Work Text:
The gymnasium always smelled like sweat, rubber soles, and microwave popcorn—an odd trifecta that somehow became the official scent of school-wide events. Jhoanna wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the bleachers, clutching her battered Canon camera with one hand and a blue-covered notebook with the other. She was, unfortunately, not here to enjoy anything. She was here to work.
The Sentinel’s coverage schedule for the week looked like a disaster—two club fairs, a seminar on mental health awareness, and this, the annual inter-departmental singing contest that always drew the loudest crowd and, paradoxically, the least interest from the publication team.
“I don’t even like singing contests,” Jhoanna mumbled to herself, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she made her way toward the media section near the stage. The acoustics were terrible—typical of the gym. Sound bounced off the walls like a bad echo of a forgotten karaoke night. But duty was duty. And she was the editor-in-chief.
She set her things down beside the plastic barrier and adjusted the strap of her camera around her neck.
Click. Click. Test shots.
Click. Bleachers. Click. A classmate waving at her.
Behind her, someone sat down with the soft rustle of a canvas tote bag. “Ready na si chief, oh.”
“Aiah,” Jhoanna sighed in relief. “Please tell me you’re here to help me cover this.”
“Girl, no. I’m just here to enjoy the show,” Aiah replied, smug as ever, sipping on a plastic cup of iced matcha. “Wala akong dalang anything. I’m just a humble spectator today.”
“Tsk. Freeloading ka na naman.”
“Excuse me,” Aiah said, flipping her hair. “I’m here to support art. Ikaw lang ‘tong masyadong elitista sa mga ganap sa gym.”
Jhoanna rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she turned back to the stage, where a student was finishing a rendition of Hawak Kamay that bordered on painful.
Click. Just in case.
She scribbled a quick note on her pad: “Grade 11 STEM-D, Valerio. Nasaan ang tono.”
And then: “Sound system laging sablay. Mention sa article.”
The emcee came up again, this time with more energy. “Alright! Let’s keep it going! Next up, representing Grade 12 ABM-A—please welcome Nicolette Vergara!”
The moment her name was spoken, something shifted.
It wasn’t just the cheers—it was how people cheered. Loud. Eager. Familiar, like a pop star was about to walk in.
Jhoanna blinked. “Wait, why is everyone suddenly—”
“You don’t know Colet?” Aiah asked, wide-eyed. “Jho. How.”
“Should I?” Jhoanna replied, her camera raised halfway, confused.
“She’s the Colet. As in, last year’s champion. And the year before that. And the year before that. Literal legend. Kahit sa junior high, pinapanood na siya. She’s like… unbeatable.”
And then, Colet stepped into the light.
It wasn’t even dramatic—no wind machine, no fog. Just her.
But it was enough.
Jhoanna’s camera hung limp around her neck again.
Colet stood at center stage with the mic in one hand, the other loosely at her side. Her hair was free falling, and she wore plain black sleeveless and loose pants, but somehow, it looked like a stage costume. The moment the first few piano notes started, she tilted her head slightly, eyes closed, and took a breath.
Then she sang.
And Jhoanna forgot why she even showed up today.
Colet’s voice wasn’t just pretty—it was alive. Fluid. Sharp where it needed to be, soft where it mattered. She didn’t belt for applause; she sang like it hurt to keep the song inside her. Every vowel curved like it meant something. Every lyric felt pulled from a wound.
Jhoanna stared. Openly. Blatantly. Something curled in her stomach—a mixture of awe, disbelief, and maybe a little fear.
“What the hell,” she whispered.
Aiah laughed. “I told you.”
“She’s insane.”
“Sobra, girl. And, fun fact—ayaw niya sa atin.”
Jhoanna turned, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Journalism people. As in, ‘The Sentinel’ in general. May one-sided beef siya. One time daw nag-cover ‘yung old team sa contest tapos parang mali ‘yung spelling ng name niya or something? Tapos may nasulat pa na ‘dramatic diva ’ sa caption.”
Jhoanna blinked. “That’s... petty.”
“‘Di ba? But ever since then, deadma siya sa atin. Like, kung mag-interview ka, good luck. She won’t even look at you.”
But Jhoanna wasn’t listening anymore.
She’d raised her camera again, snapping shots—this time carefully, slowly, reverently. Every angle mattered. She zoomed in on Colet’s eyes, her hand gripping the mic, the curve of her mouth mid-note.
She needed to remember this. To document this.
Even if Colet would probably hate her for it.
As the song ended—some aching OPM ballad about forgetting and forgiving—Colet opened her eyes. Just for a second.
And they swept over the crowd.
Jhoanna didn’t know if she imagined it, but she thought, maybe, they landed on her for a heartbeat too long.
The crowd erupted. Cheers. Claps. A few whistles.
Colet bowed slightly. No smile. Just calm, collected grace.
Jhoanna exhaled shakily. Her pen touched paper again. This time, she just wrote:
“Nicolette Vergara. Grade 12 ABM-A. Voice like soft thunder. Eyes like an earthquake.”
Aiah was still talking. “Don’t even try, okay? Like, if you’re planning to get her to talk to you, wala kang chance.”
10:03 PM. Jhoanna’s desk was a war zone.
Scattered drafts of captions. Coffee-stained index cards. A half-eaten bag of Piattos (sour cream flavor, elite). A glaring laptop screen, tabs open to Facebook, Google Docs, and the file folders of The Sentinel’s shared drive. Her room is silent—except for the fact that the neighbour’s dog barks every now and then. Her Spotify heavy rotation playlist were also humming in the background. She stared at the just-published article in the publication’s site, chest rising with satisfaction.
Mic Me Up 2025: Vergara Reigns Again with a Soul-Stirring Performance
By: Jhoanna Christine Robles | Photos by Jhoanna Christine Robles
She stared at the headline for a beat. Then reread it. Then reread it again.
“I sound so neutral,” she mumbled, fidgeting with her glasses. “Not even a hint na I was emotionally demolished.”
She leaned back in her chair and sighed. The article was fair, well-written, and objective. No bias, no gushing adjectives. But in truth, she could’ve written entire sonnets about Colet’s vibrato.
And this is where the spiral begins.
She clicked on Facebook. The Sentinel’s post was getting shares, comments, the usual support from students pretending to care about school journalism. But instead of reading those, she did something infinitely more dangerous.
She typed in the search bar: “Nicolette Vergara”
And there it was. The first profile:
Nicolette Vergara
Studies at BINI University
75.3K Followers
Her profile picture was recent—taken backstage maybe, in soft warm lighting, wearing the same shirt from earlier. Her expression unreadable.
She scrolled on Colet’s profile and saw a post with a dot as its caption.
Literally a dot. It didn’t even include a photo or some context.
And yet—4.8K reactions, 2.1K comments, 671 shares.
Jhoanna blinked. “What?”
She clicked the dot post.
The comments were wild.
“Ganito rin ako kapag pagod na ako from slaying.”
“We get it, you’re famous.”
“Sobrang meaningful. I love you, Colet.”
“I felt that.”
She scrolled, horrified and fascinated. Post after post. One was just a photo of a cup of taho with no caption, and it had three thousand likes. Another was a video of Colet silently nodding to a song in her car with the caption “vibes.” Jhoanna had to admit… it was a vibe.
She went full stalker mode. Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. Every platform had its own cult of Colet content. On Instagram, her story was just a blurry photo of the moon with a song overlay, and it somehow had an entire comment thread with people analyzing the emotion behind it.
Jhoanna rubbed her eyes. “I’m not even sure if I am attracted to her or if I just need to understand her for peace of mind.”
“This is research,” she said out loud, as she hovered over the ‘Add Friend’ button on Facebook. “This is context gathering.” Click.
Then: Follow on Instagram. Click.
Then, on Twitter. Her tweets were as vague and powerful as her singing. One simply read: “Rain.” and had 1.2k retweets. Follow. Click.
She closed the tabs. Sat back. “God, what am I even doing?”
Meanwhile, in a much neater room filled with scented candles and an aggressively curated K-pop photocard wall…
Colet was lying on her bed, phone in hand, legs up against the headboard like a girl deep in her main character era. She was wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, scrolling through Instagram with one eye closed.
Three new notifications popped up.
jcrobles started following you.
@jhowrites started following you!
Jhoanna Christine Robles sent you a friend request.
“Huh.”
She tapped the profile. It was unmistakably the same girl from earlier—the one with the camera. The one who looked like she wanted to pass out when Colet hit that high note. The one who was scribbling in her notebook like a journalist trying to decode a CIA file.
And there it was. In Jhoanna’s Facebook bio:
The Sentinel EIC ✍🏻
Colet groaned. “Ugh. EIC pa talaga ng publication na ‘yon.”
She hovered her thumb over the ‘Accept’ button. Then stopped. Squinted.
“Nope.”
She opened her group chat.
TNC: Tangina Ni Colet
Nicolette Vergara
wtf i just got added by a sentinel person lol
jhoanna is the name, and apparently, eic siya
Gweneth Apuli
is she the one na nakatitig sa ‘yo kanina na parang lalagnatin?
Mikhaela Janna Lim
baka naman she wants an interview
Nicolette Vergara
she literally just published an article about me hahaha ano pang ma-i-interview niya sa akin?
Gweneth Apuli
tbh, kung gusto ka lang niya i-stalk, understandable
i would stalk you, too
Nicolette Vergara
i feel so violated
Mary Loi Ricalde:
didn’t you say she was kinda cute though? hahahaha
“cute naman siya, loi. nerdy-cute, gano’n.”
Nicolette Vergara
DELETE THAT MEMORY
Gweneth Apuli
so are you gonna accept and follow her back
Nicolette Vergara
NAH UH
journalism people are snakes, she’s probably mining me for content
Mary Loi Ricalde:
teh, sobrang oa lang?
she’s literally just following you, it’s not that deep
unclench ka naman diyan
Mikhaela Janna Lim
next level pettiness
accept mo na, ang arte mo masyado
buti sana kung cute ka
Nicolette Vergara
manigas siya
and cute naman talaga ako, what’s your point?
Colet tossed her phone onto the bed. Then immediately grabbed it again to look at Jhoanna’s profile one more time.
“Ang pangit ko sa photos niya,” she muttered. “And she even used the photo I was looking away in. Rude.”
She zoomed in. The caption was just: “Vergara’s golden voice never misses.”
Written simply. No drama. No flair. But it somehow made her ears warm.
“Journalism people sucks.”
She didn’t accept. But she didn’t delete the request either.
Just… left it there. Floating. Like a period. Waiting for something to follow.
It had been exactly four days since the singing competition, and Jhoanna—the sweet, nerdy, emotionally-conflicted editor-in-chief—was now fully convinced that fate, destiny, or some cosmic intern with a fucked up sense of humor was playing tricks on her.
Because somehow, somehow, despite the size of their school campus (complete with five buildings, countless hallways, a labyrinth of stairs, and two canteens), Jhoanna kept accidentally running into Colet.
Like. Everywhere.
At first, Jhoanna thought it was just coincidence. School was a small world, after all. But when you’re a HUMSS student and you somehow keep bumping into an ABM student in places neither of you should statistically be in at the same time, the universe starts to feel… suspiciously intentional. She wasn’t delusional. Okay, maybe a little, but she wasn’t imagining things.
She was minding her business, walking to her next class, when she turned the hallway corner near Room 302—a.k.a the most haunted classroom according to every eleventh grader—and bam, Colet.
There she was. Tall. Mysterious. Wearing the school uniform that looked like ass when worn by every other student but somehow looked like it came from an influencer-sponsored boutique when Colet was wearing it. She was holding a thick book with a cracked spine—either a sign of an avid reader or a chronic bag-sitter—and her hair was in that disheveled-but-slaying kind of bun that screamed, “I woke up like this pero like, academically stressed.”
Jhoanna, of course, panicked. Her fight-or-flight instincts malfunctioned and she chose to stand very still like a frightened goat.
“What the hell,” she muttered under her breath, heart rate instantly spiking like she just drank three bottles of Kopiko Lucky Day.
Colet, probably sensing the awkward stare, looked up—and Jhoanna, in a flash of pure survival instinct, turned to the bulletin board and pretended to be reading an outdated flyer for last year’s Battle of the Bands.
“Open pa kaya ‘to?” she said loudly to absolutely no one. “Feeling ko may chance ako sa acoustic category, e.”
Colet walked past her. Didn’t say a word. But Jhoanna could feel the gaze, the mild curiosity, the judgment maybe? Or maybe it was wind. She didn’t care. She would be thinking about this interaction until she died.
A vending machine was never just a vending machine. Not when it was located near the faculty room. Not when it was this vending machine—the one that always malfunctioned, the one that ate bills like a hungry caterpillar and only sometimes spat out the chips you wanted. Jhoanna didn’t even like vending machine snacks, but she found herself there almost every day now.
Again, not stalking. She swears. It just so happened that this vending machine was on the way to the faculty room. And she always needed to submit something. Like… publication papers. Or… her soul.
So there she was, pretending to contemplate between Chippy and Nova, when Colet walked towards the vending. Wearing a hoodie this time. A gray one, oversized, with a cracked logo of their school’s robotics club on it.
“Oh my god,” Jhoanna whispered to herself. “Nag-ro-robotics din siya?”
Colet didn’t even use the machine. She just leaned against the wall, earbuds in, sipping from a Hydro Flask like she was the cool love interest in a Netflix teen drama. Jhoanna panicked and accidentally pressed D6—she wanted V-Cut, but D6 was SkyFlakes.
“Fuck,” she whispered in horror as the crackers clattered down like dry, salty disappointment.
Colet glanced at the sound. Jhoanna tried to play it off.
“Ugh, SkyFlakes na naman?” she said loudly. “Ano ‘to, 2007?”
Colet looked up to her.
Their eyes met for like approximately 3 seconds but Jhoanna had to physically grab the wall to keep herself from sliding down dramatically.
The school had at least eight different staircases. Jhoanna had counted. North wing, south wing, the weird spiral one near the theater room that smelled like old glue—and yet, she and Colet always ended up on the same one. The narrow staircase behind the library. The one with the creaky fourth step and the suspicious leak near the window.
“Girl,” Jhoanna told her best friend, Sheena, as they waited outside their homeroom, “There’s so many staircases here sa school, bakit laging pareho pinupuntahan namin?”
“Baka isa siyang AI generated person,” Sheena replied. “Hey ChatGPT, make Colet take the same staircase as Jhoanna.”
“Baka it’s fate na talaga,”
“Sana all may sira sa ulo.”
One time, as she was climbing up—carrying a whole tote bag of The Sentinel paperwork and a half-empty tumbler of watered-down Milo—she turned the corner and nearly body-slammed Colet coming down.
It was slow motion. Paper flew. Milo splashed. Time stood still.
“Sorry,” Colet said, actually reaching to steady her arm.
“NO, AKO DAPAT MAG-SORRY,” Jhoanna blurted, way too loud. “I mean—sorry talaga. Hindi ko nakita na may... ano, stairs. I mean ikaw. May ikaw.”
Colet blinked. “Okay lang…”
Then she walked away. Just like that. Leaving Jhoanna to scream silently into the void.
It started, as all tragedies do, with hunger.
Not the dramatic kind—the existential, life-defining hunger that launches a person into greatness—but the regular kind. The kind that builds up slowly over hours of skipped breakfast, a class that went overtime, and the emotional toll of rejecting three layout drafts in one sitting.
The Sentinel office had skipped lunch time for a rush deadline. After uploading photos, writing two short pieces, and fixing the caption of a post that said “Winner’s” instead of “Winners” (Jhoanna nearly screamed), she ran to the canteen.
At exactly 2:27 p.m., she was no longer the girlboss Editor-in-Chief of The Sentinel. She was simply a girl who was about to eat like her life depended on it.
The canteen, that unforgiving crucible of the student body, was packed. The line for siomai rice alone looked like a pilgrimage trail. But she didn't care. She stood there, press ID still dangling from her neck.
By the time she got to the front, her voice cracked when she said, “Ate, twelve pieces po. With rice. Extra chili oil. Thank you po.”
“Gutom si EIC, ah,” The cashier gave her a brief, almost admiring look, as if silently acknowledging the madness of her request. “Twelve lang ha, hindi na namin ginagawang fifteen. May limit na.” Jhoanna nodded solemnly.
And then, like a beast returned to the wild, she pounced on the only available table in the back—next to the industrial fan that made everything taste like dust but at least offered relief from the heat. She sat. She inhaled. And then… she feasted.
There was no grace. No strategy. Just primal instinct and pure need.
One siomai down. Rice shoveled in. Chili oil dripping on the side. She barely blinked.
“Grabe… my beloved siomai rice,” she whispered lovingly to the siomai her spork was barely holding, cradling it like it was a newborn. “Kahit mabutas ‘yung tiyan ko, worth it ka, promise.”
Then—
Colet walked in.
She should’ve known.
She should’ve heard the music shift. Should’ve noticed how half the canteen turned to look, as if someone had just walked in wearing perfume and moral superiority. Colet moved through the chaos like a Sims character on a cheat code. Her skirt? Unwrinkled. Her tote bag? Cotton canvas perfection. Her eyes? Big, brown, and now, unfortunately, locked onto her.
Time slowed down.
One of her siomai was mid-air.
Her mouth was full.
Her face glistened—not with a highlighter, but with oil. Literal chili oil. A bright orange smudge on her left cheek that she was unaware of because, again, twelve siomais.
Their eyes met.
Colet didn’t flinch. Her eyebrows met. She looked at Jhoanna like she was judging her and that she was about to let out a very loud laugh.
Then she moved on. Like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just witness the most undignified, food-based collapse of a human being ever recorded in school history.
And that was it.
A moment that lasted no more than five seconds—but felt like a lifetime.
By 2:41 p.m., Jhoanna had sprinted—sprinted—to The Sentinel office.
She didn’t even throw away the plate. She just dumped it into the trash with the kind of vengeance reserved for jilted lovers. “You did this,” she muttered to the last surviving grain of rice.
Inside the office, the chaos of production day swirled on. Aiah was on her laptop, furiously editing captions while sipping Yakult through a straw like it was wine. Stacey was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by two weeks worth of layout printouts and a laptop that looked like it had been crying. Sheena was on the couch with her iPad, sketching something, as always.
The door slammed open.
All three looked up.
“Girl, masisira ‘yung pinto sa ‘yo,” Aiah said, looking like her soul briefly left her body.
“Something happened,” she said, breathless, collapsing onto the beanbag with the grace of a woman who just fought off shame.
“Jho,” Stacey said, narrowing her eyes, “Please tell me you didn’t trip with a cup of coffee in your hand again.”
“I wish,” she groaned. “That would be merciful compared to what really happened.”
“What is it this time?” Sheena asked. “Another writer nag-submit at 2AM? May nag-plagiarize ulit?”
She waved them off with one limp hand. “No, worse. This is personal. This is reputation-breaking. This is the end of my brand.”
“Okay, drama queen,” Aiah said, rolling her eyes, “Spill it. What happened ba?”
She sat up, gripping a throw pillow like a lifeline.
“Si Colet.”
That name alone caused a brief silence. A moment of holy reverence.
“Colet…?” Stacey said. “As in THE Colet Vergara? ‘Yung Colet na naging crush mo after covering an event she joined in?”
“Yes, that Colet!” she wailed. “She saw me.”
“Saw you what?” Sheena asked, raising an eyebrow.
“She saw me. Eating. Siomai rice.”
“Okay? And?” Aiah blinked.
“Twelve pieces,” she whispered.
Stacey gasped. “Twelve?! Girl, why did you commit to that level ng gluttony sa public space?!”
