The air was thick with the weight of darting gazes and unspoken judgment. Beside me, the air conditioner hummed, breathing a chill so sharp it felt as though I were standing in the heart of a brewing blizzard.
I blinked twice, rooted to my spot, not daring to move an inch. I wouldn't have left my seat at all if my friends hadn't arrived to haul me toward our reserved table. Even over the thrum of the restaurant, I could hear the rhythmic friction of whispers—strangers weaving a narrative that I had been publicly rejected by a man far too busy for the likes of me.
I let out a heavy breath. My friends were already in a frantic huddle in front of me, their voices clashing as they argued over what had just transpired. They were the ones who had spent the afternoon nudging me toward him, orchestrating a proximity they hoped would spark something.
I shook my head slowly. How could this story ever find a positive ending? We were the main cast of this particular tale, yet we were pieces from two entirely different puzzles; our lives simply didn't fit.
Does this mean, Ensley, that you actually expected a "happily ever after" with him?
I took a long swig of water before clearing my throat, a silent command for the three women in front of me to pipe down. I knew they were worried, but I was fine—or at least, I was trying to be. I was simply stunned by his conduct. Surely he could have spared a few moments of civility rather than dismissing me so abruptly?
Silly me. Of course he couldn't. A man like that can't afford to slow down when he's so deeply wedded to his profession.
Sensing my mood, my friends dropped the subject. They filled the silence with trivial chatter and an abundance of food, insisting it was their treat. I knew it was their way of consoling me, despite my protests that the encounter hadn't affected me in the slightest.
Yeah, right, Ensley. It shouldn't affect you, yet it was the first time you'd ever interacted with a man of his caliber—and the first time a man had so blatantly disrespected your presence.
xxx
I took a deep breath, refocusing on the papers spread before me. I needed to finish these for tomorrow's interview. I was reading intently in the quiet of my room when a voice erupted from the living room—sharp, jagged, and dripping with vitriol.
"Look at this! Look what your gambling has done!" My father's voice climbed to a roar. "Weren't you warned? Your own daughter told you to stop squandering money! Who is going to pay these debts now?!"
I rushed out of my room, the sound of crashing furniture echoing through the hallway. In the living room, chaos had taken hold. Decor and essentials were scattered like debris after a storm.
My mother stood there, unmoved. She didn't flinch at my father's words or the objects flying past her as he surrendered to his rage. My brow furrowed, my heart aching with a familiar, heavy dread.
"What's happening?" I asked, stepping toward them. The room fell into a temporary, suffocating silence.
My father let out a ragged sigh and walked toward me. His hands trembled as he gripped my shoulders, his eyes wide and frantic.
"Stay out of this," my mother's voice drifted from behind him, cold and detached.
My father's grip tightened. I winced slightly, startled by the uncharacteristic force. I lowered my gaze, staring at our feet. I realized then that in the theater of family matters, I was merely an extra with no script.
"Keep your mouth shut, Ofelia," my father spat through gritted teeth.
He stepped aside, revealing my mother's face. Her eyes were narrowed, burning with that specific brand of indignation she wore whenever she felt wronged.
"Why are you so angry at me?" she demanded, standing tall and pointing a finger directly at me. "Your daughter is right there. She can pay off my debts!"
Her breathing was heavy, fueled by her own twisted sense of justification. I bit my lower lip, my eyes returning to the concrete floor. My heart felt too small for the weight it was being asked to carry.
"Do you even hear yourself?!" my father yelled, gesturing wildly at her. "This isn't just some small amount! And don't you dare drag my daughter into the mess you created!"
"If I can pay it, Father, I will," I interjected softly, still unable to look up. It hurt to think that, once again, I was the pivot point for their daily warfare. When will the day come when this chaos leaves us? When will we find peace?
"No, anak. Your mother's debt is far too large for—"
"Since she's already volunteering," my mother interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest, "I'll just pay the moneylender in installments. It's only a hundred thousand. You can surely cover that in a few months."
My eyes snapped up, locking onto hers in disbelief. She merely arched an eyebrow, silently daring me to protest.
"She won't even be able to afford to eat, Ofelia!" my father pleaded.
A hundred thousand? Where would I even find that kind of money? My earnings from the cafe barely covered our daily survival. I hadn't even finished college yet; a high-paying job was a distant dream.
Should I take a second job? Borrow from Berna? My mind raced, but no logical solution took root.
"Then you feed her!" my mother screamed before storming out of the house.
My father sank into a chair, eyes closed, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. "Your mother wasn't always like this. She used to be so tender, so mindful... she never wanted to give me trouble. Now, I don't even know who she is."
That night, the only sound in the house was the quiet, broken weeping of a man whose patience had finally reached its limit.
xxx
The next day, I sat in a daze on the university field while Berna and the others chattered around me. We were supposed to be finishing a take-home quiz, but my mind was miles away. I could feel their concerned stares, the way they exchanged looks when they thought I wasn't watching.
"What?" I finally asked, my voice calm but weary. "Just spit it out."
They hesitated until Sage finally spoke up. "You've been staring into space all day, Ensley. Even in class, it's obvious you're somewhere else."
I looked at them, and suddenly, the dam broke. Tears began to fall, and my friends immediately swarmed me, pulling me into a tight, collective embrace. They let me cry until the worst of it had passed before asking for the truth.
