).

It’s a long, word-dense monster of a problem. The kind that starts innocently (“Find the minimal surface area…”) then mutates halfway into an existential question about bounded regions and Lagrange multipliers.

I flip my notebook open, but the symbols already swim.

Professor de Guzman caps his marker. “Anyone willing to be brave?”

Silence.

A chair squeaks. Then another. Even the projector seems to dim in self-defense.

Then, from the second row, Mikha stands. Not dramatically, just… certain. Hair half-up, sleeves rolled, that faint post-practice glow still clinging to her.

“Can I try, sir?”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “By all means, Miss Cruz. Enlighten us.”

She crosses to the board, and suddenly the room rearranges itself around her. The marker squeaks, bright and deliberate.

“Okay,” she says, not to impress but to organize. “Let’s translate the words first.”

Her handwriting is clean, geometric. She writes the variables slowly: x, y, z → constraint equation → objective function. Then she sketches a quick diagram—vector arrows, intersecting planes.

“It’s easier if you see the geometry,” she says, stepping aside so the light catches the lines. “We’re minimizing surface area, but the volume’s fixed, so the shape has to adjust proportionally.”

A few students tilt their heads, following the arrows.

When someone frowns, Mikha pauses mid-sentence. “Wait, this part might be confusing.” She erases a step, rewrites it in simpler form. “We’re basically looking for the ratio that keeps the derivative equal on both sides. Like balancing effort between two directions.”

She glances at Professor de Guzman, who’s leaning on the desk, arms folded, impressed but pretending not to be. “Go on.”

Mikha nods, continues. “So the condition means our constraint is tangent to the objective surface. It’s like…” she gestures “…two planes just touching at one point but not cutting through.”

The analogy clicks. Even the class quiets.

She moves with rhythm: compute, explain, check, adjust. No arrogance, just fluency. Like she’s speaking a language that happens to sound like math.

From my seat, I watch the reflection of her on the glass board. The light bounces, catches the edge of her jaw, the small furrow between her brows when she concentrates. I’ve seen her animated, reckless, charming. I haven’t seen this.

It’s not showing off. It's a translation.

Every stroke of the marker is precise, patient. She’s building structure out of noise—turning confusion into something almost beautiful.

Someone whispers, “Ang galing niya,” and I can’t even disagree.

I realize I’ve stopped taking notes.

When she finally reaches the end, the board looks like a map that makes sense of chaos.

“…and that’s why the extrema land where they do,” she finishes, capping the marker. “Any questions?”

Professor de Guzman tilts his head, smiling now. “None from me. Excellent work.”

Applause flutters soft, genuine.

Mikha bows her head slightly, embarrassed, then wipes the marker ink from her fingers with tissue.

Under my breath, almost involuntary, I whisper, “Genius.”

She looks up, maybe hearing it.

Her voice is quiet when she replies. “I’m not a genius.” She glances down, thumb smudged with faint blue ink. “I just like numbers, Snob Queen.”

The simplicity disarms me more than any answer could.

The class shifts back into motion with pages turning, chairs creaking but my focus lingers on the board. The vectors, the clean symmetry, the calm in her logic.

I tell myself what I’m feeling is respect. Admiration. Professional acknowledgment. Not anything else.

But the truth is, it hums the same frequency as something I used to believe I’d outgrown.

When the bell rings, everyone rushes to pack up, laughter and chatter bouncing off the glass walls. Mikha stays behind for a moment, cleaning the last smudge off the board.

The scent of alcohol marker ink mixes with her citrus shampoo.

She looks at me briefly through the reflection, eyes meeting mine just long enough to register the silence between us. Then she smiles, not the teasing one, but the quiet, knowing kind and slips out the door.

I close my notebook slowly, lines of calculus still ghosting across my vision, and think that maybe numbers aren’t the only thing she understands how to translate.

The day after the math lab feels unnaturally long. Maybe it’s the heat that’s sharp, stubborn, like sunlight deciding to turn vindictive. Or maybe it’s the hangover of what I saw yesterday. Mikha at the whiteboard, calm, certain, translating chaos into logic like it was second nature.