“Staks,” she said, grabbing her friend’s hand, “I was vulnerable. I was unhinged. I was… unladylike. May chili oil ako sa pisngi. Nakita niya. Nakita niya lahat. My downfall. My transformation from Editor-in-Chief to… a siomai-devouring goblin.”
“‘Yung image mo as mysterious, intellectual EIC…” Aiah whispered. “Gone,”
“Naka-imprint na sa utak ni Colet na ‘yung EIC ng The Sentinel ay kayang lumunok ng isang buong siomai in one go,” Jhoanna groaned, burying her face in her hands. “That’s my legacy now. Hindi na journalism. Hindi na activism. Siomai lang.”
“Wait, pero what if Colet liked it?” Sheena grinned, already teasing. “Like maybe she's into that. Baka type niya mga siomai girls?”
“Siomai girl is not an aesthetic, Sheena!”
“But it should be!” Stacey cackled. “Imagine Colet falling for the one girl brave enough to order twelve siomai and eat them with conviction.”
“She saw me almost choke, guys! Hindi siya turned on. She was concerned! Baka akala niya may medical emergency!”
“Hot girls get medical emergencies, too,” Aiah shrugged. “Relatable ‘yan.”
“Relatable?!” she repeated, horrified. “I was sweating like a laborer in a chili factory! This is so not a soft girl moment, Aiah.”
Sheena burst into laughter. “Pero you know, kung ako si Colet, I’d be like, ‘Damn, this girl has range.’”
“Hindi niyo ako gets,” she sighed. “It’s over. Every time Colet sees me now, she won’t see the girl who wrote that scathing editorial on tuition hikes. She won’t see the campus crusader. She’ll see… a girl with a mouth full of siomai, aggressively stabbing her siomai with a flimsy spork like it owed her money.”
The office erupted in laughter again. She tried to stay mad. She really did. But something about the phrase “aggressively stabbing siomai” broke her resolve. She let out a reluctant snort.
Sheena, never one to miss an opportunity, immediately said, “Baka si Colet ulit ‘yung dapat i-cover mo sa next article. Title: ‘Vergara: The Girl Who Saw Me Eat Twelve Siomais and Lived.’”
Aiah leaned back, thoughtful. “Or: ‘Through the Eyes of ABM-A’s Nicolette Vergara: A Glimpse Into Madness and Siomai Grease.’”
After the Siomai Incident™, things somehow managed to get even worse. Or better. Or… worse. It depended on the day, really.
Because if Jhoanna thought the universe had played its last cruel joke on her, she was sorely mistaken. Apparently, destiny was a petty playwright with a sick sense of comedic timing, and Jhoanna was the lead clown.
Because after that ill-timed eye contact over a chili oil-slathered siomai, she started seeing Colet more often.
Like, way more often.
Not even in a “tadhana really loves me” kind of way. No. This was borderline supernatural. Like some divine scheduler kept aligning their paths for the sole purpose of making Jhoanna die a little more each day.
First, at the water fountain.
Jhoanna was innocently refilling her reusable bottle near the gym (which was closer to ABM building than she’d usually dare to tread—but okay, she was thirsty), and just as she leaned forward, still mourning the death of her dignity, there she was.
Colet. Again.
Leaning casually on the tiled wall beside the fountain, arms crossed, sipping her own water bottle like this was some kind of indie film montage.
Jhoanna choked on her own saliva. Literally.
She spluttered, coughed, and dropped her bottle cap, which clattered on the tiles and rolled… directly to Colet’s feet.
She looked down at it. Then looked up at Jhoanna. And smiled.
No words. Just that knowing, almost-mocking smile. Like she had just remembered how this girl—this EIC of the beloved The Sentinel—had attempted to swallow a big-ass siomai in the canteen.
Jhoanna turned red. Not blush-red. Boiled crab red. She gave the world’s most awkward “thank you” as she picked up the cap and bolted like she was being chased by a pack of dogs.
Then, at the library aisle.
Jhoanna was trying to mind her business. Keyword: trying. She was clutching a stack of books about post-colonial identity in Philippine literature, a.k.a her emotional support reading material, when she turned a corner in the reference section and bam—Colet. Again.
Sitting on the floor with her back against a shelf. Singing softly.
Jhoanna froze mid-step. Colet glanced up. Paused. And smirked.
That same smirk. That “You’re the Siomai Girl” smirk.
Jhoanna tried to act cool. Tried to pretend she had a legitimate reason to be holding five Nick Joaquin books and a thesaurus.
She failed. Knocked over two books. Said “sorry” to the shelf. And backed away like a frightened Sim.
But perhaps the worst one—the one that haunted her the most—was at the staircase.
She was walking up the same cursed staircase between buildings, hoping for just one normal day, when she saw the familiar silhouette halfway above her. That posture. That stride. That hair.
Colet. Of course.
As they passed each other, Colet gave her the most subtle of glances. And then… She snorted.
Not loudly. Not obnoxiously. But just enough. Enough to send Jhoanna into another full-body cringe spiral.
“She definitely remembered the siomai,” Jhoanna mumbled to herself. “It’s on loop in her brain. I am forever branded as the siomai girl.”
It was dismissal time, and Colet, with her friends were sprawled across their favorite spot—an empty classroom with the best ventilation and a squeaky whiteboard that Maloi liked to draw something on. Gwen was lying on three chairs pushed together, Mikha was scrolling through TikTok, and Maloi was finishing a piece of chicken fillet from the canteen.
“Okay wait,” Colet said, trying not to giggle as she opened a bottle of water. “Guys, I swear. I saw her again kanina.”
“Who?” Mikha asked, distracted by a bee that kept flying near her milk tea.
“You know… Siomai Girl.” Colet grinned.
Gwen turned to her. “Jhoanna?”
“Yup. That one.” She wiped her lip with the sleeve of her hoodie, pretending to be casual. “We passed each other sa stairs tapos she looked like she was praying I wouldn’t laugh again.”
Colet is now laughing as she remembers the incident again. “Promise, guys. It was like—imagine this: big-ass siomai, doused in chili oil, like as in lunod na lunod talaga, and then she stuffed the whole thing in her mouth. Like buong buo, walang hiya.” She slapped her palm on the table. “She looked at me when the whole siomai was in her mouth. Tapos parang natulala siya. Like napatigil siya kasi nakita niya ako tapos—ewan ko. Ang intense.”
Maloi raised a brow. “Babe. This is like, the fourth time this week na nagku-kwento ka about her.”
Colet blinked. “Ha?”
Mikha leaned in dramatically. “You’ve literally mentioned that incident like you are so invested.”
“I’m not invested!” Colet said quickly—too quickly. “I just think it’s hilarious! Kasi diba, ang composed niya palagi? Like she’s that The Sentinel girl na laging may dala-dalang camera and notebook tapos biglang gano’n? Siomai massacre. In public pa.”
Mikha put her phone down. “Okay, okay. Pero why do you even care? Like you don’t like publication people diba? You literally rolled your eyes when she added you on Facebook last week.”
“Exactly! I was gonna accept na nga sana, like out of courtesy, tapos nakita ko yung bio niya. ‘The Sentinel EIC’, at may writing emoji pa talaga. Red flag.”
Maloi raised an eyebrow. “Red flag? Baka it’s a you problem na. Like what’s your deal with journalism people anyway?”
Colet dramatically leaned back in her chair. “They’re nosy! Always asking questions, always writing about people, even when no one asked! One time, aside from the name typo and dramatic diva thing, nung grade 11 pa tayo, sinama ako sa spread ng ‘Top Senior High Freshies to Watch Out For’—without my consent! Tapos ang caption: ‘Her voice can silence a crowd. Watch out, she might just be your next favorite.’ Like—‘watch out’ daw oh. Ano ‘yon, threat?!”
Gwen chuckled. “Okay, pero aminado ka naman na medyo iconic ‘yung caption.”
“Still. I don’t trust them,” Colet huffed. “Especially that girl. Jhoanna. What if she’s observing me? What if may balak siyang isulat na feature article titled ‘The Real Nicolette Vergara’”
Everyone burst into laughter.
“Oh my god,” Mikha said between wheezes, “Girl, if anyone’s obsessed here, I think it’s you. You’re the one making titles already!”
“No! I’m just—ano lang. Ano . Aware lang ako. I’m… hyper-aware of my surroundings,” Colet muttered, crossing her arms.
“Hmm.” Maloi smirked. “Kasi I find it funny na for someone who ‘doesn’t like journalism people,’ you seem to know exactly where Jhoanna was sitting during lunch last time. And how many siomai she had. And what kind of chili oil she used. And that she didn’t drink water. Girl, parang ikaw ‘yung may hidden article draft sa utak mo.”
Gwen grinned. “‘An Observational Report: The Siomai Consumption Habits of The Sentinel’s Editor-in-Chief’ by Nicolette Vergara. Introduction: It all started on a hot afternoon...’”
Colet buried her face in her hands. “Stop. Stop it na. You guys suck.”
“You suck,” Mikha shot back, “For pretending you don’t find her at least a little interesting.”
“I do not find her interesting!” Colet cried out—too loud, too defensive.
The room went silent for a beat.
Then Maloi said, deadpan, “Wow. Convincing.”
“Super,” Gwen added. “As in may Oscars ka na agad.”
Colet sighed. “Okay fine, she’s… weird. Like that kind of weird na hindi mo gets kung bakit mo siya napapansin. Hindi naman siya super loud or anything, like she’s so quiet and reserved nga, e. Pero she looks at you like… like she’s trying to write a poem about your face.”
The girls looked at her.
Colet blinked. Realized what she just said. And immediately stood up.
“Okay! Time to go. Dismissed! Pack up! Bakit kasi lagi niyo akong pinapakwento, tapos ako ‘yung nagiging biktima sa ending?”
Gwen and Mikha burst into laughter while Maloi just raised her hands. “Girl, we didn’t even ask you to start this one!”
As they packed their things and headed out of the classroom, Gwen nudged Colet with a teasing smile. “Next time, kung makikita mo na naman si siomai girl, try not to stare too long ha. Baka ma-feature ka talaga.”
Colet shook her head, laughing under her breath. “She better not write about me,” she mumbled, but her tone was soft.
Almost like… She didn’t really mean it.
Weeks had passed since the incident, and though the emotional scars still clung to Jhoanna’s soul like cling wrap on hot tupperware, life… went on.
Gone were the days of Colet’s taunting snickers and judgemental stairway side-eyes. These days, they still saw each other around school—at the vending machine, the library entrance, the staircase—but the vibe had shifted. No more smirks. No more sneaky chuckles. Just… stares.
Long, awkward, soul-probing stares.
Like: Colet on the third step. Jhoanna on the landing. Four seconds of silence. Blink. Walk away.
Classic.
And every single time, Jhoanna walked off pretending like her knees weren’t shaking and her brain wasn’t glitching like a 2008 computer opening ten tabs of Friendster at once.
Because unfortunately for her, Colet was still Colet.
The voice. The face. The unbothered ABM girl. The girl who could post a single period on Facebook and gain 5k reacts from students, alumni, and probably the janitor’s dog. And worst of all? She was still Jhoanna’s crush.
God help her.
But apparently, she had no time to dwell on feelings. Because BINI University had just dropped a bomb.
Social Sciences Week. A whole month and a half away.
And to anyone else that sounded like, wow, so far pa naman. Chill!
But to Jhoanna? That was tomorrow.
Because she wasn’t just any student. No. She is the president of the HUMSS Club, a.k.a the mastermind behind all activities under their strand, and the Editor-in-Chief of The Sentinel, a.k.a the person who had to assign coverage, articles, layout, captions, and even approve the hashtags on every post.
She was both. And she was dying.
Because being both of those two is already a full-time job. And being a functioning human being with emotions, a soul, and the occasional need to pee and blink and eat? Yeah, apparently too much to ask.
The planning started as soon as the announcement was made, she was already drowning in event requests, student org meetings, and late-night message threads that read like Shakespearean tragedies.
HUMSS Club Officers
Nicole Cua — Treasurer
ate @Jhoanna, may we know po if confirmed na ‘yung psych talk on Day 2?
Jhoanna Robles — President
Hi, Nicole! I’m currently working on it na po! Just waiting for sir’s reply.
Justine Segovia — Vice President
yieee go ate jhoanna fighting!!!
The Sentinel Editorial Board ✍🏻
Maraiah Arceta | STEM | Managing Editor
@Jhoanna, can I cover the debate finals instead of the socsci trivia contest?
Stacey Sevilleja | HUMSS | Chief Photojournalist
Jho, pwede ba tayo magpost ng photo dump ng day 1?
Sheena Mae Catacutan | ICT | Chief Layout Artist
@everyone, kailangan natin ng layout artist for the tarpaulin po. ASAP.
Ms. Reyes | School Paper Adviser
Mga anak, I expect all of you to be ready for the Social Sciences Week next month, and better if mag-start na kayo mag-plan kung sinu-sinong i-a-assign ninyo for each activity.
Jhoanna Christine Robles | HUMSS | Editor-in-Chief
Wait lang po. Naglalaba pa ako.
She wasn’t even sure if she was doing laundry. She had typed it without thinking. Her fingers were moving on their own. She was seeing entire slack threads in her dreams. When she blinked, she saw bullets and subpoints. Her right eye twitched every time someone said the word event .
The next day, Jhoanna found herself buried under papers, post-its, and club activity proposals inside The Sentinel office, which now felt more like her second home (or third, if you counted the restroom where she always cries out of stress).
“Girl,” Sheena said, peeking over a pile of papers. “Are you seriously going to survive this?”
“No,” Jhoanna replied, not even looking up. “I already saw my soul leave my body kanina when I submitted the fourth draft of the program flow to Ma’am Castro. That was my last lifeline.”
Aiah walked in with snacks. “Wait lang, ano na naman ‘tong stack of schedules dito sa table? Bakit may ‘Interstrand Trivia Battle’, ‘TikTok Reenactment Challenge’, at ‘Open Mic Night’ all on the same day?”
“Because everyone keeps suggesting things and I am a coward who doesn’t know how to say no,” Jhoanna said, eyes bloodshot, voice monotone. “Also, I think I scheduled a spoken word night on a Friday. That’s either my best decision or the final straw.”
“Jhoanna, are you okay?” Stacey asked as she entered, holding an extension cord like a sword.
“No,” Jhoanna replied. “But at least I’m productive while emotionally decaying.”
On Wednesday, her class was discussing economic inequality in Philippine provinces. Jhoanna had always been that girl—the one who would raise her hand with a five-point argument about labor conditions, supply chains, and neoliberal policy failures.
But not today.
Today, she was slouched on her desk, arms folded, her brain somewhere between consciousness and a k-drama montage. She was just daydreaming, okay? Just imagining herself in the far future. The event was over. She had passed the EIC position to someone else. She was at peace. Maybe even in Baguio. Drinking strawberry taho. Colet was there, maybe, for some totally unexplained reason. They were both wearing sweaters.
She was snapped back to reality when her teacher said, “Ms. Robles, would you like to contribute something?”
To which she responded, on instinct, “... Can we postpone Social Sciences Week?”
The entire class laughed.
She wanted to cry.
She did.
An hour later, in the second-floor girls’ restroom. The one near the library, because it was always cleaner, quieter, and emotionally safer.
She had just come from back-to-back meetings. Her bag was heavy with her laptop, her notebooks, and three packs of lozenges (her throat was dying from all the talking). Her body slumped against the tiled wall. Her phone buzzed with another message asking for an event rundown. She stared at the sink. At her reflection. At the bags under her eyes.
She sighed. “Ang pangit ko na.”
Then—unexpectedly—her eyes welled up. And before she knew it, she was sobbing.
Not the cute, cinematic sobbing. No. This was nose-sniffling, chest-heaving, tissue-grabbing kind of sobbing. The kind of cry that you hold in for a week until it all hits like a wave because someone forgot to submit the list of hosts.
“God, why is it just me?!” she cried softly. “Ba’t ako lagi?! Ako na nga sa publication, ako pa sa HUMSS club! Ako pa minsan tech! Ako pa magpopost! Ako pa magcocompile ng outputs! Ako pa maghahanap ng speaker! Ako pa—ako pa ang magbubuhat ng laptop ng club!”
She blew her nose and stared blankly at the bathroom cubicle. “Even Colet is not paying any attention to me…”
She paused.
Wait.
Where did that come from?
The real hellfire began when she opened the Excel Sheet for The Sentinel’s master list of members.
She squinted, scrolled, and immediately felt the weight of despair crush her spine.
There weren’t enough people.
Half of the writers were either in the HUMSS Club and already busy, or already assigned to three different activities. Some photojournalists had exams. The layout artist’s laptop just exploded last week. One of the editorial cartoonists literally transferred to another club.
The paper was short-staffed. Like, “Ma’am, kaya pa ba natin ‘to?” levels of short-staffed.
“Guys,” Jhoanna said during the next The Sentinel meeting. “What if we open applications again?”
Everyone paused. Blinked. Tilted their heads like puppies.
“Didn’t we just closed the applications like three months ago?” Sheena asked, munching on Piattos.
“Yeah,” Aiah nodded. “Tapos sobrang strict pa nung screening natin last time ‘di ba? May writing test, interview, vibes check—lahat na.”
“I know,” Jhoanna sighed. “But we need more people. Kahit isa or dalawa lang na extra writers or photojournalists. Wala na talaga tayong mapiga.”
Stacey raised her hand. “I agree. Baka may mga willing d’yan, especially ‘yung mga hindi natanggap last applications. Also, ‘yung mga may passion, pero natakot mag-apply before. Let’s give them a second chance.”
“A second coming,” Aiah whispered dramatically. “Ng mga campus journalists.”
Jhoanna chuckled weakly, already opening a blank Google Doc. “Fine. I’ll write the proposal. I’ll submit it to Ma’am Reyes tomorrow.”
And that night, she stayed in the office way past dismissal.
The rest of the publication had gone home. The lights were dim. The fan made a low, tired whirr. And there she was, typing furiously on her laptop, trying to sound professional and not desperate.
Proposal to Reopen Applications for The Sentinel
Prepared by: Jhoanna Christine Robles, Editor-in-Chief
Overview:
In light of the upcoming university-wide Social Sciences Week, and considering the shortage of available manpower for documentation, writing, and coverage, I propose to reopen applications for The Sentinel for a limited period of one week. While the previous application cycle closed three months ago, the current roster is insufficient for the demands of both the week-long event and regular publication duties.
Rationale:
-
High volume of coverage required
-
Shortage of active staffers and layout artists
-
Urgent documentation needs per activity
-
Opportunity to tap into previously unavailable student talent
She wrote it professionally. Clean. Structured. Just the way Ms. Reyes liked it.
But as she stared at the blinking cursor, her brain—ever the traitor—began to wander again.
She added a new bullet point:
-
Maybe some students who previously did not apply would now reconsider
She stared at the sentence. She backspaced it. Then retyped it. Then laughed.
She sipped her coffee (which was mostly just sugar and regret), fixed her grammar, and ran a word count. It was short but solid. Direct. Efficient. Just enough to convince Ma’am Reyes that this wasn’t some panic move, but a strategic recruitment push.
And when she finally sat back, massaging her temple, a random name popped into her head.
Colet.
She blinked. Sat straighter. Tilted her head in mild betrayal at her own brain.
“Where the hell did that come from?” she whispered.
She thought about it. Then laughed to herself.
“No, no. Hindi siya papayag. She literally hates us. She thinks we’re nosy nerds.”
She paused. “But what if...”
She imagined it. Colet walking into the Sentinel office. Holding a camera or notebook. Maybe wearing a lanyard. Maybe—
“Nope,” she said out loud. “Not happening. Girl’s probably allergic to Adobe InDesign.”
But the image stuck.