"Do you want us to lend you the hundred thousand?" Sage asked, her hand resting comfortingly on my shoulder. "My card has half a million on it. A hundred is nothing."
I looked at them, overwhelmed by their selflessness. "I can't possibly borrow that much from you."
"Is that the problem?" Xael chimed in, sipping her juice. "We'll just split it. The three of us will lend it to you."
"Exactly," Berna added, rummaging through her bag. "I'm heading to the bank later anyway."
Sage stood up, dusting off her clothes with a satisfied air. "Then it's settled. We each give you thirty-four thousand."
"Look at our future CPA, calculating already," Xael teased.
"So," Berna asked, looking me in the eye. "What's your answer?"
"Let me think about it," I replied, my brow furrowing. "I don't want to make a reckless decision." I was already worrying about how I'd ever pay them back.
We headed to our afternoon class, walking into a room buzzing with the nervous energy of an impending recitation. I took my usual seat next to Sage at the front, hoping the proximity to the professor would force me to focus.
I was so deep in thought that I didn't even notice the professor enter. I was the last to stand and greet him. As he began his lecture, his words seemed to bounce off a glass wall around my mind. Where do I get a hundred thousand when I only make four thousand a month? That barely covers the bills we already have.
"Ms. Dela Merced."
The sound of my name snapped the tether to my thoughts. I panicked, standing up so abruptly that my belongings clattered to the floor. A wave of laughter erupted from my classmates, Queenie's voice rising above the rest.
The professor simply shook his head at me. "Yes, sir?" I managed, scrambling to gather my things.
"Answer the question," he said, watching me intently.
Question? What question? I glanced at my friends. Their faces were etched with worry.
"W-what question, sir?" I stammered.
"Aren't you listening? What exactly is occupying your mind that you're staring so intently out the window?" He leaned against his desk, his irritation palpable.
"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
The snickering continued, and heat flooded my cheeks.
"Fine. I'll repeat it." He stood and walked toward my row. "How many Constitutions has the Philippines had?"
"Sir?" I gasped. I didn't know. I hadn't studied. My mind had been too full of debt and family brawls to make room for history.
"Do I have to repeat it again?! You know I hate repeating myself! You're only getting an exception because you're usually active! What is wrong with you today?!" He slammed his board eraser onto the table.
Tears pricked at my eyes. The shame was a physical weight. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Your apologies are repetitive! Just answer the question!" He was shouting now, and the whispers from the back of the room grew louder, sharper.
"I... I don't know, sir." I looked down, unable to face the room.
"You don't know? And you made us wait this long?" He slammed the eraser again. "Don't sit down, Ms. Dela Merced. You'll stand for the rest of the period!"
I nodded submissively, the humiliation complete. He turned his gaze to my side. "Next! Ms. Agustin!"
Sage stood up beside me. "Six, sir?" she said, her voice wavering slightly.
"Why do you sound unsure?"
"Six, sir," she repeated more firmly.
"Good. Sit. If there are six, name them. Ms. Sanchez."
Xael stood lazily, a smirk playing on her lips. She crossed her arms and rattled them off with practiced ease, "In general rule, there is only one Constitution being implemented, and during this day, we have the 1987 Constitution as the supreme law of the land. However, before that, we have, 1986 Provisional "Freedom" Constitution, 1973 Constitution, 1943 Constitution, which is the constitution during the Japanese Occupation, 1935 Constitution and lastly the 1899 Constitution," She sat down before the professor could even dismiss her.
For the rest of the hour, my friends carried the weight of the class, their sharp wit and intelligence keeping the professor's ire away from me, even as I remained standing.
As class ended, Queenie sauntered over, a mocking smile on her face. "That's what happens when you spend class daydreaming. Do you really think you're the main character of this story?"
"All those pocketbooks have turned your brain to dust," Xael countered smoothly, not even looking up.
"Did you even understand that?" Berna added with a smirk.
"How could she? Dust doesn't have ears," Sage chimed in.
Queenie's face reddened. "At least I wasn't the one humiliated earlier," she hissed.
Before it could escalate, the professor stepped between us, eyeing Queenie sternly. "You speak as if you always have the answers, Queenie. Remember this: Ensley failed to answer today, but you never have the answer every single discussion we ever had. Follow me to my office."
A small, genuine smile touched my lips. Perhaps the professor wasn't so bad after all.
As we walked toward the parking lot, the tension finally began to bleed away. "They're such idiots," Xael muttered, hands behind her head. "Acting like they're top of the class."
"Yeah, they think we're as clueless as they are," Sage added.
Berna was busy touching up her lipstick, likely preparing for a date. "At least Queenie's getting a sermon."
Sage dropped me off at my house, the ride unusually quiet. I watched the neighborhood children playing in the street, their laughter a sharp contrast to the heaviness in my chest.
"Are you okay?" Sage asked as I opened the car door.
"Of course," I lied, offering a quick smile.
"You're lying," she said softly. "Are you still having those dreams? The ones about the man from the book?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes. I had one right before I woke up this morning."
"You need to stop overthinking, Ensley. Maybe the stress is triggering them."
I waved as she drove away. How can I convince myself he's just a dream? The encounters felt too vivid, the heartbeat I felt in those moments too rhythmic and real to be a mere figment of a stressed mind.