I’ve told myself it was admiration. Academic, objective, controlled. But admiration shouldn’t replay in my head between slides of a Philosophy deck. It shouldn’t have weight.

By four p.m., the SEC walk is buzzing. Laughter, the faint thump of a basketball somewhere near the court, the rustle of acacia leaves whispering the same gossip they whispered yesterday.

Diane walks beside me, iced coffee in hand, earbuds dangling like decorative confusion. Chesca’s on my other side, hair half-up, sipping milk tea through a straw like it’s her life’s purpose.

They’re talking about a blockmate’s disastrous presentation, but my mind’s elsewhere restless, static.

Then I see her.

Down the path, near the vending machines.

Mikha Cruz.

Her bag slung low, still in her varsity jacket, laughter caught mid-echo. Beside her is Celina. Statistics varsity, same batch. I recognize the girl from one of their practice matches. She’s showing something on her phone, head tipped close. Mikha leans in, their shoulders nearly brushing.

They’re laughing that kind of easy, open laughter that doesn’t need to ask permission.

And something in my chest misfires.

The sound around me shifts to something duller, lower. Like someone’s adjusted the gain. My breath falters, counts wrong. Four in, five out, uneven. I slow down without meaning to.

Diane notices first. Of course she does.

“Uy,” she murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. “CPU ng cousin ko nag-throttle.”

Chesca grins behind her straw. “Firmware update: recognizing a feeling you don’t have vocabulary for.”

I shoot them both a look. “It’s… data contamination.”

“Sure,” Diane says, stretching the word like taffy. “Contamination daw. Pero nag-buffering ka, girl.”

I keep walking, or try to. My steps lag a beat behind theirs. I tell myself it’s just the heat. The light. The noise. But my pulse doesn’t listen to logic.

Mikha Cruz throws her head back laughing at something Celina shows her. The moment tilts. For half a second, I hate how easy it looks…that laughter. Like the field, the rain, the umbrella never existed.

Diane leans closer, whispering, “Relax, Aiah. Hindi mo naman siya property.”

“I’m not—” I start, but my voice sounds too defensive.

Chesca cuts in, wicked-soft. “You don’t have to be jealous to feel something.”

“I’m not feeling anything,” I say.

“Exactly,” Diane says. “That’s the problem.”

I want to glare at them, but my eyes betray me and flick back toward Mikha.

She’s still there, still laughing. Then she looks up.

The space between us feels smaller suddenly, compressed into light and air and everything we’re pretending not to see. She notices us, notices me, and lifts two fingers in a small salute.

It’s casual. Familiar. The kind of gesture that means nothing to anyone else.

I answer with a single nod, the professional kind. Controlled. Polite. The exact opposite of what I want to do.

Mikha smiles softer now, restrained, like she’s aware of the distance she shouldn’t cross.

The girl beside her, Celina, says something else. Mikha laughs again, but it’s different this time. Lighter. Shorter. Like she’s adjusting her volume. And of course, someone nearby notices. Because this campus thrives on patterns.

A sophomore walking behind us nudges her friend. “Uy, she smiled smaller at the other girl.”

Her friend hums. “Iba ’yung eyes pag kay Aiah, softer. Alam mong hindi same energy.”

The words hit like static. My spine straightens.

Diane catches it, grinning. “See? Even the public beta testers can read the code.”

Chesca laughs quietly. “Fandom thrives on deltas, babe. They see micro-variance like hawks.”

“Stop,” I mutter, but my tone lacks conviction.

Mikha and Celina start walking in the opposite direction. Their laughter fades, replaced by the hum of footsteps and the rustle of notebooks. I realize I’ve stopped again. Diane and Chesca wait a few steps ahead, exchanging a look I don’t want to decode.

“Come on,” Diane says softly, tapping my arm. “Class na ulit.”

I nod and follow, pretending the sunlight is what makes my chest ache.

That night, my planner is a battlefield.

The boxes are crooked. The checkmarks are uneven. Every margin is smudged with pencil instead of ink. My handwriting that’s usually neat enough to pass a background check looks distracted, like it’s trying to outrun itself.