And as she submitted the proposal and shut her laptop, one thought lingered at the back of her head:
What if she would like to join?
The next day, she handed the proposal to Ms. Reyes with trembling hands and eye bags visible from Mars.
“Sure, Jhoanna,” the adviser said, scanning the page. “This looks reasonable. Let’s do it. I’ll send out the form again and announce it by lunch.”
Jhoanna nodded and thanked her. She turned to leave the room when Ms. Reyes added, “By the way, don’t forget to take care of yourself too. I know you’re juggling a lot.”
She smiled weakly. “Yes po. Thank you po.”
Outside, she exhaled. Hard.
Maybe things were starting to look up. Maybe help was on the way.
Or maybe, she had accidentally signed up for even more chaos.
Because if fate had a fucked up sense of humor (which it definitely did), it would place Nicolette Vergara right at the center of the incoming applicant list.
And if that happened?
Well.
Jhoanna had no plan.
Except maybe not eating siomai for the next three months.
When Ms. Reyes gave the green light for Jhoanna’s proposal to reopen publication applications, Jhoanna did not celebrate.
No.
She opened Canva and made a graphic like it was her form of prayer.
Despite her overpacked to-do list that could qualify as a war crime under the Geneva Convention, she chose violence. Specifically, the kind where you design the club recruitment poster yourself because your graphic artist “doesn’t know how to align the text properly” and “why is the kerning like that, it’s giving migraine.” She had coffee-stained notes, five open tabs of Pinterest inspo, and a very specific aesthetic in mind: minimalist but also loud. like me when I rant about neoliberalism.
And so there she was, 1 a.m., in her room, wearing the same shirt from yesterday and aggressively zooming in on font sizes.
The caption she drafted for the official post on The Sentinel’s social media pages was perfectly curated to sound professional, cool, and just the right amount of desperate:
BINI Uni, it’s happening!
The Sentinel, the official student publication of BINI University, once again opens its doors to students who are looking to be a part of the publication.
Are you passionate about telling stories, speaking truth to power, or maybe just curious about what we do? Whether you’re into writing, photojournalism, layout design, illustration, or editorial cartooning, there’s a place for you here.
Join now and help us continue our mission to inform, inspire, and ignite change.
Interested students may apply here: thesentinel.co/member-application
Deadline of submission is until June 11, 2025!
#TheSentinel #WordsThatMatter
Satisfied with her layout and caption (after fifteen more tweaks and one mental breakdown over the “alignment”), she posted it everywhere. Facebook? Check. Instagram story and main grid? Check. Twitter? Check. Even the Messenger story na parang walang nanonood—check.
She hit send, slumped into her seat, and took a breath that sounded like it carried the weight of a collapsing democracy.
But she wasn’t done.
The next day, she gathered her troops—meaning all of the members of the editorial board—and handed them rolled-up posters like scrolls of destiny.
“Okay, ito ha, one poster for each bulletin board per strand building. HUMSS, STEM, GAS, TVL, Arts and Design. Ako na sa ABM building, don’t ask why.”
Aiah raised a brow. “Para-paraan na naman si EIC.”
“Nope. Not for that. I just feel like they need it most. Like, ABM needs the truth, the enlightenment—”
“Girl, you’re doing all this kasi nandoon si Colet.”
“Excuse me,” Jhoanna sniffed dramatically. “This is for democracy.”
So, armed with five rolled-up copies (yes, five, because “redundancy is key”), she marched to the ABM building like a woman on a mission. She scoped the best spots. She decided to put one beside the vending machine Colet loves, one near the water fountain (strategically useful, people always wait there), and finally, three for the holy grail: the ABM bulletin board where every student seemed to stop by at least once a day, mostly to stare blankly and pretend they read the announcements.
With surgical precision and a small roll of pink tape from Stacey’s emergency stationery kit, she put up the posters.
And just as she was leaving, she heard the unmistakable sound of a laugh. Loud, carefree, and slightly teasing.
It was Colet.
And of course, with her were Mikha, Gwen, and Maloi. Like a whole girl group ready to drop a diss track.
“Look oh,” Mikha pointed. “May recruitment sa The Sentinel.”
Gwen leaned in dramatically. “Should we join? Feeling ko I have writer potential. Like, call me Gweneth Apuli, ang makata ng ABM-A.”
Maloi snorted. “Feeling.”
“They opened their applications again?” Colet raised a brow, looking at the poster with mild amusement. “Akala ko tapos na?”
“Siguro short sa members.” Mikha teased, bumping her shoulder. “Uy, but maybe they’re waiting for YOU to join.”
“Ikaw na lang yata ang kulang, Col,” Gwen added. “Complete package ka na. You sing, you slay, and you have beef with journalism. That’s drama. That’s plot.”
Colet rolled her eyes, though her smile lingered longer than it should’ve. “Alam niyo, ‘wag niyo akong asarin. Hindi ako papatol sa—”
“Oh?” Maloi leaned closer. “Pero you’ve been staring at that poster for too long.”
“I’m just wondering why she put three posters in one board,” Colet said, snorting. “Like, girl, ano bang gusto niyong patunayan?”
Mikha gasped. “Oh my god. Do you think this is a sign?”
Colet scoffed. “A sign na mayaman siya sa tape? Yes.” Cue collective laughter.
But that night, when she was alone in her room, scrolling through Twitter and ignoring her homework, she remembered the poster again.
So she did something unthinkable.
She opened The Sentinel’s website and clicked on the Google Form.
The application form opened smoothly, and at the top, in bold blue font, was the header: “THE SENTINEL RECRUITMENT FORM 2025.”
She skimmed through it—basic info, role preferences, sample work. It was standard. Clean. Professional. Slightly intimidating. The kind of form that screams, we are serious and we will correct your grammar in a public slack thread.
Still… she hovered.
Her mouse hovered over the "interested" box.
And then her brain had the audacity to whisper: What if I just… try?
She quickly shut her laptop.
But not before she opened Facebook and stared at Jhoanna’s profile. Again. For the third time that day.
“Should I accept her request na ba?” she mumbled to herself.
Then immediately shook her head.
“Ugh, no. I don’t like her. Journalism people are weird.”
But still.
She left the tab open, and wondered what it would feel like to be part of something she once swore she’d never touch.
Colet did it.
She actually did it.
On a random afternoon, in the middle of her Accounting class that felt more like a hostage situation, Colet casually filled out the application form for The Sentinel. While her classmates were solving for profit margins and break-even points, she was answering questions like “Why do you want to join the publication?” and “What makes you a good fit for The Sentinel?” like it was a Buzzfeed quiz.
Name (SURNAME, First name Middle Initial)
VERGARA, Nicolette F.
Grade - Strand & Section
Grade 12 - ABM-A
Why do you want to join the publication?
“I just want to explore new things. That’s it.” (She erased “I hate this question” before submitting.)
What role are you applying for?
[x] Writer
[ ] Photographer
[ ] Layout Artist
[ ] Illustrator
[ ] Editorial Cartoonist
And when she uploaded her three sample articles—an editorial on online class struggles, a feature on street food vendors, and a news piece about student elections—she almost rolled her eyes. Like, who even writes like this anymore? She hadn’t touched campus journalism since Grade 9, and now here she was, submitting write-ups to the very institution she used to call “The Snake-nel.”
After clicking submit, she closed the tab like she was slamming a door in someone’s face.
She still didn’t follow Jhoanna back.
“Those requests can wait,” she told herself, sipping her iced coffee like a villain plotting. “Wala naman akong obligation i-accept siya. Calm down, Jhoanna.”
She was totally calm.
But apparently, her friends were anything but that.
Mikha, Gwen, and Maloi had just found out. Colet didn’t even tell them. Gwen saw a notification on Colet’s email about the form’s submission confirmation during break, and chaos immediately ensued.
“OH. MY. GOD,” Mikha gasped. “You submitted the form?”
“Col,” Gwen gawked. “Did we just time travel to an alternate universe? Did Nicolette ‘I Hate Journalism’ Vergara just apply for journalism?!”
Colet tried to act cool. “So what? I’m allowed to grow as a person.”
Maloi: “Is this growth, or is this just about the girl?”
“WHAT GIRL?” Colet shouted too fast.
“Uh-huh,” Mikha smirked. “You really thought we wouldn’t figure this out? Ang dami mong sinabi before: ‘ugh hate ko talaga mga journalism peole,’ ‘they’re so invasive,’ ‘they keep asking questions like they’re CNN’—and now?”
“I just thought the layout was nice,” Colet mumbled.
“You thought Jhoanna’s layout was nice.” said Gwen.
“Okay fine!” Colet exploded. “I just wanted to try something new, okay?! It’s not about her. In fact, I still loathe her. She’s too—too serious. Like ma’am calm down, you’re not running a real-life government.”
Mikha gasped dramatically. “BUT YOU APPLIED.”
“And she’s still not your friend on Facebook,” Gwen added. “Grabe, parang ilang buwan na rin ‘yung request na ‘yon.”
Colet shrugged. “Let her suffer.”
Meanwhile, in The Sentinel office, Jhoanna was seated cross-legged on the beanbag chair that had become her unofficial throne. She was scrolling through the responses of the Google Form while sipping lukewarm 3-in-1 coffee and fighting off the early symptoms of academic burnout.
She was halfway through yawning when she saw it.
The name.
THEE NAME.
VERGARA, Nicolette F.
She blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then clutched her chest like she was suddenly experiencing spiritual heartburn.
“Sheena,” she whispered dramatically, “COME HERE RIGHT NOW.”
Sheena came running. “Oh my god, what? Mamamatay na ba tayo?”
“She applied,” Jhoanna said, holding her laptop like it was sacred scripture. “THEE—Colet Vergara—she’s on this list.”
“Colet Vergara…” Sheena’s eyes widened. “As in the Colet Vergara na journalism hater?”
“The very same.”
They opened the attached documents, expecting maybe a half-baked essay about how writing is fun. But what they got was: A hard-hitting editorial with a killer headline: “When WiFi Disconnects, So Does Our Will to Learn,” A feature article that had a beautiful lede about the life of a fishball vendor and made Jhoanna cry a little (don’t ask,) and a news write-up so clean, so objective, and so well-structured that she had to read it twice just to be sure she wasn’t dreaming
“No typos. Proper punctuation. Wala ring unnecessary opinion. This… this is journalism,” Jhoanna breathed.
“You okay?” Sheena asked.
“No,” Jhoanna replied. “I think I’m in love—I mean, impressed. I’m impressed.”
“She’s talented. We need her.”
“We DO,” Jhoanna said, suddenly sitting up straight. “But I can’t approve her right away. Baka mapansin niya.”
“Girl, she already hasn’t noticed you for like months.”
“I know,” Jhoanna grumbled. “She still hasn’t accepted my friend request! Or followed me back! On any platform!”
She pulled out her phone. Facebook—still “Friend Request Sent.” Instagram—still no follow. Twitter—still ghosted.
“It’s like I don’t exist,” she mumbled, throwing her phone on the beanbag. “But it’s fine. I can wait. I swear. I’m so good at waiting.”
Sheena side-eyed her. “Girl, you literally cried over siomai rice kasi sobrang tagal bago maluto.”
“That was different.”
And so, while the rest of the publication staff continued with their usual tasks, their editor-in-chief sat there… quietly plotting how to accept Colet into The Sentinel without looking like a simp.
Which was going to be hard.
Because she kind of was a simp.
After two straight weeks of internal chaos, caffeine-fueled discussions, and a near fistfight over someone submitting an article titled “Why Hotdogs Should Be Considered a Vegetable,” The Sentinel had finally done it.
The editorial board and their adviser, Ms. Reyes, survived the avalanche of applications.
A grand total of 257 students applied.
Two hundred and fifty-seven.
Jhoanna genuinely thought her Gmail would set itself on fire.
At least 60% of the applicants submitted write-ups that looked like they typed them half-asleep. One feature article was literally titled “The Importance of Sleeping During Class,” and someone applied for all positions and wrote in the “Why do you want to join the publication?” section: “Para lang masabing may ginagawa ako.”
It took everything in Jhoanna not to scream into her pillow every night.
But there were gems. Shining, shimmering, immaculate gems.
Colet’s application, of course, was part of the literary treasure chest.
Along with her were Gwen, Mikha, and Maloi—who apparently didn’t just look good, they wrote good. Like, editorial-contest-winner levels of good.
After extensive deliberation (and a few petty debates), they finally finalized the list. The chosen ones. The new warriors of truth.
Jhoanna stayed up the entire night perfecting the announcement poster. She did the layout herself because she had trust issues with Canva users who didn’t know what kerning meant.
The caption she posted with the artwork was, of course, professionally crafted to perfection:
BINI Uni, we’re very excited share some news with you!
The Sentinel welcomes a new wave of campus journalists! Congratulations to our new members. Your voices matter, and we’re thrilled to write the next chapters of truth with you.
Below are the schedule for the interview and the Induction Rites. We hope to see all of you there!
For the full list of new members, visit our site: thesentinel.co/successful-applicants
#TheSentinel #WordsThatMatter
She hit “Post” on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
And waited.
Meanwhile in the ABM building hallway…
“WAIT—WE PASSED?!”
“OMG WE’RE IN???”
Mikha, Maloi, and Gwen were screaming. Literal screaming.
Students from other strands who were just passing by looked over, alarmed.
“Chill, hindi pa nga kayo na-i-interview,” some killjoy said from the side. But they didn’t care.
They were running around the hallway, half-dancing, half-laughing, as if they’d just won the Nobel Prize for Campus Writing. Gwen was already planning her fit for the interview and the Induction Rites, Maloi was mentally composing her Instagram caption (“This one’s for the pens I’ve broken in the name of passion.”), and Mikha was dramatically pretending to cry while texting her mom: “Photojournalist na ako, ma. Gusto mo ba ng autograph?”
And then there was Colet.
Standing there.
Trying not to smile. Trying so hard not to care.
“Oh wow,” she said flatly. “We passed. Cool.”
Gwen turned to her, hands on her hips. “Cool? Cool??? Girl, this is not just cool. This is a full-on glow up!”
“You literally swore you’d never join a journalism org,” Maloi added. “Now you’re in one? Baka you’re in something else din?”
Colet blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know what we mean,” Mikha teased, elbowing her. “Let’s not act like you didn’t write your sample feature like you were possessed by Jhoanna herself.”
“Hindi ah,” Colet said, adjusting her headband. “I’m just… multi-talented. And bored. That’s it.”
“Sure,” Gwen said. “You know, Jhoanna was probably reading your answers while playing Taylor Swift in the background and whispering, ‘She’s the one.’”
Colet blushed. Tiny. Invisible. But definitely there.
She immediately turned away and crossed her arms. “You guys are so annoying,” she mumbled. “I still don’t like journalism people, okay? This doesn’t mean I’m converted. Isa pa, it’s not even final. Baka ma-reject ako sa interview.”
“Wow. So confident kanina. Tapos ngayon nagpi-pretend ka na ayaw mo pa rin?” Maloi said, laughing.
“Girl,” Gwen added, “You’re literally checking your phone every five minutes. Don’t think we didn’t see.”
“I’m checking my Shopee notifications, not Jhoanna’s post,” Colet lied.
They all gave her the same “hmm sure” face.
Back in the Sentinel Office, Jhoanna was pretending to be calm. She really was. But the moment she saw the dozens of comments, likes, and hearts on the post, her nerves kicked in.
She scrolled past comments like:
“OMGGG THANK YOU PO I CRY”
“AAAHHHHHH SENTINEL NA AKOOOO”
“MA, STUDENT JOURNALIST NA ANAK MO”
And then she saw one name.
Nicolette Vergara liked the post.
No comment. No share. Just one like.
A soft tap of approval from the girl who haunted her dreams and nearly choked her to death with a siomai.
Jhoanna screamed into her planner.
“She LIKED the post,” she told Stacey.
“And then?”
“That’s it.”
“Girl, you need to touch some grass.”
“I manage the school paper, Stacey. I AM the grass.”
With the announcement out and the interview and Induction Rites plans in motion, the next chapter of chaos was coming.
Colet was accepted, but Jhoanna still had no idea what to say to her. Colet was accepted, but she still hadn’t accepted that friend request.
And yet, both girls were slowly, quietly, cautiously orbiting around one another—like stars pretending they weren’t in the same sky.
The slow burn was alive and well.
And next… they were going to meet face-to-face. In the interview room, with clipboards, nameplates, and eye contact. Lots and lots of eye contact.
It was a bright morning when the official Interview Day of The Sentinel began.
But instead of the scent of freshly brewed coffee or the calming murmur of scholarly ambition, what filled the air was sheer panic.
The conference room had been transformed into what students now feared as the Chamber of Journalistic Judgement. There were clipboards. Pens that clicked with authority. A long table. Chairs arranged in a deliberately intimidating semicircle. And the deadliest thing of all: Jhoanna’s resting editorial face.
“Ang init naman,” someone whispered in line outside. “Kinakabahan ako. Lord, kunin mo na lang ako kaysa magkamali ako ng sagot sa inverted pyramid.”
Inside, the editorial board sat tall and ready. They had lists, rubrics, and the kind of energy that said, “We’ve read 250 applications and we will judge you for every misplaced comma.”
But the most terrifying among them?
Editor-in-Chief, Jhoanna Christine Robles.
She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t even blinking that much.
“Name. Strand. Why did you want to join The Sentinel?” she asked each applicant, with all the warmth of a malfunctioning printer.
Some applicants answered with shaking voices. One even said, “Nakalagay na po ‘yon sa application form ko po…” And another girl cried.
“She’s intense,” whispered a new applicant outside the room.
“Isn’t she that girl na na-choke sa siomai sa canteen last time?” another whispered back.
“Yes. And now she’s choking us with anxiety.”
It was now Colet’s turn, and she didn’t even prepare.
She showed up in her loose black trousers, a tucked-in ABM org shirt, and shades she only removed because someone said “Colet, formal daw.”
Unlike her friends—Gwen who had a mini binder of possible Q&A answers, Maloi who rehearsed in front of a mirror, and Mikha who even brought a resume—Colet had thoughts and prayers only.
She thought this would be chill. After all, this was the same girl who she saw devouring big-ass siomais. How bad could it be?
She found out when she stepped into the room and saw Jhoanna sitting there like a composed little demon of discipline.
Jhoanna’s hair was loose, glasses on, fingers laced together on the table. Her eyes met Colet’s with zero softness.
Colet blinked.
“Oh wow,” she thought. “She’s serious. Like, scary-serious. Like, maybe I should’ve reviewed the Code of Ethics kind of serious.”
But also, maybe she looked kind of hot.
No. Stop. Ew.
“Name, strand, and the position you applied for?” Jhoanna asked, her tone as flat and neutral as a news ticker.
Colet cleared her throat. “Uh—Nicolette Vergara po. 12 ABM-A. Writer position po.”
Jhoanna nodded. She didn’t even smile. Not even a twitch of a lip. Was she made of stone? How is she so unaffected?
Inside, however, Jhoanna was SCREAMING.
Oh my god. She’s here. Colet’s in front of me. Her voice sounds so nice. Wait. Focus. You're an EIC. You're the EIC.
She adjusted her glasses, stared down at the printed application form, then looked up to Colet, ready to ask a question.
“Okay, Miss Vergara, what is the line between investigative journalism and intrusion of privacy?” Jhoanna said in a voice that made even Aiah stare and gulp when she said it.
Colet froze for a second. “Uh…” She blinked. There was silence.
Jhoanna stared. Everyone stared.
“Go on,” Jhoanna slowly raised an eyebrow. “Are you not prepared for this interview?”
“I-i am…” Colet lied, flipping her hair a bit. “I’m just nervous po. I’m sorry.”
Jhoanna let out a sigh, “So, answer my question.”
Someone in the back choked on their coffee.
“Uh,” Colet cleared her throat, “Investigative journalism seeks to serve public interest. The line is crossed po when personal, irrelevant, or intimate details are exposed without clear journalistic value. And if the information reveals wrongdoing that affects others, it’s justified. But if it’s just scandalous detail with no public impact, it becomes unethical intrusion.”
Jhoanna remained unfazed. “I see.”
Inside: She flipped her hair. That’s hot. I mean. That’s rude. Be serious.
“But, isn’t “public interest” a subjective standard? Who decides whether exposing someone’s private life is justified?” Jhoanna had asked again.
“Well, uhm—that’s why editorial judgment and journalistic ethics matter. “Public interest” isn’t what people are curious about; it’s what affects their lives, rights, and safety. We consult ethics codes, editors, and even legal counsel when in doubt. The decision isn’t made alone po—it’s weighed, debated, and documented.”
When she finished, the room was quiet again.
“Thank you,” Jhoanna said, “You may now leave.”
That’s it. Not a smile. Not a nod. Not a “Good job.”
Just “Thank you.” and “You may now leave.”
Colet stood up, nodded, and walked out of the room, muttering under her breath. “Damn. Hindi man lang ako nginitian.”
But, why would she care? Right?
The day was long, and the editorial board were exhausted.
Aiah looked dead inside. “If I hear one more student say ‘passion for journalism’ without explaining how, I will evaporate.”
But Jhoanna? She had a small, subtle smile.
“She did well,” she said, tapping her pen on Colet’s application form.
“Who?” Stacey asked, sipping her milk tea.
“Colet. She composed herself. Thought she’d fall apart sa questions ko, but she answered them just the way I like it.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” Stacey said, her eyes squinting at her. “You’re smiling for someone who still hasn’t accepted your friend request?”
Jhoanna threw a crumpled paper at her.
The Sentinel Interview Day concluded. The applicants were judged. The board was tired.
The hallway was filled with nervous whispering, post-interview overanalysis, and several “But did I make eye contact?” breakdowns.
And somewhere, sitting on a bench with a bottled water, Colet thought: Okay… that was kinda hot. But still. I hate journalism people.
The next day arrived with heavy clouds and heavier nerves.
It was Induction Rites day—the official welcoming of The Sentinel’s newest recruits.
The conference room, now infamous for yesterday’s intense interview energy, had been slightly softened. Tables were pushed aside to make room for a clean semicircle of monobloc chairs. A printed tarpaulin with The Sentinel’s logo stood proudly at the front. And Ms. Reyes, the publication adviser, sat calmly near the whiteboard, sipping 3-in-1 coffee from her “World’s Okayest Adviser” mug.
She glanced at her watch. “Any minute now,” she muttered, already fighting the urge to nap.
In front of her, sat the editorial board, all in uniform—black publication shirts with The Sentinel printed cleanly across the chest. Each board member had their position stitched on the upper right chest like badges of honor: Chief Photojournalist, Chief News Editor, Chief Layout Artist, Associate Editor, Managing Editor, Features Head, and at the far left sat Jhoanna, her shirt marked with Editor-in-Chief.
At the back of each shirt, bold white letters read:
#WordsThatMatter
Because of course, they’re dramatic like that.
Jhoanna sat quietly, trying to psych herself up.
Okay. You’re the EIC, and the Master of Ceremony. You are not allowed to stutter. You are not allowed to be awkward. You are the boss today. You’re not crushing on anyone. Shut up.
She clutched her cue cards like they were holy scripture.
Meanwhile, Aiah leaned in and whispered, “Hoy. Breathe. Baka himatayin ka before mo pa ma-welcome si Colet.”
“Shut up,” Jhoanna hissed without even looking.
Then, the door creaked open.
One by one, the new applicants began filing into the room, some in uniform, others in org shirts, and all looking 80% nervous, 15% thrilled, and 5% wishing they were somewhere else.
And then came her.
Nicolette Vergara.
Wearing an oversized white blouse tucked into denim slacks, hair loosely tied, tote bag slung over her shoulder, and the same disinterested look she wore like cologne.
She walked in with her friends—Mikha, Gwen, and Maloi—and scanned the room like she was in a Netflix teen drama.
Then her eyes locked with Jhoanna’s.
Jhoanna offered a small, polite smile. Colet blinked, hesitated, then offered a subtle, barely-there half-smile.
Progress, Jhoanna thought. That’s progress, right?
Once all the applicants had settled, Jhoanna stood up and walked to the front. She adjusted the mic stand (which squeaked because it was older than the school itself), cleared her throat, and began:
“Good morning, everyone. I’m Jhoanna Christine Robles, The Sentinel’s Editor-in-Chief, and I am the Master of the Ceremony.”
Okay, steady voice. Let’s go.
She continued, “I’ve been a member of The Sentinel since junior high. I started as a feature writer, and eventually worked my way up to layout artist, and now the editor-in-chief. And I believe that campus journalism is not just about writing—it’s about advocacy, truth-telling, and responsibility.”
A few new members nodded. Someone took notes like it was a seminar.
“And if there’s one fact about me that’s relevant,” she added, glancing at her card but not really reading it, “It’s probably that I cried editing the last issue because someone misspelled the principal’s name four times in one article.”
The room chuckled. A few editors groaned in traumatic agreement.
She continued with introductions, having the rest of the editorial board introduce themselves with their name, strand, position, and one fun fact—most of which were either “I hate deadlines” or “I drink three iced coffees a day to survive layout week.”
Then came the part Jhoanna both dreaded and loved: introducing The Sentinel itself.
“This publication was formed four years ago. It started as a two-page newsletter printed on bond paper and distributed only to HUMSS students. It eventually evolved into a full school publication, now with both digital and print editions.”
She paced gently as she spoke, her voice steady.
“We stand for truth. We report with integrity. We write not for praise, but for purpose. That is why we are proud to wear #WordsThatMatter.”
She paused.
Even Colet sat up straighter at that one.
“Now, we’d like to hear from our new members,” Jhoanna said. “Please introduce yourselves—name, grade, strand, and section, and what position you’ll be taking.”
The new recruits stood one by one, introducing themselves with varying levels of volume and enthusiasm.
Some were so quiet, Jhoanna wondered if they were even speaking.
And then, it was finally Colet’s turn.
She stood up like she wasn’t nervous at all, slid a hand through her hair, and said,
“Hello. I’m Nicolette Vergara. You can call me Colet. 12 ABM-A. Writer.”
That’s it. No follow-up. No explanation.
Jhoanna’s soul left her body for two seconds.
The way she said that. The way she stood. Is it normal to feel dizzy? Is this a fever? Oh my god.
Aiah had to poke her in the side to bring her back to Earth.
“Girl, trabaho muna, please.”
“I hate you,” Jhoanna whispered.
At last, Ms. Reyes stood and walked to the front.
“Alright, everyone,” she said with a smile. “Before we formally conclude our ceremony, may I ask everyone to stand up and raise your right hand for the recital of the Journalist’s Creed.”
The room rustled as everyone stood.
Jhoanna led the recital, voice clear and commanding, every word echoing in the room like scripture. The applicants followed, some unsure of the words, some mouthing along while reading the printed copy.
“I believe in the profession of journalism…”
Colet stumbled on some lines. She glanced at Jhoanna, trying to read her lips.
Jhoanna saw her, held her gaze, and mouthed the next lines slowly for her to follow. For a moment, neither of them looked away.
Until Gwen accidentally hit Colet with her elbow and whispered, “Baka matunaw si EIC, ha.”
The ceremony ended with applause, group photos, and snacks at the back corner of the room.
Some of the new members were already joking around, excited for what lay ahead.
As the editorial board moved around to chat with the new recruits, a mission brewed in Jhoanna’s mind:
Talk to Colet before she leaves.
She tried to be subtle. Emphasis on tried . She made small talk with other new members while keeping Colet in her peripheral vision like a girl on a secret mission in a spy movie.
Aiah caught her scheming from the other side of the room and mouthed, “Do it.”
Jhoanna sent back a look that screamed, “I’m trying!”
Colet stood near the exit, typing on her phone with one hand and sipping juice with the other. Maloi was beside her, but excused herself to grab a snack, leaving Colet in a rare, vulnerable moment: alone.
Jhoanna exhaled, squared her shoulders, and walked toward her like she wasn’t panicking inside.
“Hi!” she said, a little breathless, like she ran across the room (even though she hadn’t.)
Colet looked up, slightly surprised. “Oh. Hello.”
Jhoanna tried to smile casually. “Glad you made it today. I mean, I know you had to. Since you passed and all. But, yeah.”
Colet blinked. “Yeah, it was cool. Para akong nasa TED Talk while you were talking sa harapan.”
Jhoanna laughed—thankfully, it wasn’t the awkward kind. “Wow, TED Talk? Sana may bayad.”
And just like that, the awkward fog lifted.
They chatted for a few minutes about the induction rites, the cold aircon (“Grabe parang freezer”), the snacks (“‘Yung cookies lasang harina lang pero okay na.”), and the randomness of their batchmates. Colet mentioned she didn’t expect the whole process to be that serious.
“Oh, you mean me grilling you like it was a job interview?” Jhoanna teased.
Colet gave a breathy laugh. “Exactly. I thought chill ka lang, e.”
They both laughed this time—genuine, light, like the start of something that neither of them could quite name yet.
Eventually, Colet glanced at her phone.
“Sorry po, but I have to go. My Grab’s probably outside na.”
“Oh, yeah, no worries,” Jhoanna said, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Thank you again for coming. Congrats ulit.”
“Thanks. And, uh, good job, EIC.” Colet gave her a soft smile.
Jhoanna just stood there for a second.
Did that count as flirting? Is that flirting?
She was tempted to do a happy dance in the middle of the room, but settled for biting her lip to contain her smile.
Aiah walked past her and whispered, “So? How was it? You’re glowing, ah.”
“Shut up,” Jhoanna hissed, trying to compose herself. “She was just… she was nice.”
“Uh-huh. ‘Nice.’ Right.”
Jhoanna gave her a playful shove, waved goodbye to Ms. Reyes and the rest of the board, and finally left with the softest grin on her face.
The moment she got home, she threw her bag onto the bed, faceplanted onto her pillow, and let out the most embarrassing squeal in human history.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” she screamed into her pillow.
She kicked her legs in the air, covered her face, and muttered all the things she had been holding back the entire day:
“She talked to me.”
“She laughed.”
“She smiled.”
“And I survived all of it?”
For a solid ten minutes, she just paced around her room, hands in her hair, dramatic sighs escaping her every few seconds.
“I’m fine,” she lied to no one in particular.
Then—her phone lit up with three new notifications.
Nicolette Vergara has accepted your friend request.
nico.mp3 followed you back.
@nicovg followed you back!
Jhoanna stared at her screen. Blinking. Twice.
And then let out another scream that probably made the neighbors question their safety. She rolled onto her bed and stared at her phone like it was the Holy Grail.
After getting home, Colet showered, changed into pajamas, and dropped onto her bed like a log.
She opened her phone to clear her notifications and saw Jhoanna’s name sitting there—her friend request still pending.
“Hm,” she murmured, not really thinking about it too hard.
Click.
Request accepted.
Click.
Followed back.
She put her phone down, closed her eyes, and within seconds, drifted off to sleep.
The following morning, Jhoanna woke up with a mission.
Not world peace. Not climate action. Just one, singular, thirst-fueled goal:
Post a cute photo of herself on every platform where Colet follows her.
“Soft girl lang dapat,” she mumbled, scrolling through her camera roll for a picture that looked candid-but-planned, artsy-but-not-trying-too-hard.
After twenty minutes of deliberation, she finally chose the one — a sun-kissed photo of her from last week, wearing her favorite black cardigan, hair slightly messy but in a poetic way, with a coffee cup in hand and the caption: “Sunlight and deadlines.”
She uploaded it to Instagram first. Then Facebook. Visibility: Friends only. Then Twitter. Caption: “Mood.”
She sat back, refreshed the notifications every two seconds, and waited.
Not even five minutes later, she got a notification from the group chat with her friends.
we love yew jc robles
Sheena Mae Catacutan
We see you.
This isn’t about deadlines.
This is about Miss ABM with a pretty face.
Stacey Sevilleja
Kung maka-thirst trap parang ‘di ka nerd
Maraiah Arceta
Sunlight and deadlines daw.
Pa-etuc ka na naman.
Jhoanna groaned and dropped her phone on her bed, covering her face with a pillow, and smiling like a lovesick idiot.
Colet, on the other hand, was in her room, scrolling lazily through Instagram stories while sipping a Yakult. She tapped through friends’ posts, some reposted memes, some posted song lyrics as a parinig.
Then—Jhoanna’s post.
She paused.
“Sunlight and deadlines.”
She stared at it for a second. Tilted her head.
“She looks nice here,” she mumbled, then immediately shook her head. “Ew. No. She’s still the EIC. The journalism girl. No.”
And without liking or reacting, she swiped past it.
Jhoanna refreshed Instagram again. And again. And again.
No like. No heart react. Not even a “cute pic!” comment with a kiss emoji.
Stacey sent another message on the group chat.
we love yew jc robles
Stacey Sevilleja
Hindi man lang ni-like?
Girl, take a hint.
Sheena Mae Catacutan
Delete mo na lang kaya? Parang pangit pala.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Omg shut up ???
Maraiah Arceta
She’s stronger than all of us.
Kung ako ‘yan, I would’ve liked and saved it for offline viewing.
“Fuck it,” Jhoanna muttered, laughing despite the pain. She hugged her pillow again and whispered dramatically,
“Why is Colet like this?”
And still, somewhere in the background of her brain, a voice said: Keep posting, girl. Sasakses ka rin.
The Sentinel’s new members were once again summoned—this time, to their first official meeting.
The venue: the conference room.
The mood: tense.
The temperature: set to freezer level because someone (Aiah) thought it would “help with alertness.”
The newbies filed in, looking bright-eyed, hopeful, some even wore their new Sentinel IDs as if it was a badge of honor. But as soon as Jhoanna entered the room wearing the publication shirt, thick glasses, and a permanent frown etched across her face, the air immediately shifted.
Even Colet, who had just been laughing five seconds ago with Maloi, Mikha, and Gwen, sat up straighter. Because something about Jhoanna’s energy screamed: “I did not come here to play.”
Jhoanna took her spot in front, holding a brown clipboard with color-coded notes and a red pen clipped to the side. The editorial board flanked her like intimidating generals. Even Ms. Reyes looked like she didn’t want to interrupt.
She cleared her throat once.
“Good morning, everyone,” she started, in the calmest yet deadliest tone known to man.
“Today’s meeting is about how things work on the inside of The Sentinel. Some of you probably joined because you thought this was all just ‘writing-writing’ and ‘reporting-reporting lang.’ I’m here to tell you, this is not a joke. This is a responsibility.”
A few chuckles died in people’s throats. They looked around like, Is she serious? Spoiler: she was.
Jhoanna walked slowly from one end of the room to the other like a professor who just caught someone cheating.
“We are the official publication of this school. Everything we publish reflects us—our integrity, our accuracy, our credibility. If you think this is just some after-school tambay org? You can leave now.”
Silence.
“Okay. No one stood up. Great.”
She flipped her clipboard. “Let’s talk about rules.” Cue the sound of pens scrambling to write things down.
“Number one: Confidentiality. Anything that is discussed in our editorial meetings, any information that is sensitive or unpublished? Stays here. If I catch anyone leaking anything, or using it for personal chismis—your membership will be revoked. Walang second chances.”
People gulped. Even Maloi, who looked like she just remembered all the chikas she told Gwen the other day.
“Number two: Deadlines. I hate, and I mean HATE, late submissions. If your article is due Wednesday 5PM, don’t submit it at 5:01. Hindi kayo special, at hindi ko hihintayin ang submissions ninyo past the deadline because I can do it myself. Repeated offenses? Say good bye to your membership.”
And then it happened.
Someone, probably one of the new Arts and Design kids at the back, accidentally let out a snort of laughter. Not even a full laugh—just a small, unfortunate pfft. But in this room? That might as well have been a scream.
Jhoanna stopped mid-sentence. Dead silence.
She turned, slowly, her eyebrows furrowed and her stare locking in like a missile radar. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “Did I say something funny?”
The student froze. Eyes wide. “U-uhh…”
“Answer my question.” Jhoanna continued, walking toward the unfortunate soul. “Do you think I’m joking?”
The kid shook their head so fast they looked like a bobblehead on steroids. “No po. S-sorry po.”
Jhoanna held the glare for two more seconds, “That’s what I thought,” She then turned back to the front as if nothing happened.
The silence? Deafening. The fear? Palpable.
“Number three,” she continued, unfazed, “Mediocrity is not tolerated. I will not waste space on this publication for poorly written, half-baked, rushed work. If you submit something that looks like you did it ten minutes before the deadline habang kumakain ng turon, don’t expect it to be published. I’ll either send it back, or ignore it completely.”
She didn’t blink. Not once.
“And lastly,” her voice softened just a bit, but her glare didn’t. “We are a team. If I hear that someone made another member uncomfortable—in any way—we’re not gonna do that petty ‘talk it out’ stuff. You’re out. I don’t care if you’re the best writer, photojournalist, or artist here. This should be a safe space for everyone.”
Everyone nodded rapidly. Some were trembling. Others already imagined their future articles being thrown into a fire by Jhoanna herself.
Then she put the clipboard down and smiled. “Okay. Any questions?”
Colet, who had been pretending to take notes but was actually just doodling spirals out of anxiety, blinked twice.
“Who is she?” she thought.
This girl literally posted a cutesy photo on all social media platforms the second I followed her back. With a poetic caption pa. And now she’s out here talking about deadlines like she’s running for president of the UN.
Colet sat back in her chair, still dazed. Honestly? A little scared. Maybe also a little impressed. But mostly scared.
Across the room, Aiah whispered to Sheena, “Jhoanna is so in her villain era, I swear.”
Sheena nodded solemnly. “Yup. Slay, but terrifying.”
And from the front of the room, Jhoanna stood tall, sipping her lukewarm black coffee like it was blood from the weak.
As the meeting neared its end, Jhoanna adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat one last time—still standing at the front of the room with her clipboard. “Before we wrap up, reminder lang to the other members ng editorial board,” she said, glancing at the people she had tortured earlier with her ultra-serious speech. “You’ll be the ones in charge of assigning the new members for the upcoming Social Sciences Week. And Aiah, after niyo maayos ang coverage schedules please post it sa group chat tonight so everyone can prepare for the events ahead.”
Her tone softened just slightly. “I won’t be able to manage that part kasi I still have to deal with some matters sa HUMSS Club. And as you know, ako ‘yung president,” she said with a dramatic sigh.
Aiah, seated beside her, nodded with mock sympathy. “Busy woman.”
“More like overcommitted,” Sheena whispered behind them.
When the meeting officially concluded and the new members began to leave, Jhoanna’s scary EIC mode gradually dissolved. Her resting-deadline-face softened into her usual awkward, nerdy expression.
“Aiah,” she muttered, trailing beside her managing editor as they walked out of the conference room, “Favor naman…”
Aiah looked at her, already suspicious. “Why do you sound like you’re about to beg?”
Jhoanna sighed and looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Can you please, please, assign me and Colet together in one of the activities? Gusto ko lang talaga maka-work siya.”
Aiah raised an eyebrow. “Girl, kanina lang you were out here scaring everyone’s soul out of their bodies. Tapos ngayon, nagmamakaawa ka just to be paired with your crush?”
“Don’t say that out loud!” Jhoanna hissed, glancing around nervously. “I’m just… deeply interested in her professional development.”