I tell myself to focus. To list what needs to be done. Instead, I keep seeing the same image. Mikha Cruz leaning over someone else’s phone, her shoulders relaxed, her smile unguarded.

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. Except, it does.

My pen rolls off the desk and hits the floor with a small clatter.

When I bend to pick it up, it’s not the same one I dropped earlier today. This one has a small yellow sticky note wrapped around the barrel.

The handwriting is unmistakable, the looping lowercase, the confidence in every curve.

#021 / 100: Found what you didn’t know you lost.

I stare at it until the lines blur.

It’s my pen, the one I dropped on the SEC walk when I slowed down.

She must’ve picked it up.

There’s a faint ink smudge on the side, the kind that comes from someone holding it too long before deciding to give it back.

I haven't moved for a long time.

The room hums with the faint sound of traffic from Katipunan, the whirr of the ceiling fan, the steady tick of the clock on my desk. But under it all, a quieter rhythm pulses, that same steady, infuriating beat that started somewhere between the field and the umbrella.

I trace the note once with my thumb.

“Found what you didn’t know you lost.”

It sounds like an equation pretending to be a confession. I press the sticky flat against my planner’s page right beside the yema still wrapped from two days ago.

Some people leave breadcrumbs. She leaves coordinates. And I keep pretending I don’t know how to follow.

The condo is quiet except for the low hum of the air-conditioning and the faint thud of someone pacing in the hallway. Katipunan’s noise fades at this hour with trikes reduced to murmurs, laughter dissolving into wind.

I sit by the window with the lamp dimmed, my planner open like a wound that’s still learning how to close.

The sticky note glows faintly under the light.

#021 / 100: Found what you didn’t know you lost.

I trace the ink again, slow, as if reading braille.

It should just be a note. A small, passing gesture from a teammate, a friend, a classmate who happens to be everywhere. But something about it feels deliberate like she knew I’d stare too long. Like she knew I’d recognize the subtext even if I keep pretending I don’t.

I think about her handwriting. The loops, the measured slant, the way her letters lean forward, like they’re impatient to reach the next word. It’s the same way she moves through the world. Forward. Certain. Unapologetic.

I’m supposed to be the logical one. The planner, the scheduler, the girl who reads data like it’s prophecy. But I can’t quantify this. There’s no formula for someone who keeps turning up where your silence lives.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Just another act of her endless politeness, another proof of her exhausting habit of caring without asking permission.

And yet.

My chest still tightens every time I read the note. My hand still shakes when I tuck it back into my planner’s inner pocket, right next to the yema from Aling Nena that I still haven’t eaten.

It’s been two days. The sugar’s probably hardened by now. Still, I keep it. I tell myself it’s sentimental clutter. But if I’m honest, it’s evidence. Of what, I’m not ready to admit.

The ceiling fan hums above me. My breath falls into that familiar pattern. Four in, six out but it feels different tonight. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s rhythm.

Maybe it’s hers.

I close my planner slowly, the pen pressed beneath it like a secret.

For all my rules about structure, this is the one thing I can’t categorize.

What do you call a feeling that exists in the space between? Not love. Not friendship. Something quieter. Something with potential energy. A beginning, disguised as data.

When I turn off the lamp, the room folds into darkness, soft and unassuming. Outside, the acacia leaves rustle like static.

I lie down, eyes tracing the shadows across the ceiling, and think.

Maybe this is what discovery feels like. The slow, quiet panic of realizing you’ve been wrong about what your heart’s capable of.

And maybe denial is just the delay before you learn to name it.

The Rizal Library hums in low, disciplined silence, the kind that feels curated. Evening light spills across the carrels in long gold strokes, dust motes drifting like lazy punctuation. I’ve been here for an hour, maybe two, staring at words that refuse to arrange themselves into meaning.

Applied Sports Psychology. Chapter 6. “Motivational Resilience in High-Performance Environments.” The irony is not lost on me.

I’ve reread the same paragraph four times. My notes look meticulous but hollow. Every highlight feels performative like pretending that if I underline enough, my mind will fall in line.