Aiah snorted. “Right. Her professional development. That’s what we’re calling it now.”
But despite the teasing, Aiah knew she’d give in. Because as scary as Jhoanna was during meetings, she was still Jhoanna—nerdy, loser coded, easily flustered, hopelessly whipped for a girl who does not even like her Instagram posts.
So that night, Aiah composed the announcement in The Sentinel’s group chat with peak professionalism, as expected of an Managing Editor.
The Sentinel ✍🏻
Maraiah Arceta | STEM | Managing Editor
Good evening, @everyone! I hope all is well. Attached below is the official coverage plan for the upcoming Social Sciences Week. Please read the document carefully. It contains the following: List of Activities, Date & Time, Assigned Writers and Photojournalists, and Venue Coverage.
These assignments were made based on availability, compatibility of roles, and coordination for efficiency. Should there be any concerns or schedule conflicts, kindly message me directly.
Let’s all do our best to deliver excellent coverage for the event. Thank you!
[ATTACHMENT: SocSciWeek25_The-Sentinel_Coverage.pdf]
Jhoanna clicked on the PDF immediately, heart pounding like she wasn’t the one who begged for it.
And there it was.
ACTIVITY: “Political Stereotypes in Media” Forum
DATE: Wednesday, 1:00PM
VENUE: AVR 2
Assigned Members:
VERGARA, Nicolette - Writer
ROBLES, Jhoanna Christine - Photojournalist
And again.
ACTIVITY: Panel Interview with Local Officials
DATE: Thursday, 10:00AM
VENUE: Social Hall A
Assigned Members:
VERGARA, Nicolette - Writer
ROBLES, Jhoanna Christine - Photojournalist
And one more.
ACTIVITY: Students’ Debate
DATE: Friday, 3:00PM
VENUE: Gymnasium
Assigned Members:
VERGARA, Nicolette - Writer
ROBLES, Jhoanna Christine - Photojournalist
Jhoanna almost screamed. But she didn’t, because she was in front of her family and didn’t want to explain the full-body kilig attack she was currently going through.
Meanwhile…
TNC: Tangina Ni Colet
Gweneth Apuli
have u guys seen the file na sinend ni chief aiah
lol may napansin ako
Mary Loi Ricalde
knew you saw THAT too
Nicolette Vergara
what is it
Mikhaela Janna Lim
girl u have to see it yourself
Nicolette Vergara
what the hell
three activities with that girl ??????????
Gweneth Apuli
parang sinadya hahahaha
Mary Loi Ricalde
hindi ‘yan sinadya
fate na ‘yan
Colet screamed into her pillow. Not because she hated the idea. But because, deep down, she really didn’t.
Social Sciences Week had finally arrived, and the school felt different—buzzing with life, posters in every hallway, colorful streamers, tarpaulins of event lineups, and chairs being dragged into makeshift forums. It was early Monday morning, 7:32 AM to be exact, and already, the gymnasium was half-full with students in their uniforms, buzzing with energy.
Jhoanna, wearing her cleanly pressed white uniform with her HUMSS Club ID lace around her neck and her The Sentinel press tag clipped neatly on the upper right of her blouse, was speed-walking toward the gym with a tote bag slung over her shoulder, a clipboard in one hand, and her phone in the other. She was typing a long message into the HUMSS Club group chat, her fingers flying like she wasn’t on the verge of delivering opening remarks to over a hundred students and teachers.
Humanista Club
Robles, Jhoanna (Ms. President)
Good morning, @everyone!
First off, I want to say thank you sa efforts ninyo for the past month. I know this week will be tiring, but we’ve prepared for this for so long kaya kakayanin natin! Manifesting smooth transitions, no late speakers, no tech issues, and cooperative audience! Let's make this week memorable! Good luck to all of us!
She added a heart emoji. Then deleted it. Then added it again.
A minute later, the gymnasium’s speakers crackled to life. The program was about to start.
From the stage, Colet stood quietly with her friends, waiting for the first activity. She had her eyes glued on her phone, and now? They were on the girl walking up the stairs to the stage.
“Is that... Jhoanna?” she muttered to herself.
“Yep,” Gwen answered, chewing gum and not even looking up. “HUMSS Club president, remember?”
“No, like… is that really Jhoanna?” Colet blinked hard.
Because the girl now standing behind the mic at the center of the stage was not the same girl who interrogated her with a soul-piercing glare during the interview, nor the one who nearly ended someone’s life with a stare for laughing during a meeting.
This Jhoanna? She was smiling—genuinely, sweetly—her cheeks flushed from the heat, her hair in a neat low ponytail, strands falling on her face that she tucked away with a little shy laugh.
“Good morning, everyone!” Jhoanna beamed, her voice loud, clear, and— what the hell —bubbly.
The audience clapped, some cheering. She held the mic with both hands and tilted her head a little. “As the president of the HUMSS Club, I am beyond happy to welcome you all to this year’s Social Sciences Week!”
Colet’s jaw almost dropped.
“This week is not just about academic excellence or subject mastery,” Jhoanna continued, bouncing slightly on her heels as she spoke, “It’s also about the joy of learning together, celebrating our ideas, and giving space to our voices.”
The Jhoanna on stage chuckled at her own minor stutter, rolled her eyes playfully, and the crowd laughed with her. Her energy was magnetic, sincere, and—unlike her terrifying EIC self—soft and approachable.
“You’ve all worked so hard, and this week is going to be amazing, I just know it. On behalf of the HUMSS Club and our dear Social Science Department, good luck, have fun, and enjoy the rest of the week! Let’s make it count!”
The applause was thunderous.
Jhoanna stepped off the mic with a bright smile and bowed lightly, walking down the stairs as another speaker was called up. She returned to her seat in the reserved section, where Aiah was waiting with a bottle of water.
“Ang powerful ni Miss President” Aiah whispered as she handed it over.
“Shut up,” Jhoanna whispered back, hiding her smile behind the bottle. “Why are you here anyway? STEM student ka at hindi ka naman part ng HUMSS Club.”
“I am literally here assigned para magcover. Looks like someone did not read the whole file, nako, EIC ka pa naman.”
Back in the audience, Colet was still staring at the stage, mildly stunned.
“She’s so different here,” she muttered.
“Different how?” Maloi smirked.
“Like, sobrang bubbly niya, and cute,” Colet said before realizing she said it out loud.
Her friends all turned to her at once.
“I mean—no! Not cute! Just… not scary!”
“Okay, girl,” Mikha teased. “Noted: ‘not scary equals cute’ in your love language.”
Colet groaned and buried her face in her clipboard.
But even with her cheeks flushed, she couldn’t help but glance back at the stage—just to see if Jhoanna was still smiling.
She was.
And it was kind of driving her insane.
It was now the day before their assigned The Sentinel coverage, and Colet sat in the farthest chair in their classroom, her eyes bouncing between the class recitation in front and the messenger app on her phone. She had been staring at it for ten minutes now, half trying to write her pre-event outline, half debating if she should even press send on the message she had drafted minutes ago.
Because tomorrow, she would be doing her first major campus journalism task: a coverage of one of the most packed activities of Social Sciences Week—and not just as some quiet observer, but as the assigned writer. She would be the one interviewing people, talking to teachers and participants, writing the whole damn article after.
And the worst part?
She was going to do it with Jhoanna.
The Jhoanna who practically inhaled people for turning in late outputs. The Jhoanna who stopped mid-meeting just to ask someone if they thought her rules were funny. The Jhoanna who—despite all of this—still somehow looked really good under gymnasium lighting when she gave opening remarks, smiling like sunshine and sipping from her water bottle like she wasn’t the scariest woman alive.
So maybe, Colet thought, her nerves weren’t just because of the crowd. Maybe.
After biting the inside of her cheek and glancing around to make sure her friends weren’t peeking at her screen, she finally tapped send.
Nicolette Vergara
hi po, eic! apologies if i’m disturbing you po right now. i just want to ask po if i’m already excused sa subject teachers ko for the coverage tomorrow? not sure po kasi if napag-usapan ‘yon or if nasabi ni chief aiah sa gc.
again, sorry po for the disturbance and if ngayon lang ako nagtanong. thank you in advance po!
She hit send and threw her phone down like it was cursed. Then sat there, watching her screen from a distance like it was going to bite her.
Meanwhile, elsewhere on campus, Jhoanna was in the middle of overseeing another HUMSS Club booth, assisting students who had questions about the next activity, clipboard tucked under her arm and a whistle around her neck she hadn’t even used yet. She was smiling politely at a junior when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out without much thought, glanced at the screen—and froze.
Nicolette Vergara sent you a message.
At first, she blinked. Thought she might’ve been hallucinating. She shrugged it off and stuffed her phone back. But after a few seconds of trying to continue answering questions, her brain did a little backflip.
Wait . Did she actually see that right? Nicolette Vergara just messaged her?
Jhoanna quickly muttered an apology to the group she was assisting and darted toward Aiah, who was kneeling near the stage taking candid shots of the performers.
“Aiah,” Jhoanna hissed, crouching beside her. “AIAH. Code red.”
“What,” Aiah whispered back, not looking up from her viewfinder.
“She messaged me.”
Aiah snapped her head to the side. “Who? Oh my God. Don’t tell me—”
“Yes.” Jhoanna nodded furiously. “ Yes .”
Aiah grinned like the devil. “What did she say?”
“She asked about the coverage tomorrow. Like if she’s already excused. Very formal. Like, I think she’s trying to be polite, pero feeling ko gusto lang talaga niya akong i-chat.”
“May sapak ka ata sa ulo, Jho,” Aiah scoffed. “You should reply to her na and leave me alone. I’m literally busy here.”
“Shut up,” Jhoanna said, but she was grinning now.
After excusing herself properly from the chaos, she took a few moments in an empty corridor to finally reply. Her hands were shaking a little. She stared at her keyboard, reread Colet’s message five times, and told herself: you need to be professional, Jhoanna. Trabaho muna. Don’t sound like you screamed the second you saw her name.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Hello, Colet. It’s not a bother at all. Thank you for asking.
Yes, you’re already excused from all your classes during your assigned coverage schedule tomorrow. I’ll also forward the list of excused students later in case your teacher needs confirmation.
Out of curiosity lang, did Aiah not mention it in her PDF or sa GC announcement ba talaga?
She pressed send, satisfied with how neutral it sounded.
Back on her table, Colet saw the reply and—admittedly—smiled a little. There it was again: the strict-but-polite EIC tone. It made her sit up straighter.
She checked the GC and backread the announcement Aiah had sent.
Turns out, no, the detail about subject excuse weren't included.
Nicolette Vergara
hello po! i just checked it, and wala po talaga hehe.
thank you po for answering! and thank you din po for the clarification.
see you tomorrow, ms. eic.
She added a little salute emoji and immediately regretted it. But before she could delete it, she saw that Jhoanna had already read the message.
Jhoanna, on the other hand, was leaning against a wall, holding in a scream. She reread the “see you tomorrow, ms. eic” part like it was the most romantic thing in the world.
She didn't reply anymore. She just reacted with a heart emoji. She had to keep the illusion that she was chill, unreadable, coolheaded.
But inside?
She was ready to write Nicolette Vergara messaged me first in her diary and put flowers around it.
The sky wore a thick sheet of gray, threatening rain, and the whole campus seemed to move slower than usual. At exactly 12:43 PM, the newly renovated multipurpose hall hummed with the low whirr of its industrial air conditioners and the soft chatter of early attendees settling into their seats. The “Political Stereotypes in Media” forum was set to begin at one, but preparations were already in full swing.
In the far right corner of the hall stood Jhoanna, camera hanging around her neck. She had just finished checking the lighting from multiple angles and reviewing the last few messages from Aiah in the group chat. She wore The Sentinel’s official black tee tucked neatly into dark blue jeans, her ID card clipped onto her belt loop. The words “Editor-in-Chief” were printed in tiny white text on the upper right of her shirt, but her sharp presence didn’t need a label to be recognized.
Beside her, fidgeting with her ballpen, was Colet.
Colet had shown up earlier than expected, maybe because her friends practically dragged her to the hall for moral support. She was in a simple long-sleeved blouse and denim skirt, her press ID awkwardly hanging from her neck like it didn’t belong there. She kept glancing at her small notebook where she’d written a few last-minute guide questions, but none of them were sinking in.
Her thoughts were swimming somewhere between What if I mess up the coverage? and Why does she keep looking at me like that?
Jhoanna noticed. Of course she did. She had a sixth sense for tension, especially when it came from Colet. The nervous shifting, the lip-biting, the occasional sigh that escaped her—it was all too obvious for someone like Jhoanna who had been waiting for this day with a subtle kind of excitement no one else could possibly understand.
She stepped slightly closer, careful not to startle her. Then, with a soft but firm touch, she reached out and gently patted Colet’s back. Once. Twice. Just enough to ground her.
“You got this, Colet,” she said, her voice warm—low enough for only her to hear. “First coverages are always scary, but you’re not alone. I’m here.”
Colet stiffened, a little surprised by the gesture, but didn’t pull away.
“Don’t worry, I’m not mad, okay?” Jhoanna added, eyes scanning Colet’s face for any signs of fear. “Promise. It’s understandable. This is your first time and the topic is kinda heavy.”
“Yeah…” Colet mumbled, finally meeting her eyes for a second. “Thank you.”
The sincerity in Jhoanna’s expression didn’t match the intimidating aura Colet had witnessed in the meetings. Here, she wasn’t the strict, terrifying EIC who once made someone cry in an interview. Here, she was soft-spoken, gentle—too gentle, almost. Colet didn’t know how to process that.
“Breathe,” Jhoanna reminded her, smiling a little. “You’ll be okay.”
Colet gave a tiny nod, clutching her notebook a little tighter. Her heart was beating unreasonably fast now, and she blamed it entirely on the nerves. It’s just nerves. Hindi ako kinikilig. Definitely not. I still hate journalism people. Right?
Then the event officially began.
The host introduced the speakers, the panelists were settled on stage, and the projector lit up with the opening title of the forum. Students and teachers began to fill the venue, and the chatter quieted as the emcee welcomed everyone.
Jhoanna shifted into work mode effortlessly. Camera raised, posture firm, gaze sharp—she moved across the hall like she owned the space. Every click of her shutter was intentional. She captured shots of the opening remarks, the wide crowd shots, the slides being discussed, and close-ups of panelists exchanging opinions. She even had the presence of mind to take candid shots of the audience reacting to key statements—classic The Sentinel quality.
But somewhere in between those perfectly framed photos, her lens would linger. For just a second too long.
On Colet.
Sitting there, scribbling notes with her brows furrowed in concentration, eyes darting between speakers and her page. Biting her pen cap. Nodding when a good point was made. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Looking determined and anxious and—Jhoanna would never admit it out loud—but cute as hell.
And each time she caught herself lingering too long, Jhoanna would mentally slap herself. Stop it. Work. Focus. Journalism first, mamaya na ang landi.
Colet, meanwhile, was gradually getting into the groove. The speaker’s topic was engaging, and her notes were growing more detailed by the minute. She felt her nerves ease little by little—maybe it was the structure of the event, maybe it was the fact that no one was paying attention to her mistakes… or maybe it was the memory of Jhoanna’s voice saying “I’m here” on repeat in her head like a broken record.
An hour passed. Then another. And before they knew it, the forum reached its open forum segment. Colet raised her hand to ask a question—voice slightly shaking, but firm. The mic squeaked a little as it was handed to her, and she managed to ask her question clearly, concisely. She even cited a point made earlier and connected it to her query.
Jhoanna, across the room, lowered her camera for a brief moment. Smiled. You’re doing great, Colet.
After the event concluded, the crowd dispersed slowly. People gathered for photo ops, speakers were thanked, and volunteers cleaned up. Colet was still gathering her notes when Jhoanna returned to her side.
“Good job, Colet,” she said again, more proudly this time. “Parang hindi ka first-timer.”
Colet glanced up at her. That smile again.
She blinked, looked away, and tucked her notebook under her arm. “Thanks. I tried not to throw up.”
Jhoanna laughed. “Well, not throwing up is a win.”
Colet smiled—small, shy, but undeniably real. For a moment, they stood there in quiet pride, just the two of them, the buzz of the hall fading behind them.
She still didn’t know what she felt. She still told herself she hated journalism people.
But Jhoanna? Maybe she was the exception .
Three days. Three full activities. Three instances of chaos, pressure, and nerve-wracking responsibilities for the both of them—and yet, for some reason, Colet found herself smiling more than stressing as the Social Sciences Week slowly came to an end.
The final coverage—The Students’ Debate on National Issues—was held in the gymnasium. The venue was warm with the crowd’s energy. Students from different strands were clapping and cheering for the representatives on stage, and the hum of debate arguments filled the air like electric tension. Colet, notebook in hand, moved with more ease now. She didn’t fumble with her pen anymore. Her questions came naturally. Her sentences flowed.
She could feel it. She was changing. Slowly. Confusingly. And it was all because of a certain photojournalist who had been by her side for every step of the way.
Jhoanna—the girl who once terrified her in editorial board meetings—was now the same girl who cheered for her quietly after every article draft, who patted her back before events, who whispered affirmations with the softest voice, and who never let her feel alone.
And now, as the applause filled the gymnasium after the final debater stepped off stage, Jhoanna stood in front, HUMSS Club ID gleaming on her uniform, ready to speak the closing remarks.
Colet watched from the side, arms crossed, but her expression softer than usual.
“On behalf of the HUMSS Club, thank you, everyone, for making this week meaningful and impactful,” Jhoanna’s voice echoed across the gym with calm confidence. “This event reminded us that knowledge, discourse, and student voices matter. We hope you continue the conversations beyond this forum.”
She gave a small bow, the kind of bow that looked more sincere than formal, then stepped down from the makeshift stage, her steps light. The moment she returned to the floor, she took a deep breath—no longer the leader in front of an audience, just Jhoanna again.
And she turned straight to Colet.
“Hey,” she said casually, pretending it wasn’t something she’d been thinking about since yesterday. “You wanna eat somewhere?”
Colet blinked. “Like… now?”
Jhoanna nodded, shrugging, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. I mean, I usually do this when I work with someone new in events.”
That was a lie. She never did this. Ever. But she would rather lie than admit she just really wanted to spend more time with Colet.
Colet hesitated for a second, lips parting in mild confusion. But there was something in Jhoanna’s eyes that made her answer before overthinking could ruin the moment.
“Sure,” she said, tucking her notebook away. “I’m starving.”
They ended up at a small café just a short walk from campus. The kind with mismatched furniture, indie music playing faintly, and walls filled with hand-painted art from local students. There were barely any customers, just a pair of girls by the window and a guy typing aggressively on his laptop near the bookshelf.
They sat across from each other by a corner table, drinks steaming in front of them, food placed between.
Jhoanna sipped her cappuccino and mentally prayed her hands wouldn’t shake. She was literally eating with her crush. Her crush who hated journalism people. Her crush who was now casually eating lasagna while talking about how weird that one debate judge’s comments were.
“I mean, like—no offense—but that judge literally said ‘art is not political’? Be for real naman,” Colet said, gesturing with her fork.
Jhoanna almost choked on her drink laughing. “That’s what I’ve been saying! Ako ‘yung nag-picture habang sinasabi niya ‘yon tapos I literally whispered, ‘how did this person become a judge?’”
Colet snorted. “You get me.”
And just like that, the tension eased. Conversation flowed like coffee in their mugs. They talked about their strands, about the different types of teachers they’ve had, about how stressful it is to be a senior. Jhoanna shared how she once fell asleep while editing articles and accidentally approved a draft with a typo in the headline. Colet laughed so hard she slapped the table.
There were moments of silence, too, but they were the kind that felt natural. No pressure to speak, just the comfort of presence.
Jhoanna couldn’t believe it—how calm she felt. How she wasn’t stammering or spilling things or blushing too hard. Is this growth? Or am I just too tired to panic? she wondered.
She looked at Colet, who was sipping her mocha latte, eyes slightly droopy from exhaustion but still bright in the afternoon light.
“This is nice,” Jhoanna said suddenly.
Colet looked up. “Huh?”
“This. Us. Talking,” Jhoanna shrugged. “I’m glad we got to work together.”
Colet stared for a second too long. Then looked away.
“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Me too.”
She didn’t say it out loud, but the truth was echoing in her mind now, loud and confusing: Maybe journalism people aren’t so bad after all.
Or maybe, one journalism person was making it really, really hard for her to keep hating them.
Two hours passed before either of them noticed the sky beginning to dim. The café’s warm lighting started to feel a little too warm, a little too soft—like it was coaxing them to wrap up whatever it was that bloomed quietly between casual sips of coffee and bursts of laughter. The playlist had changed from indie acoustics to mellow jazz, and the once warm mugs in their hands were now empty, like the last few minutes of a perfect day slowly winding down.
“Late na pala,” Jhoanna glanced at the time on her phone and gave a sheepish smile. “We should probably go,” she said, reluctant.
Colet checked hers too. “Oh, yeah. My mom’s gonna think na kinidnap ako by journalism people.”
Jhoanna laughed, reaching for her tote bag. “Well, technically, you did.”
They stepped out into the cool late afternoon, the wind just strong enough to tousle their hair a bit. They stood in front of the café for a while, both unsure how to say goodbye without sounding too enthusiastic or too indifferent.
“Thank you,” Colet said, arms folded across her chest as if to contain the softness in her voice. “For the food and everything.”
Jhoanna tried not to beam. “Of course. Thank you, too. For surviving three whole activities with me this week.”
Colet gave a small chuckle. “Barely.”
They lingered again, just a few seconds more.
“Chat mo ’ko when you get home, ha?” Jhoanna said. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, you too,” Colet replied. “Ingat.”
And with that, they went their separate ways.
Jhoanna’s walk home felt like a slow-motion scene in a coming-of-age movie. Like the leaves were crunchier than usual. Like the wind was a little more dramatic. Like the sky was perfectly staged just to reflect the very specific feeling in her chest—warm, giddy, and stupidly full.
Jhoanna barely lasted ten minutes after stepping into her house before grabbing her phone and unlocking it with giddy fingers.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Hi, I just got home.
Thanks again for today, Colet. I had fun.
You did well and I hope you’ll reward yourself with a good sleep.
Then, without hesitation, she jumped into the group chat with her ride-or-dies.
we love yew jc robles
Jhoanna Christine Robles
GUYS.
I JUST HAD COFFEE WITH COLET.
LIKE ACTUAL COFFEE.
SIPPING COFFEE TOGETHER.
WE’RE LITERALLY BESIDE EACH OTHER.
SHE’S SO CUTE. AND I DIDN’T DIE.
WE TALKED. LIKE FRIENDS OR WHATEVER THE HELL THIS IS.
Sheena Mae Catacutan
WHATTTTTT
ANG JHOLET KO ?????
Stacey Sevilleja
GIRL HINDI KA MATUTULOG NANG WALANG DEETS
Maraiah Arceta
Wow. Big girl na Jhoanna namin.
#ProudMomHere
Jhoanna was too busy kicking her feet in her bed to care. She clutched her pillow to her chest, letting out the silent scream she had been holding since the café. Her heart was light. Too light. Maybe floating. Maybe on fire. Maybe both.
Meanwhile, Colet had just gotten home and tossed her bag on her bed when she saw the message notification pop up.
She stared at the message for a good thirty seconds. Then typed back.
Nicolette Vergara
hello, jhoanna! i just got home, too.
i don’t know how to thank you enough for today and for the past three days.
i had fun, too, sobra.
And just as she placed her phone down, feeling strangely warm in the chest—like the café hadn’t left her yet—her phone buzzed again.
TNC: Tangina Ni Colet
Mikhaela Janna Lim
@everyone
guess niyo sino nakita ko sa café with miss eic kanina hahahaha
sitting together and sipping coffee like actual people on a date
Gweneth Apuli
clue naman
Mikhaela Janna Lim
si miss “i hate journalism people” lol
Mary Loi Ricalde
wow three activities together, and now coffee?
sure ka bang hindi tadhana ‘to, @Nicolette Vergara?
Nicolette Vergara
can you all CHILL
it was not a date.
we were just hungry after the event
it’s something she apparently does with new members na nakakasama niya magcover
Gweneth Apuli
sure, okay, sige
but you’re not denying na baka it’s tadhana na
Mary Loi Ricalde
kinikilig ka, girl
admit it
Colet groaned, burying her face into her blanket.
She told herself it wasn’t anything special. It was just two people who worked together during an event, eating food, and talking. That’s it. Right?
…right?
And yet, the smile wouldn’t leave her lips.
Days after the friendly café date and on a random weekday morning, in the middle of second period, while Colet was halfway through pretending to listen in class and Jhoanna was busy proofreading an article draft, their phones began to buzz—once, twice, then ten times over.
BINI University Freedom Wall
Post #30109
“Nicolette Vergara and The Sentinel EIC Jhoanna Robles are dating each other ???”
[photo attached: Jhoanna and Colet seated at the café days ago, laughing at something on Colet’s phone screen]
It was chaos. Literal chaos.
Their Messenger GCs exploded. Their personal inboxes blew up. Even classmates started poking their heads over desks and whispering:
"Colet, nakita mo na?”
“’Di ba kayo ‘to nung Friday?”
“OMG, Jho, viral ka sa freedom wall.”
It was a different kind of coverage—one they didn’t sign up for. And of course, their friends didn’t let it go quietly.
we love yew jc robles
Sheena Mae Catacutan
SO ANONG NANGYAYARI.
Maraiah Arceta
Grabe, hindi na ako updated sa love team developments.
Stacey Sevilleja
“Writer x EIC” is now my favorite AU.
Sheena Mae Catacutan
This is literally better than any romcom.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Guys, pwede ba?
Stacey Sevilleja
Jho, the people have spoken. You and Colet are the it couple now.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
I-re-revoke ko mga membership ninyo.
TNC: Tangina Ni Colet
Mikhaela Janna Lim
hindi ako nagpost sa freedom wall ha
pagbintangan pa ako ni boss colet
Gweneth Apuli
but look at them smiling at each other with soft lighting pa hahahaha
Mary Loi Ricalde
caught in 4k hahahaha hindi lang pala si mikhs nakakita
Nicolette
oh my god.
walang something, may tinatawanan lang kami na meme
Mary Loi Ricalde
then go clear your name if wala
unless, you really don’t want to clear it hahahahaha
Nicolette Vergara
SHUT UP.
Colet groaned dramatically in the middle of her bed, covering her face with a pillow.
It’s not like she didn’t expect the teasing, but this? This was on another level. And it’s not just their friends now. People at their school were side-eyeing her and Jhoanna every time they crossed paths. Some teachers even smirked knowingly, especially their publication adviser.
“Miss Vergara, I hear you’ve been very collaborative with my EIC, ha. That’s good, para may inspiration na siya. Iwas burnout din.”
It was unbearable.
So, she did what anyone in panic mode would do: she opened Facebook and typed.
Nicolette Vergara
[Public Post]
okay grabe, just to clear things up since half the school thinks i’m dating ms. the sentinel eic:
no po, hindi po kami dating ni ms. jhoanna robles. we are friends. nagkape lang po kami. hindi po kami kinasal.
thx.
luv,
kulet xD
And in the comment section, where chaos thrives:
Nicolette Vergara
@Jhoanna Christine Robles, can u debunk this, too hahahaha
Jhoanna saw the post during a break, and it was like watching a sandcastle she spent months building get washed away by a wave in slow motion.
Because even if it was half-joking, even if Colet probably meant it light-heartedly, it still hurt.
She thought— maybe Colet was starting to feel the same. The lingering glances. The laugh that felt just a little too fond. The conversations that lasted longer than necessary. The way Colet started staying after The Sentinel meetings, just to chat.
But no. Colet had just announced to more than 70,000 people that they were just friends—and worse, asked her to do the same.
So she did. She composed herself. Bit the inside of her cheek. Took a deep breath.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Guys, should I give each and everyone of you halo-halo para you can chill? I’m not dating Colet, we were just hanging out after a tiring coverage.
(But really, if you guys want to ship us, hindi ko kayo pipigilan. Lol.)
The comments exploded. Even some teachers liked it. And both Jhoanna and Colet had to deal with the giggles, teasing, and side-eyes for the next few days.
But beyond the post, Colet couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, she was lying to herself a little bit.
Because every time she scrolled past that café photo, every time she saw Jhoanna’s name on her notifications, and every time she saw that smile that made her chest feel a little weird.
She couldn’t help but wonder: If we’re just friends, why does it feel like this?
It wasn’t a sudden change. No, that would’ve been easier. It was the small shifts that hurt the most.
The first time Jhoanna didn’t wait by the gate after dismissal. The unanswered “jho, coffee?” on Messenger, left on seen for two hours before finally getting a short reply: “Sorry, busy.”
The smiles that used to feel like home slowly replaced with nods, then silence, then nothing.
And when Colet passed her in the hallway, there was no more back pat, no teasing, no “Cols, I like your eyeliner today.” Just the sound of footsteps and silence swallowing the space between them.
She didn’t want to admit it—but Jhoanna was avoiding her.
Colet noticed it first in the publication room. The way Jhoanna would look past her during meetings. The way she’d object when Aiah tries to pair both of them to an activity in an event. The way her voice stayed neutral, almost too neutral, as if she were reading from a script.
And when she did speak to Colet, it was always clipped. Professional. Detached.
“You’ll handle the write-up for the student council meeting. Please turn in your article before Friday. That’s all. Thank you.”
No “hey.” No “kumusta.” No hint of the girl who once cheered her on, who laughed beside her in a café, who made her heart feel weird and fluttery in a way she couldn’t name.
Colet tried to brush it off at first.
Maybe Jhoanna was just busy. She was a HUMSS student, the HUMSS Club president, and The Sentinel’s EIC, after all. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe it was nothing. But the ache didn’t go away.
She asked Gwen one afternoon, casually, while chewing on her straw after buying milk tea.
“Gwen, did I do something wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why isn’t Jhoanna talking to me anymore?”
“Cols, that happened after you posted that debunk thing on Facebook. Just think about that for a while.”
“Friends lang naman talaga kami. Why would she be upset over that?”
“Girl, take a hint.”
Meanwhile, in a corner of the campus library, Jhoanna was doing her best to hold herself together.
Aiah, Sheena, and Stacey were sitting around her, half-whispering, half-watching her with worry.
“Jho…” Aiah muttered with a worried voice.
“I’m fine,” she said, scribbling on her pad. “May deadline sa publication, I don’t have time to be sad.”
“You haven’t looked her in the eye for days,” Sheena pointed out.
“I can’t, okay?” Jhoanna said softly. “It hurts.”
It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was the kind of ache that clung to her bones. That made her question every second they’d spent together. Every laugh. Every late-night message. Every café conversation that played like a movie in her mind.
Was it all one-sided?
“Maybe I’m just being petty,” she whispered. “Maybe this is childish. Immature.”
“It’s not,” Stacey said, leaning in. “Your feelings are valid, Jho. You’re not petty for hurting.”
She didn’t want to avoid Colet. God, she didn’t. But every time she saw her, her chest twisted.
Because she really thought there was something. She thought maybe, just maybe, her feelings were being returned—slowly, tentatively, like the beginning of something new.
But then came the post.
Just friends. Nothing more.
Broadcasted to everyone—teachers, classmates, even strangers. A public announcement that left Jhoanna feeling like a fool.
So she pulled back, for her own sake. But that didn’t mean it didn’t kill her every time she passed by Colet and pretended not to care.
And Colet, she wasn’t used to this silence. It gnawed at her.
Because Jhoanna wasn’t just a chief to her, or a café buddy. Jhoanna was the one who taught her how to breathe in chaotic rooms. The one who saw her nerves and offered reassurance. The one who stayed, even when she was difficult.
So why did it feel like she was leaving now? Why did this distance feel heavier than she expected? She didn’t have the answers. All she knew was that she misses her, she misses them , and she didn’t know how to say it.
It had been over a week since Jhoanna began to carefully, painfully, distance herself from Colet.
The first few days were difficult—hell, they were unbearable. But eventually, Jhoanna started to move through it like clockwork. She learned when to arrive early at The Sentinel office just so she could leave before Colet came in. She learned how to masterfully redirect conversations whenever Colet tried to linger, how to keep her voice neutral, professional, and light, never letting the crack show.
It wasn’t easy. It was never easy. But if it kept her from falling deeper, then maybe, it was necessary.
But Colet? She was tired of pretending nothing changed.
Every day, she waited. For a glance. A smile. Even just a small pat on the back like before. But none of it came.
Jhoanna was always busy now. Always looking away. Always walking past her like she was just another face in the hallway, just another person she worked with.
It was driving Colet mad.
And what hurt most was that she still didn’t understand why. Why was Jhoanna suddenly cold? Why couldn’t she talk to her like before? Why couldn’t they just go back to how things used to be? What is wrong with what she posted?
One Wednesday afternoon, Colet and Maloi was walking towards the canteen when they saw her.
Jhoanna. Sitting on one of the benches under the trees. Laughing with someone—another girl, tall and soft-featured, wearing the HUMSS club shirt. A fellow officer, maybe. A friend.
And it shouldn’t have bothered her. It shouldn’t have.
But it did.
Something inside her twisted sharply. Her steps slowed. Her lips parted, as if about to say something she didn’t understand. There was this awful tightness in her chest—like jealousy. But that didn’t make sense, right ?
We’re just friends. That’s what she told everyone. That’s what she told herself.
So why did it hurt? Why did she think, selfishly, that it should’ve been her beside Jhoanna? That it should’ve been her making her laugh like that? That it should’ve been them ?
Annoyed at her own confusion, Colet turned on her heel and stormed back to her classroom, leaving Maloi alone and confused.
And being the melodramatic that she is, Colet did the one thing she always does when overwhelmed, she posted a note on Instagram. A vague one.
“saya niyo naman lol”
– Jealous by Nick Jonas
No emojis. No explanation, and the minute it went up, the group chat was on fire.
TNC: Tangina Ni Colet
Mikhaela Janna Lim
nicolette, don’t tell me your note is about miss eic
Gweneth Apuli
what the hell this is SO not you
Mary Loi Ricalde
nagseselos pala mga gangsta na katulad mo?
Colet Vergara
shut up. it’s just a song. dami niyong alam.
Mikhaela Janna Lim
just a song my ass. okay lang naman maging jealous, colet
Nicolette Vergara
i am not jealous. gago ka ba. she’s just a friend. we’re friends.
Mary Loi Ricalde
no one’s questioning your friendship, we all know you’re friends. but can u just admit na u did not like it when you saw her laughing w some1 else kanina?
Colet didn’t reply after that. She just let her phone fall on the desk and covered her face with her arm. Her cheeks were burning.
Maybe she was jealous. Maybe she was being obvious.
Meanwhile, Jhoanna saw it too.
She was casually scrolling through Instagram Stories that night while waiting for her coffee to brew, and when she tapped on Colet’s note—it caught her off guard.
She stared at it for a moment.
“saya niyo naman lol”
She blinked. Heart skipped. Was that… directed at her?
A second later, her rational brain kicked in.
No. No, of course not. Why would she be jealous because of you?
She probably liked someone else. Maybe she was jealous of some guy. Or girl. Whoever it was, it clearly wasn’t her.
After all, she already said they were just friends. She told the entire school.
So Jhoanna did what she always did lately. She scrolled past it, shrugged, and pretended her heart didn’t want to ask what Colet was jealous about.
Fate really had a twisted sense of humor.
Because out of all the people in The Sentinel, Jhoanna got paired with her again. Colet.
Jhoanna only found out after the groupings had been finalized, and her jaw almost dropped when she read her name right next to Colet’s on the printed activity assignment posted on the bulletin board.
She turned to Aiah immediately. “Can I switch partners? Like kahit kanino—kahit si Stacey, Sheena, or kahit new member pa, please.”
But Aiah shook her head with an apologetic wince. “Sorry, girl. It was Ms. Reyes’ decision. She said you and Colet ‘have chemistry daw when you work together.’”
Jhoanna let out a sharp exhale. “Right. Chemistry.” She forced a smile, nodded, then looked away before the disappointment fully etched itself on her face.
She wanted to protest more, but going against the publication adviser wasn’t the smartest move—especially since Ms. Reyes was already a little stressed out these past few weeks. So Jhoanna simply nodded and walked away, her thoughts loud and annoyed.
Colet, on the other hand, was glowing. She saw her name beside Jhoanna’s and literally gasped.
Maybe this is my chance, she thought. Maybe we can fix things. Maybe we’ll talk again like before.
The day of the activity came, and for the first time in forever, Jhoanna wasn’t excited.
She was usually buzzing during event days—geared up with her camera, wearing her press ID with pride. But today? She dragged her feet. Her camera felt heavy. Her lanyard strangling.
It wasn’t because the event was boring—it was actually a community outreach program, the kind she loved documenting. It was because of who she was paired with.
She had spent weeks detaching, avoiding, emotionally decluttering her life of anything that could make her spiral again. And now fate wanted her to just snap back into pretending she was okay around Colet? What a sick joke.
Colet was all smiles when she arrived, greeting the volunteers and organizers. She looked genuinely excited. When she saw Jhoanna, she lit up for a second and walked over, a little hesitant but hopeful.
“Jho,” she said softly. “Good morning!”
Jhoanna didn’t answer right away. She just raised her camera, stepped to the left, and started clicking pictures of the table set-up.
“Oh,” Colet said, her voice a little deflated. “Okay, gets.”
Everytime she tries to have a small talk, Jhoanna shifted to a new angle, crouched down to capture a kid’s drawing.
Colet’s smile faltered. She stood there awkwardly, then quietly backed away and let Jhoanna move through the event like a ghost—present but unreachable.
After the event ended, Colet didn’t stay behind like she usually did to help Jhoanna pack up. She simply said her goodbyes to the organizers, took off her ID, and went straight home.
Once inside her room, she dropped her bag, collapsed on her bed, and stared at the ceiling.
It’s over, she thought. She doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.
She could feel it in how Jhoanna wouldn’t even look at her. And no matter how much she replayed their brief interactions today, nothing felt redeemable.
So she did the one thing that never failed to comfort her.
She grabbed her guitar, set up her phone camera, closed her eyes, and sang.
Her voice was soft but aching, each lyric spilling like a confession she couldn’t say out loud.
She posted the clip on her Instagram story with no caption—just the raw vulnerability of a girl who didn’t know what she did wrong, only that something beautiful had turned cold.
Jhoanna was halfway through editing photos when she took a break, leaned back on her chair, and opened Instagram.
And there it was. That video.
She clicked on it, thinking she’d only watch a few seconds.
But like the first time she heard Colet sing during the campus singing contest months ago, her heart plummeted in her chest.
It was that same voice—haunting, rich, filled with something she couldn’t quite describe.
And for a split second, it didn’t matter that she was avoiding her. Didn’t matter that she’d spent weeks pretending she didn’t care anymore.
She stared at the screen long after the video ended, her fingers frozen.
She misses her. She misses Colet so much it physically aches.
But she still believed—fiercely, stubbornly—that this distance was necessary. That she was protecting her peace, guarding her heart. Even if it meant staying away from the person who made it beat a little faster.