The silence should be comforting. It usually is. But tonight, it feels like an emptied room. Like someone pressed mute on something that used to laugh.

I lean back, glance at the window. Outside, dusk has started to gather its colors, the pale orange giving way to a blue that looks bruised. The campus quiets differently at this hour, even the air feels tired.

I reach into my planner’s inner pocket. The yema from Aling Nena sits there, wrapped in paper that’s slightly crumpled now, its edges soft from travel.

I unwrap it slowly. The sweetness hits the air first, condensed milk and caramelized sugar, the smell of something human and uncomplicated. I bite into it. It melts. Sweet. Warm. Gentle. The kind of sweetness that doesn’t demand joy, it just reminds you it once existed.

For a few seconds, the tremor in my chest stills.

Then something shifts.

When I reopen my book, a thin brown envelope slides out and lands soundlessly on the desk. No seal. Just a line of handwriting in dark ink: To AL

I stare at it for a long time. The initials feel too personal to be coincidence.

I opened it.

Inside is one photograph. Slightly faded, the kind of print you only get from a film camera. A wide field. Bleachers in the background. Students mid-motion, caught between cheer and exhaustion. At the center, a runner with the number 16 pinned to her jersey, hair flying, muscles mid-tension, eyes focused on the finish line.

And in the far background, blurred but unmistakable, someone sitting on the bleachers. Counting with her fingers.

Me.

I remember that day, barely. AHS Intramurals, 2010. My cousin Diane dragged me out of the library to “watch something human for once.” I sat at the farthest corner, pretending to study but secretly tracking the numbers, timing the runners’ intervals, counting heartbeats instead of laps.

Runner #16 had caught my attention for reasons I couldn’t name then. She moved like she trusted the ground more than gravity. I didn’t know her name yet.

I turned the photo over.

On the back, written in the same looping hand as the note from my pen:

Fieldnotes: Before You Remember

My breath catches.

It’s impossible, and yet, too deliberate not to be true.

My pulse trips.

I reach for my phone, open the browser, type in muscle memory. The page loads still minimal, still cryptic. Her latest post is the same photo I am currently holding. #029 / 100: Before You Remember. #ifAthenAlways

The timestamp reads 5 minutes ago.

I stare at it until the words blur.

Before You Remember. Not when, before.

The distinction hurts.

I close the tab, shove my phone into my bag, and push away from the desk before I can think too hard. The librarian glances up at the movement, but I don’t stop.

Outside, the air has shifted, the first thin drops of rain tapping against the pavement. The kind of drizzle that feels like hesitation.

I stop under the Rizal Library awning.

She’s there.

Mikha Cruz stands by the concrete railing, bag slung over one shoulder, jacket half-zipped. Her hair’s damp at the edges, clinging to her face where the wind caught it. She’s not smiling, not teasing. Just… there.

No umbrella. No pretense. Just quiet recognition.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is rain collecting on the awning, sliding off in thin silver threads.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.

The silence between us hums something unresolved, electric, fragile. The kind of silence that feels like both an ending and a beginning.

I tighten my grip on the photograph, the edges damp from my fingers. I could ask why she had it. I could demand how she knew. But instead, I slide the photo into my planner, under the elastic strap, next to the yema wrapper and the sticky note she left days ago. My own small archive of things I can’t admit aloud.

The rain sharpens. Mikha glances at the sky, then back at me, as if checking if I’ll stay dry. And maybe that’s her entire language that’s unspoken, consistent, impossible to ignore.

My throat tightens.

When I finally speak, it’s barely a whisper. Something that escapes before I can control it.

“I still remember.”

The words hang there, half-swallowed by the rain, quiet enough that maybe she doesn’t hear them.

But she looks up anyway. Her eyes soften, the same softness the rumors kept insisting on. And in that single second, before I look away, I know she heard.

The rain falls harder. The air smells like metal and wet grass. And somewhere between the photo, the drizzle, and the ache sitting under my ribs, I realized that this isn’t the first time she’s been waiting.

It’s just the first time I’ve decided to stop walking past her.