It was almost laughable how her friends' words kept echoing in her head like a broken record. At first, Jhoanna wanted to roll her eyes and bury herself in editing deadlines, announcements, and meeting minutes just to escape it. But the more she ignored it, the louder it echoed.
They were right.
Aiah. Sheena. Stacey. All of them.
She was getting tired, too.
She misses Colet. She misses her laugh, her annoying memes, her overly dramatic IG stories, the way she’d hum random pop songs while reviewing budget breakdowns, and the way she’d tap her nails against the café table while waiting for her drink. She misses all of it—every little, stupid, beautiful thing.
So she did what she had been putting off for weeks.
She opened their chat. It was dry. Dead. The last message was from Colet—some dumb, silly meme that referenced a line Jhoanna said during a seminar coverage: “When you’re tired of everything, even commas become enemies.” Colet captioned it with “me proofreading my article drafts at 2am HAHAHAHAHA.”
Jhoanna stared at it. Smiled, painfully.
She typed:
Hi, Colet. I miss you badly. Usap tayo?
And then… backspace, close Messenger, open Messenger again, type again, stare, backspace.
Not today, she thought. Maybe tomorrow. She needed a little more time.
The next day came like any other—bright, humid, filled with the usual energy of students shuffling through hallways like sardines in uniform.
She walked past the ABM wing, head low, eyes on her phone. She was checking the official Facebook page's insights for their last post when something—or rather, someone—caught her peripheral vision.
Colet.
Alone. Arms full of folders, a laptop bag, a tumbler hanging off her arm, and a sling bag slipping off her shoulder. She was clearly struggling. And then, Jhoanna’s eyes trailed downward—
Untied shoelaces.
Shit.
And like a scene pulled straight out of a K-drama she’d never admit she secretly liked, Colet took one more step—and stumbled forward.
Without thinking, Jhoanna sprinted.
In the mess of dropped folders and flailing limbs, she caught Colet just in time, arms wrapped around her waist like instinct, like muscle memory.
They froze.
A second passed.
Then another.
And another.
Jhoanna could feel Colet’s breath, short and surprised. Colet looked up at her, wide-eyed, like she couldn’t believe what just happened, neither could Jhoanna.
“You okay?” Jhoanna finally asked, trying to sound calm despite the chaos inside her chest.
Colet blinked. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”
Jhoanna helped her stand up straight, dusted off her blazer like it was the most natural thing in the world, then knelt down to her shoes. “Your laces were untied,” she muttered.
Before Colet could say anything, Jhoanna added, “I’ll tie it. Para you won’t trip na.”
Colet stared at her. Speechless.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Jhoanna interrupted gently.
And so she did, carefully. Like tying those laces somehow stitched back a little part of what was fraying between them.
Afterward, they stood there, unsure what to say, just looking at each other. “I—uh—thanks,” Colet finally said, voice small.
Jhoanna nodded. “Anytime.”
She walked away after that. Fast. Heart pounding.
Later that night, in her bedroom, her screen glowing, she opened Messenger again. No hesitation this time.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Hi, Colet. I miss you badly. Usap tayo?
And when she saw the "Seen" mark pop up only seconds later, her heart stopped.
Then three dots began to appear. Then gone. Then back again. Then gone. Then… nothing.
Just that dreaded, soul-crushing “Seen” at the bottom of the message.
Jhoanna stared at the screen, feeling her heartbeat in her throat. The air in her room grew heavy, like even the silence had turned into a taunt. Her message just sat there. No reply. No explanation. No emoji. Not even a thumbs-up.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her chest sank.
“Maybe she’s tired,” she whispered to herself, even though her brain was screaming, Or maybe she doesn’t want to talk to you anymore.
She sighed, turned off her phone, and collapsed on her bed. She hugged her pillow tighter than usual that night, trying to will herself not to overthink—but of course, that didn’t work. She stared at the ceiling, blinking away the weight behind her eyes.
Eventually, she slept. Or at least tried to.
The next morning, sunlight hit her face too early, too aggressively. She groaned, reached for her phone on autopilot, ready to scroll and forget—until a notification caught her eye.
Nicolette Vergara sent you a message.
She bolted upright.
Nicolette Vergara
hi, jho! sorry if ngayon lang, i fell asleep while typing.
but yes, usap tayo. :)
Her breath caught. For a moment, all the anxiety from last night melted like morning mist. She smiled, just a little.
That afternoon, Jhoanna made sure the office of The Sentinel would be empty. She told Aiah, Sheena, Stacey, and the rest of the editorial board to work from the library for the day, casually citing “editing deadlines” and “space for layout stuff.” She tried not to sound suspicious, but Aiah raised a brow before leaving, mouthing “good luck” like a prayer.
Colet arrived first.
She sat at the long table by the windows, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves. She looked nervous. Jhoanna entered minutes later, slowly, carrying two bottled iced coffees—just in case.
“Hi,” Jhoanna said, her voice small.
Colet looked up. “Hi.”
A moment passed. Jhoanna set the drinks on the table. “For you.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
More silence. Then Colet cleared her throat. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
Jhoanna nodded, settling into the chair across from her. “Everything,” she said. “I want to talk about everything that’s been happening.”
Colet stayed quiet.
Jhoanna took a deep breath. “I want to say sorry first. For avoiding you. For pulling away like that. It wasn’t fair, and I know it hurt you, and I didn’t mean to make you feel abandoned.”
Colet’s eyes dropped to the table.
“I did it because I was hurting. And confused. I saw your post—the one where you said we’re just friends—and it crushed me,” Jhoanna confessed. “Because I thought that maybe you felt something too. But after that, I figured I was wrong. So I distanced myself. I thought it would help me achieve that peace of mind that I have always wanted.”
Her voice trembled.
“But it didn’t. Kasi the truth is, I like you, Colet. Like, more than a friend. I’ve liked you for a while now. And it was driving me crazy to keep pretending that I didn’t.”
Colet blinked at her. Her mouth parted slightly, like she was about to say something—but nothing came out.
Jhoanna waited. Seconds stretched. Her heart pounded.
And then—“I... I’m sorry,” Colet whispered, standing abruptly. “I just—can I—can I have a moment? I need to think.”
Jhoanna froze. “O-Okay.”
Without another word, Colet walked out of the office. Jhoanna sat alone, iced coffee sweating on the table between them, heart heavier than ever.
Back in her bedroom, Colet stared at her ceiling, arms folded under her head.
Jhoanna likes her. Jhoanna freaking Robles likes her. And somehow, she didn’t see it?
She then thought of her feelings and she replayed everything. The soft glances. The little moments. The way Jhoanna always made her feel special, seen, and important. The way her heart raced when Jhoanna looked at her during coverage days. The jealousy when she saw her with that other girl. The way her chest ached during the silence. The feeling of being incomplete.
Was that all just friendship? Or was it more?
She shut her eyes. Her heart was asking her something her mind couldn’t answer yet. But it was loud.
And it sounded a lot like Jhoanna’s name.
It had been seven days.
Seven days since that confession. Seven days since Colet stood up and walked away. Seven days since Jhoanna felt like the floor beneath her was pulled out.
And now, it was Colet who was avoiding her.
No more eye contact in the hallway. No more “hi”s or even polite nods. Not even her usual “may I sit here?” during lunch breaks at The Sentinel office.
Now it was Jhoanna’s turn to be on the receiving end of silence.
Maybe she should have just rejected me right there, Jhoanna thought bitterly as she stared blankly at the computer screen in the publication office. The photo editing software was open, but her fingers had stopped moving. Her mind wandered off again—toward Colet, as it always did.
Every ping from her phone? She wished it was her. Every time the door opened? She wished it was her. Every time her name was mentioned by someone else? Her heart still jumped, stupidly.
She hated how hopeful she still was.
But Colet was gone. Not literally, but enough for it to hurt.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe she didn’t feel the same. Maybe I ruined everything.
Colet, meanwhile, was lying in bed, hugging a pillow tight to her chest.
She had been like this for days—lost in thought, bouncing between confusion and realization, frustration and whatever this strange aching feeling was.
At first, she didn’t know what to feel when Jhoanna confessed. She was shocked. Speechless. She needed space, so she walked away. But when she got home that day, her mind was flooded with memories.
The way Jhoanna looked at her like she was the only person in the room.
The way her laughter sounded so soft, so warm, so comforting.
The way her chest would tighten when she’d catch Jhoanna smiling at someone else.
The time she posted that Jealous by Nick Jonas note.
The time she scrolled back through their old messages late at night, re-reading the ones that made her laugh, or blush, or feel something.
The time she tripped and Jhoanna caught her—and the way they looked at each other afterward like they were in a stupid k-drama, and for a second, it didn’t feel so stupid.
And now that Jhoanna confessed, everything started to make sense.
That feeling wasn’t just confusion. It was longing. It was fear. It was jealousy. It was liking.
She likes Jhoanna.
She just didn’t realize how much—until she started avoiding her, too.
But now, a week had passed. A week of silence. A week of not knowing what to say. A week of knowing she hurt Jhoanna without even trying.
What if she hates me now? What if she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore? What if I was too late?
She sat up and grabbed her phone. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened Messenger, heart pounding in her chest.
“jho…” she typed.
She erased it.
“are you still up?” she typed again.
Deleted.
She let out a frustrated groan, then threw herself back on the bed.
She misses Jhoanna. That much she was sure of.
But the question remained: Was it too late to fix what was broken?
One week is long.
Too long when you're stuck wondering if everything has already ended. Too long when you're stuck wondering if something is about to begin.
Jhoanna had almost given up. She had drafted at least five new messages to Colet over the week—none of them sent. She kept rereading Colet’s last seen message, as if something new would suddenly appear if she looked hard enough. She kept walking past the room where Colet and her friends would usually stay after dismissal, hoping—stupidly hoping—that maybe, she’d be there again.
But Colet wasn’t there. Not until now.
Her phone buzzed.
Nicolette Vergara
jho, usap tayo. i have so many things to say.
Jhoanna’s heart dropped to her stomach. She didn’t reply right away. Her fingers hovered, shaky.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Okay.
This is it, Jhoanna thought to herself, Colet is going to reject me.
The classroom was quiet, sunlight filtering softly through the high windows, casting long shadows on the floor. Desks were scattered in that messy-but-lived-in way. It smelled faintly of paper, markers, and leftover snacks from last week’s hangout.
It was the same room where Colet would sing with her friends after school. Where she laughed, told stories, and shared chips and secrets and things she didn’t think she’d ever say aloud.
Now, it held something heavier. She was already there when Jhoanna arrived—sitting by the window, eyes down, legs bouncing nervously.
Jhoanna stepped in slowly. “Cols,”
Colet looked up. “Jho,” she whispered back.
A long silence.
“Nandito na ako,” Jhoanna said, trying to sound calm, even though her heart was loud in her chest. “You said you wanted to talk.”
“Yeah.” Colet stood up, fidgeting with her fingers. “I did.”
She took a deep breath. Then another.
“I—before anything, I just wanna say sorry,” she began. Her voice was quiet but steady. “For walking away that day. For not replying fast. For avoiding you after—after you said what you said.”
Jhoanna looked at her, unreadable.
“Sobrang confused ako, Jho,” Colet went on. “Not because I didn’t know what I felt—well, partly that—but more because, I was scared. Scared na maybe I was reading my own heart wrong. Scared kasi I didn't want to ruin whatever we had.”
Jhoanna opened her mouth, about to say something, but Colet gently reached for her hand. Her grip was warm, unsure, sincere.
“But after that week of being away from you, after replaying everything sa utak ko—your laugh, the way you look at me, the way my chest tightens when you avoid me, the way I miss you so stupidly much…”
She looked up, eyes glassy but soft.
“…I realized I’ve been denying something that was already there. I like you, Jho, sobra. And I don’t know when it started, but I know it’s real.”
Jhoanna blinked. Her mouth opened slightly but no words came out yet.
Colet added, voice softer now, “It’s okay if things can’t go back to before. It’s okay if you’re unsure now. I just—I know na hindi ko na kaya i-keep ‘to sa sarili ko.”
Silence.
Then Jhoanna let out a shaky breath.
“Cols,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I thought you hated me.”
“I didn’t,” Colet said quickly. “I couldn’t.”
“Tangina mo, Colet,” Jhoanna let out a tiny laugh, watery and relieved. “You made me wait for a very long time.”
“I know,” Colet smiled, tugging Jhoanna’s hand gently. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,”
“You better,” Jhoanna murmured.
Then, silence again—but this time, it was not tense or uncertain. It was warm. Full. The air was different.
The air was lighter now. Not exactly less awkward, not completely healed, but definitely different. After that long-overdue confession in the empty classroom, something between them finally clicked into place.
The sun was setting outside. The fluorescent lights in the hallway flickered above them as they both stepped out of the room, walking side by side in silence—but a comfortable one this time.
“Uuwi ka na?” Colet asked, clutching her tote bag tighter.
“Yeah,” Jhoanna nodded. “Ikaw?”
Colet hesitated, then mumbled, “Sama ako.”
Jhoanna blinked. “Ha?”
Colet tried to act casual. “I mean… if okay lang?”
And of course it was. Jhoanna almost forgot how to breathe for a second but quickly composed herself. “Of course it’s okay,” she replied, trying to sound chill kahit halatang kinikilig na siya internally.
The walk to Jhoanna’s house was filled with little glances and soft laughter. They didn’t talk about the confession again yet—they were just enjoying each other’s presence for now. Colet brushed her fingers with Jhoanna’s until they finally held hands, and Jhoanna swore her heart nearly exploded on the spot.
When they arrived, Jhoanna opened the gate and called out, “Ma! Pa! May bisita po!”
From the doorway emerged Tita Jhonna and Tito Boyet, both looking delighted and suspiciously smug.
“Oh!” Tita Jhonna beamed. “Ikaw si Colet, ‘di ba?”
“Yes po,” Colet answered politely, bowing her head a bit.
“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Tito Boyet chimed in, crossing his arms and raising a brow at Jhoanna.
Jhoanna blushed immediately. “Pa, stop.”
“Grabe,” Tita Jhonna teased, elbowing her husband. “Si Jhoanna, kwento nang kwento about sa ‘yo,” Colet’s ears turned red.
“Dinner na rin, sabay ka na, hija,” Tito Boyet offered. “Masarap adobo nitong mama ni Jhoanna.”
“Sige po,” Colet smiled shyly.
Dinner was chaos. The good kind.
Tita Jhonna kept piling food on Colet’s plate while sneakily asking her about her hobbies, her family, her singing contests—basically everything.
Jhoanna, meanwhile, was dying slowly beside her.
“Anak, ano ‘yung sabi mo dati? Crush na crush mo si Colet?” her mom asked suddenly.
“Ma naman…”
Tito Boyet burst into laughter, saying things about hearing Jhoanna mumble Colet’s name while asleep, “I swear, anak, three times ko siyang narinig,”
“Papa, oh my god, nakakahiya!”
Colet laughed so hard she nearly choked on rice.
“I am so not here,” Jhoanna muttered, covering her face.
After the laughing and the teasing, they helped clean up, and Colet was still giggling as they headed upstairs to Jhoanna’s room.
The door creaked open and Colet looked around, awe painted all over her face.
Jhoanna’s room was so her—organized chaos. There were old press IDs hanging on the wall like medals, stacks of news clippings, framed articles, a giant cork board with schedules and ideas scribbled on sticky notes.
But one thing caught Colet’s eye.
On the wall near the desk was a small printed photo of… her. It looked like it was taken during the ‘Mic Me Up’ singing contest—she had her eyes closed mid-performance.
Next to the photo was a short, handwritten poem.
“Jho,” Colet gasped dramatically. “Is that me?”
Jhoanna turned pale. “Wha—no, that’s not—”
“Sobrang obsessed ka siguro,” Colet said, fake-offended. “May pa-poem pa talaga beside my picture?”
Jhoanna lunged to take it down. “Stop! That was from months ago!”
Colet grabbed it first and read the poem out loud, “Her voice, the sea in stillness / her eyes, a quiet storm— WOW. Who knew you could be so poetic?”
Jhoanna tackled her onto the bed, both of them laughing so hard it echoed through the room.
After a few minutes of catching their breath, Jhoanna looked at the clock. “Weekend tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” Colet nodded her head. “Why?”
“Sleep ka here,” Jhoanna suggested, acting casual.
Colet raised a brow. “Sure ka?”
“Oo. If you want me to make paalam sa mama mo, I’ll do it.”
True to her word, Jhoanna grabbed Colet’s phone and sent a message to her mom, who surprisingly agreed, even sending a heart emoji. “She said it was okay na magsleep ka here, basta mag-behave ka raw.”
Colet smirked. “Me? Not behaving? Never heard of her.”
Jhoanna lent her a set of pambahay clothes—an oversized shirt and some soft shorts. When Colet came out of the bathroom, Jhoanna’s jaw slightly dropped.
“Cols,” she said, eyes sweeping over her. “Bagay sa ‘yo. As in… grabe. You’re so beautiful.”
“Jho, chill,” Colet snorted. “Crush mo ba ako?” But she blushed.
She was about to lay out a blanket on the floor when Jhoanna grabbed her wrist. “Are you seriously gonna sleep there?”
“Where would I sleep pa ba?”
“Here? Beside me?”
“Sure ka—”
“Colet naman,” Jhoanna tugged her onto the bed. “Don’t argue. This space is enough na for the both of us. Unless, gusto mong mag-spooning agad?”
“OH MY GOD, JHO, STOP,”
They laid down beside each other, a small distance between them, both staring at the ceiling.
It was silent for a while.
Then, slowly, Jhoanna scooted closer and gently pulled Colet by the arm, wrapping her in an embrace. Colet let her, and they melted into each other like they were made for that very moment.
“I’m so happy, Cols,” Jhoanna whispered. “My heart is so happy.”
“Me, too,” Colet admitted. “Alam mo, I thought I just liked being around you. But it was different na pala. Like, my heart jumps whenever I see you. I always want to be partnered with you sa mga coverage,”
“So cheesy,” Jhoanna laughed softly. “Cringe mo naman.”
“But you like me.”
“Unfortunately,” Jhoanna said playfully.
They kept talking. About every moment they missed, about how pretty Colet looked everyday, about how Jhoanna always found excuses to edit articles near where Colet usually hangs out. They shared soft confessions, laughs, and teasing.
Eventually, their voices softened. Colet stopped responding. Jhoanna looked down and found Colet peacefully asleep, lips slightly parted, arm still draped across Jhoanna’s waist.
Her heart swelled.
She gently leaned in and kissed her cheek. Then, with a soft smile, she kissed her forehead.
“Good night, Cols,” she whispered.
And with that, she finally let herself drift off, holding the girl she never thought she’d get to hold like this.
The morning sun spilled through the thin curtains, lighting up the soft beige and muted yellow tones of Jhoanna’s bedroom. The air was cool, calm, and scented faintly with fabric softener and vanilla from the tiny air freshener near her window.
Jhoanna stirred awake first, blinking slowly before remembering—
Colet’s here.
Her eyes slowly trailed to the girl beside her. Colet was still fast asleep, breathing gently, the blanket crumpled at her waist, her face buried half into the pillow. Her hair was a soft mess of brown strands fanned across the sheets. And from where Jhoanna lay, only the corner of Colet’s face was visible—one eye barely peeking, lashes kissing the skin beneath. She looks so peaceful.
A dangerous thought crossed Jhoanna’s mind.
She reached for her phone, opened the camera, and snapped a photo. Just a candid frame—half Colet’s hair, a sliver of her forehead, the corner of her closed eye. Intimate, quiet, cryptic. The kind that only makes sense if you know.
And then, with fingers trembling in a mix of boldness and sheer giddyness, she uploaded it on her Instagram story.
Photo. Overlayed with a line from a love song. Posted.
Then she threw her phone to the far side of the bed and internally screamed into her soul.
It didn’t take long.
The first one to reply to her story was Aiah:
@maraiahrct
Girl, deets. My FOMO is so lala na.
Then Stacey:
@ssevilleja
Kailan ka pa natuto mag soft launch-soft launch diyan?
Then Sheena, in all caps:
@catshee
SOFT LAUNCH BA ‘TO PUTA
The groupchat, too, immediately went haywire.
we love yew jc robles
Stacey Sevilleja
Girl if this is who I think this is, I’m gonna combust.
Maraiah Arceta
You better tell us if it’s Colet or else I’m gonna put frogs sa bag mo.
Sheena Mae Catautan
I ZOOMED, I ANALYZED.
THE CORNER OF THAT EYE, THE CURL OF THAT HAIR, THAT IS SO COLET.
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Guys, chill.
They certainly did not chill.
In the days that followed, things were… different.
Colet and Jhoanna have been soft launching each other like almost every day. From coffee dates, their hands holding while walking home, to side of their faces or even their backs—everything. Their stories were practically a scrapbook of half-revealed affection, enough to make their friends spiral daily.
They didn’t announce anything though, didn’t change their bios or post anything beyond subtle story updates. But people noticed how Colet started waiting for Jhoanna after meetings, or how Jhoanna would randomly show up to ABM events when she had zero reason to be there because she is not even the one assigned for the coverage. It was cute. Domestic. But to their friends, it wasn’t suspicious.
Not yet.
Everyone just thought, Oh, they’re back to being close again. That’s good.
Besides, who wouldn’t want them back together? They were the campus version of an indie movie pairing. Everyone shipped them—platonically, of course.
So when they were seen sitting together during lunch, whispering jokes and stifling laughter? Normal.
When they were walking together in the hallway, just a bit too close? Cute, but normal.
When Colet waited outside the publication office just to hand Jhoanna her favorite bottled iced coffee? Supportive friend behavior, obviously.
And that was until something happened.
It was after class, a calm afternoon. Sheena had gone back to her classroom to get her jacket when she decided to take the long route—through the back hallway. Barely anyone passed there after 4 PM, except maybe couples sneaking in to have their bebe time.
She turned the corner, and then she saw it.
Jhoanna and Colet. Sitting on the floor, leaning against the lockers. Colet’s hand resting over Jhoanna’s, fingers laced. Her head was leaned slightly toward her shoulder. They were laughing—softly, like no one else existed.
Then.
Then.
Colet tilted her head and sneakily pressed a kiss to Jhoanna’s cheek.
Sheena gasped. Loud.
Jhoanna and Colet froze.
Colet looked like a deer caught in headlights. Jhoanna looked like she just watched her life flash before her eyes.
Sheena stood there, slowly backing away. “I—uh—I saw nothing! Continue lang! Support ako sa inyo! I gotta go—OH MY GOD.”
And she bolted.
She didn’t even wait five minutes.
we love yew jc robles
Sheena Mae Catacutan
Guys.
GUYS.
I SAW THEM.
HOLDING HANDS.
KISS ON THE CHEEK.
Maraiah Arceta
YOU’RE KIDDING.
Stacey Sevilleja
I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT FROM THE IG STORY.
HINDI NAGKAKAMALI GUT FEELING KO.
Sheena Mae Catacutan
JHOANNA WAS SMILING.
COLET KISSED HER.
Stacey then changed Jhoanna’s nickname in the groupchat to:
gf ni ate kulet (real)
Meanwhile, Colet, too, was getting her own wave of chaos.
TNC: Tangina Ni Colet
Gweneth Apuli
@Nicolette Vergara i want u online right now
Mikhaela Janna Lim
baka may gusto kang ikwento sa amin hahahaha.
Mary Loi Ricalde
kiss sa hallway??? with live audience pa? what in the k-drama shit is this?
Nicolette Vergara
PWEDE BANG MAG DEACTIVATE MUNA KAYONG LAHAT
By the time Jhoanna and Colet regrouped that evening, both of them had already read the hundreds of screaming messages and posts of their friends.
They sat beside each other in the café where they had their ‘first date’, both sipping coffee and shaking their heads.
“Love,” Colet asked. “Do you regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Holding my hand. The kiss. The soft launch.”
Jhoanna smiled, leaning her head on Colet’s shoulder. “No. Not even a bit.”
Colet chuckled, resting her head on top of Jhoanna’s. “Good. Kasi ang dami na nating fans ngayon.”
After Jhoanna and Colet’s soft launch eventually snowballed into a full-blown exposé—thanks to their friends and half the school’s students becoming part-time detectives—they finally gave up on being lowkey. What was there to hide, anyway? They like each other. A lot.
They began hard launching each other like there was no tomorrow. Instagram stories became a parade of photos of one of them or together with “my girl” and "i love you" captions. They finally graduated from mirror selfies with timestamp stickers, blurry photos of each other mid-laugh, and love song lyrics slapped over grainy, aesthetic shots of coffee mugs across the table kinds of Instagram stories. They posted each other’s faces freely now, especially Colet who used to be all mysterious and detached.
The Sentinel, despite being a serious publication, had downtime when they allowed members to post creative stuff—essays, art, photo essays, or proses. And one chill afternoon, while Colet was attending her Entrepreneurship class and texting Jhoanna “love, i’m so bored right now, miss u” under her desk, Jhoanna sat inside the publication office, staring at her laptop with furrowed brows and soft eyes.
She knew exactly what to do.
She opened The Sentinel’s website editor, clicked on “Create Post,” and started writing.
A whole-ass prose. About Colet. For Colet.
With lines like:
“There’s something about the way she sings—as if every note has wandered through fire and rain, and found a home in the cradle of her throat.
It’s the kind of sound that bends the air around it, makes silence feel like a sin, as though the absence of her voice is a wound the world cannot bear.”
She hit “Publish.”
And then, because she’s dramatic, she posted the link on the official The Sentinel Instagram story and Facebook page with the caption:
“For 12 ABM-A’s Nicolette Vergara. Just because.”
Colet saw it while she was in bed, scrolling after brushing her hair. When she read the first few lines, her jaw literally dropped.
“Oh my god, Jho.”
She grabbed her phone and messaged Jhoanna.
Nicolette Vergara
love
bakit ka ganiyan
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Babe, what are you talking about po?
Nicolette Vergara
i saw your write-up
bakit mo ako pinapaiyak nang ganito
Jhoanna Christine Robles
Oh, hahahaha. Did you like it, love?
Nicolette Vergara
like??
jhoanna christine robles i’m gonna marry u for this
The school went feral. Jhoanna apparently got all of them in chokehold. The prose was screenshotted, reposted, even printed by some random student from the STEM building. It made it to the BINI University Freedom Wall fifteen times a day. People were commenting things like, “me rn crying in the CR,” “jhoanna robles be so fr right now this is too much,” and “lord i see what you’ve done for others.” Even non-BINI University students followed the page just to read it.
Of course, their friends did not let it slide. Aiah, Stacey, and Sheena stormed the group chat with voice notes of screeches and gasps. Mikha, Gwen, and Maloi took turns teasing Colet, sending photos of her poem-reading face saying, “Grabe, ‘di ka na talaga maangas sis. Kinilig ka oh.”
Life moved on, but it became lighter.
On monthsaries, Jhoanna would bike over to Colet’s house with handwritten letters, coffee, and pastries. Colet, in return, would surprise Jhoanna with song covers posted online, tagging her in every single one.
Sometimes, they’d just show up unannounced at each other’s homes, carrying nothing but a hug and maybe a milk tea order. Their families loved each other—Tita Jhonna would tell Colet to call her “Mama,” and Colet’s mom once joked about reserving space in their family photo wall for Jhoanna.
They started making traditions: Sunday coffee dates, midweek voice messages when school got too overwhelming, and cuddles during late-night editing and songwriting sessions. On Fridays, they would lie on Jhoanna’s bed, Colet tracing the poem that was once pinned to the wall—the one Jhoanna wrote before all of this began.
One afternoon, while walking home holding hands—because of course they were—Jhoanna turned to Colet and asked, “Did you ever think we’d end up like this?”
Colet smirked, “Honestly? I was too busy hating you to see how much I liked you.”
And Jhoanna laughed, “Okay, ‘Miss I Hate Journalism People.’”
Colet stopped walking, turned to her, and kissed her cheek.
“I love you.”
“Cheesy,” Jhoanna grinned. “I love you more, Cols.”
Colet rolled her eyes playfully. “Mas cheesy ka, kasi you love me more.”
And just like that, beneath the golden-orange sky of a high school they’ll soon be saying goodbye to, they continued walking. Slowly, hand in hand. From enemies to strangers, from strangers to almost, from almost to finally.
Because sometimes, what’s written in the margins becomes the story that lasts.
(note: the following scenes are just outtakes that i wrote for fun. you can skip these if you’d like.)
“Love, can I tell you something?”
Jhoanna absentmindedly played with her girlfriend’s hair. "Hmm? What is it?"
“I wasn’t actually prepared for the interview sa Sentinel dati,” Colet said, sheepishly grinning as she looked up at her. “Like… as in wala akong plano. I just showed up.”
Jhoanna immediately froze. Her fingers stopped mid-stroke. Then she narrowed her eyes at her.
“You what?”
Colet blinked, sitting up halfway. “I—uh—yeah? I mean, I submitted my writing samples pero the interview part? Walang rehearsal. Walang game plan. I was winging it.”
Jhoanna continued glaring at her, eyes squinted like she was trying to burn a hole through Colet’s soul. “You weren’t prepared?!”
Colet nervously chuckled, backing away just a little. “Okay wait, babe, bakit ganyan ‘yung tingin mo—don’t be mad please—”
Then Jhoanna cracked a grin, suddenly laughing. “I knew it.”
Colet blinked. “Huh?”
“I knew you weren’t prepared,” Jhoanna said, grinning wider now. “I wanted to skip the interview with you entirely kasi I didn’t want to make you nervous. But work is work and I couldn’t just let you slide in without going through the same process as everyone else.”
Colet groaned and buried her face in a pillow. “So you knew all along?! Tapos you let me embarrass myself pa—”
“You weren’t embarrassing,” Jhoanna teased, pulling the pillow away to kiss Colet’s forehead. “You were nervous. But cute. And your answers were so good.”
Colet sat up and narrowed her eyes playfully. “So you mean to tell me, from the very beginning, you’ve been judging me in silence?”
Jhoanna smirked. “Of course not.”
Then leaned in closer.
“I was judging you out loud in my head.”
Colet tackled her with a pillow. “You’re so mean!”
“Natanggap ka pa rin naman.”
“Down bad ka kasi.”
“Always have been, always will be.”
“TRAITOR!”
Jhoanna bolted upright in bed, the word ripping from her throat like she had just fought in a full-on teleserye betrayal arc. Her heart was pounding, eyes wild, fists clenched around the blanket as she glared at nothing in particular.
Colet, who was half-asleep beside her, flinched so hard she almost rolled off the bed. “Love?!” she shrieked, sitting up with disheveled hair and pillow lines across her cheek. “What happened?!”
Jhoanna didn’t answer right away. She crossed her arms, glaring off into the distance like she was plotting something.
Colet blinked. “...Okay. Why are you mad? Did I snore? Did I hog the blanket again? Babe, I swear—”
“Don’t babe me,” Jhoanna said, narrowing her eyes.
Colet's jaw dropped. “HUH?! What did I do?!”
Jhoanna finally turned to look at her girlfriend, eyes narrowed like a betrayed housewife in a 3 PM drama series. “Why don’t you ask Michael?”
“Michael?” Colet furrowed her brows. “Sino ‘yon?”
“You tell me,” Jhoanna huffed, shifting away from her slightly. “Tall. Wears glasses. STEM student. Has a stupid perfect jawline. Apparently, your type.”
Colet stared at her in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what? Who the hell is—”
Then it clicked.
“Wait—did you just have a bad dream?” Colet said, her lips twitching.
“It wasn’t just bad, it was traumatic,” Jhoanna snapped. “You were literally flirting with him while I was in the room, Colet. And you laughed when I cried. You LAUGHED.”
Colet was already chuckling, her eyes crinkling in pure amusement. “You had a dream where I cheated on you with some random STEM guy named Michael?”
“He held your hand in the canteen,” Jhoanna muttered bitterly. “And you let him carry your tote bag.”
Colet was now laughing so hard she had to hold onto the blanket for support. “Okay wait wait wait—babe, seriously? You’re mad at me because dream-me flirted with a literal guy?”
“You didn’t just flirt, Colet,” Jhoanna pouted. “You betrayed me. You gave him the skin of your chickenjoy. That’s sacred.”
Still giggling, Colet crawled closer and cupped her girlfriend’s cheeks. “Aw, love… you’re so cute when you’re sulking over imaginary men.”
Jhoanna tried to scowl, but it faltered the moment Colet pressed a kiss on her nose. Then one on her cheek. Then her forehead.
“I would never give the skin of my chickenjoy to anyone but you, okay?” Colet said, now peppering kisses across her face. “Especially not to some STEM dude named Michael.”
Jhoanna grumbled. “I still hate him.”
“He doesn’t exist, babe.”
“Still hate him.”
Colet laughed, hugging her tightly. “Well, just to be clear—I’m not cheating on you. I never will. I don’t even like guys, Jhoanna.”
“Especially not the ones who wear lanyards around their necks and explain math for fun?”
“Ew. Especially those.”
They ended up cuddling again, Jhoanna’s grumpiness melting away with each kiss and teasing laugh, her heart slowly calming under the warmth of Colet’s reassurance.
Michael, wherever he was in the dream realm, would never win.
“Babe, tangina, I swear if another congressman tries to pass a bill that—”
Colet looked up from her phone, blinking twice, and smiled—no, beamed—at the sight of Jhoanna pacing back and forth in her room like she was on a full TED Talk run.
Jhoanna, in her shorts and oversized The Sentinel hoodie, was holding her phone in one hand, and gesturing wildly with the other, mid-rant about the latest educational reform that made her blood boil.
“What is it this time, love?” she asked, amused already, because she knew this tone. This was rage for the nation Jhoanna.
“They’re proposing a new bill—guess what? It’s anti-poor AGAIN. AGAIN, Colet. It’s like they wake up every morning and go, ‘Hmm, how do I make life more hellish for marginalized Filipinos today?’”
Colet was just… in awe. She smiled. Not because of the bill, obviously. But because of Jhoanna’s furrowed brows, her hand gestures, her passion that somehow made her even more beautiful.
She leaned her cheek against her hand, nodding like a very supportive girlfriend, but with a heart that was thudding louder than the rage in Jhoanna’s voice.
“...I love you,” Colet muttered under her breath.
“Huh?”
“Wala. You get so mad. Tapos you quote facts and use the word marginalized. Tapos ang galing mo pa sa contextual analysis. Keep ranting, babe. Like, make me angrier.”
And she meant it. There was something so hot about the way Jhoanna’s brows furrowed while talking about systemic oppression, about the media’s role in framing narratives, about labor laws and the minimum wage.
Sometimes, Colet would add her own thoughts too.
And then, they’d both end up spiraling into a shared rant that somehow turned into them lying on the floor, head-to-head, saying things like “babe, if we were in power we’d fix the world.”
Were they both still eighteen? Yes. Did they believe they could burn down the system and rebuild it with love and rage? Absolutely.
“Okay, love. Explain to me again where this number came from.”
“It’s in the statement, babe.”
“WHAT STATEMENT, COLET?!”
Jhoanna sat beside Colet, staring at the same problem like it personally offended her, and she looked like she was ready to cry.
Colet tried not to laugh, but the way her girlfriend was frowning at her accounting worksheet was just too cute.
“Okay, babe,” Colet said softly, grabbing the pencil from Jhoanna’s hand. “This is the cash flow. Kita mo ‘tong part? That’s the sales revenue—”
“Wait. Sales revenue from where? How would I know may nagbayad?”
“It’s given! It’s in the—Jho, you didn’t read the full problem!”
“Colet, I am built for essays and analysis. Not this. Numbers are not supposed to exist this way.”
Colet giggled, kissing her cheek out of pity and pure amusement. “But you’re trying and that’s so cute. Like, you look so confused and pretty right now.”
“Stop romanticizing my mental breakdown, Vergara.”
“‘Di kita masisisi. I’d rather debate with you about politics than make you compute liabilities.”
“Exactly! Let me rant about capitalism and you handle the math, please.”
But they’d still work on it together. Colet would patiently explain every number, every entry, sometimes drawing dumb diagrams just to help Jhoanna get it. In return, Jhoanna would give her forehead kisses every time she got something right—even if she was still very lost.
Colet would say, “You don’t have to understand it, babe. Moral support lang kailangan ko.”
To which Jhoanna replied, “Okay, then kiss me when you finish balancing it. Incentive system.”
“Deal.”
Not every day was all laughter and forehead kisses, though. There were days when stress and hormones made everything feel more heated than usual.
“Tatlong oras kang walang reply,” Jhoanna exclaimed, frustration creeping into her voice. “I thought something happened!”
“I told you I was studying for our accountancy quiz, babe! You saw my chats naman, ‘di ba?!”
“But you usually update me! You always do—”
“Well, sorry I was focused for once!”
Jhoanna rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’re being so—ugh! Nicolette!”
Silence. A heavy, weighted silence.
Colet’s eyes widened, jaw slightly dropped, before she narrowed her eyes and stepped back dramatically. “Nicolette? Did you just full government name me right now?”
Jhoanna blinked, realizing what she just said. “Wait, babe—I didn’t mean—”
“No, no. It’s okay,” Colet said, clearly not okay. “Apparently I’m not ‘babe’ or ‘love’ anymore, or even just Colet. I’m ‘Nicolette.’ Like I’m being scolded by a teacher. Like I’m a court defendant.”
“Love, I didn’t mean—”
“Hindi mo na ba ako mahal, Jhoanna Christine?”
“Love naman,” Jhoanna sighed and pulled her into a hug, burying her face in Colet’s neck. “I’m sorry. I was just stressed. I panicked. I didn’t mean to call you that. I love you, okay?”
“I’m just not used to you calling me that,” Colet mumbled, hiding a smile despite herself.
“I’ll kiss you right now if that’s gonna help…”
“It will. Do it.”
Jhoanna didn’t hesitate. She leaned in and kissed Colet—soft at first, tentative, almost like asking for permission. But when Colet’s hand gently cupped the side of her neck, the kiss deepened. It was the kind of kiss that said I was worried about you, I’m sorry, I love you so much. It was messy and warm and tender, like both of them were trying to melt all their frustration into something sweeter.
After a few long seconds, Colet pulled away, breath shaky, lips slightly swollen. But she didn’t go far—only far enough to press her forehead against Jhoanna’s.
They stayed like that, exchanging soft, lazy kisses—on the nose, on the jaw, on the edge of a smile. Like a promise: We’ll be okay. We always are.
And that’s just how they were.
A little chaotic, sometimes dramatic, often too stubborn for their own good—but always finding their way back to each other, even in the messiest corners of their love. What started with cold stares and snide remarks, with Colet scoffing at the thought of falling for a journalism person, somehow ended up with forehead kisses between deadlines and whispered “i love you’s” between layout drafts and accounting worksheets.
Colet once said she could never fall for someone like Jhoanna. Too opinionated. Too nosy. Too journalist. But it turns out, the very things she thought she loathed were the same things she now loved with her entire heart.
Because sometimes, love blooms exactly where you least expect it—between the awkward silence of interviews, in the margins of a feature article, and in the spaces between two people too afraid to admit what they felt.