Chapter Text
The arena used to pulse with life.
Lyann stood behind the net, the faint echo of cheers bouncing off empty seats. Araneta was never this quiet for an Ateneo-La Salle game. Not when she was younger. Not when she watched the greats dive and soar, when the sea of blue roared back against a wave of green.
Now, it felt like the ocean had dried up.
The fifth set had stretched longer than it should have. 17-16. Match point for La Salle.
The tension in the arena was electric, even if the seats weren’t as full as they used to be. The Ateneo-La Salle rivalry no longer filled Araneta to the rafters. But tonight, for those who stayed, for the aching, for the believers, it felt like it how used to be.
On the other side of the net, Angel stood tall rallying her team to finish strong, sweat trailing down her jaw. She could feel the pressure mounting. Not from the fans, not from the coaches, but from the myth she had been forced to carry.
They called her God’s gift to Philippine volleyball. The player destined to lead La Salle back to glory.
Heaven sent.
But the more they called her divine, the less she felt human.
Shevana served the ball.
Float serve. Deep.
Ateneo’s libero received it shakily. The second ball went high, a wide toss to Lyann.
For a second, everything slowed.
Lyann gathered the approach like a breath before a confession. Her core clenched, her heart hammering in her ears. Five years. Four seasons. Zero wins against La Salle. This was her final chance.
She wasn’t aiming for the score anymore. She was aiming for closure.
She rose. Arms up. Elbow sharp. Eyes locked on the ball.
But Angel was already there.
It was like she knew. Like some part of her had memorized Lyann’s rhythm, still mapped it from years ago. Angel flew with her. Timing perfect, arms sealed tight.
Perfect kill block.
The ball crashed down on Ateneo’s side.
The crowd erupted, green shirts jumping in the stands. La Salle bench players rushed the court, pulling Angel into a celebratory embrace. Hands clapped her back, her shoulders, the top of her head. Someone screamed, “MVP!” from the stands.
Angel’s eyes caught the scene on the other side of the net.
Where Lyann still stood.
Frozen.
Lips pursed to a tight smile.
The silence in Lyann’s head was deafening. Not from the loss. She had known loss before. But from the weight of it all. The last dance. The missed chance. The feeling of coming so close and being shut out by the same hands she used to hold during warm-ups, the same arms that once wrapped around her during youth team nights spent dreaming of world stages.
Still, she smiled. She can’t break down in front of her team. She blinked away the heat rising behind her eyes, and gathered her team for a huddle.
Her teammates rallied around her, clapping her shoulder, thanking her, pulling her into a hug. She smiled. For the team, for the cameras, for the Ateneo.
But the ache in her chest had Angel’s name all over it.
Players lined up at the net, crossing to offer handshakes. Some warm, others obligatory. The crowd, though not the thunderous storm of the old rivalry days, still roared its approval.
Angel led her team in the ceremonial line, giving quick nods and hand slaps. Sweat still clung to her hairline, but her expression was already distant, eyes searching the faces across the net until…
Lyann.
She stood still, composed, even smiling faintly. Angel's hand brushed against hers in the handshake line, and for a second, time slowed again. Lyann’s touch lingered, just slightly, just long enough.
“Congrats,” she said softly. “Okay ka lang?”
"Okay lang," Angel gave a tight nod. “Good game.”
Then they moved on.
At the officials’ table, both captains approached to sign the match statistics. The court was clearing out, and La Salle's celebration had begun in full swing, but this, this moment, was quiet.
Lyann reached for the pen first, scribbled her name with a practiced calm. She passed it to Angel without looking up.
Angel took it, signed, and paused for half a second too long. As if her fingers didn’t want to let go of the same pen Lyann had just held.
No words were exchanged.
The Lady Spikers moved to one side of the court for cool-downs — stretches, light jogging, decompressing after the high. Angel knelt by the sideline, towel draped around her neck, tuning out the noise.
Then she looked across.
The Ateneo girls had formed a small huddle, not of sadness, but of gratitude. Lyann was at the center, still in full gear, hands on her hips, smiling softly as she spoke. Her voice didn’t carry, but her teammates leaned into her, some teary-eyed, others nodding along.
That same soft smile.
The one Angel had seen under hotel room lights. By the sea in Thailand. In silence, when words would have broken everything.
The kind of smile that didn’t demand attention but stayed in your chest for years.
Angel walked slowly, her steps echoing in the hallway. Her throat was dry, not from the game, but from the thoughts clawing up from her chest. She ducked into the restroom, turned the faucet on, and let the cold water run over her fingers.
She bowed her head, watching the water bead off her knuckles.
The door behind her creaked.
Lyann emerged from one of the stalls, catching sight of her. They froze.
Only the sound of running water filled the space.
Lyann stepped to the sink beside her, wordless. They washed their hands in sync, like a ritual they never planned to share.
Angel sneaked a peek at the mirror.
Lyann was already smiling at her.
The kind of smile that said, I’m proud of you.
Then Lyann broke the silence, voice playful but tinged with wistfulness. “Graduating na 'ko, ‘di mo man lang kami pina-isa.”
Angel let out a breathy laugh. “Grabe. Pinahirapan niyo nga rin kami, eh.”
Lyann nudged her arm gently. “Congrats on the MVP. Again.”
Angel brushed it off with a shy grin. “‘Di pa naman sigurado.”
“It’s your legacy,” Lyann countered. “Heaven-sent talaga.”
Angel looked away, flustered, then glanced back with a small, sincere smile. “Good luck in the pros, Ly. I’m sure swerte kung sino makakuha sa’yo na team.”
Then —
BAM!
A cubicle door slammed shut.
Lyann jumped and screeched, clutching Angel’s arm. “Putangina!”
Angel burst out laughing. “Takot ka pa rin sa multo?”
Lyann’s face burned. “Hindi, ah! Nagulat lang.”
“Some things never change,” Angel teased. “Naalala mo nung akala mo white lady ‘yung towel na nakasabit sa pinto ng room natin dati?”
“Naalimpungatan nga lang ako!”
They both laughed, the kind that ached.
The laughter softened.
Then Lyann’s smile faded, gaze dropping. “Yeah. Some things never change. Mga multong dala-dala natin araw-araw.”
“Alam mo ba anong multo ko?” Angel’s jaw clenched slightly, her eyes softening. “‘Yung batang babaeng binigay ang lahat sa volleyball. Hanggang sa hindi na niya kilala ang sarili niya nang walang bola. Nakalimutan nang maging bata. Maging malaya.”
Lyann looked up, her brows gently drawn. “You carried too much too soon,” she said, stepping just a little closer. “It wasn’t fair.”
Angel met her eyes, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them.
“Alam mo ‘yung akin,” Lyann added quietly, “is the girl I watched fly while I stood still. Ironic nga eh, kasi ako yung eagle pero mas mataas pa lipad mo sa'kin. Lagi kong iniisip, baka kung mas nagsipag pa ako, baka napansin din ako para sa national team. Baka nakita rin nila ako... Baka makita mo ulit ako.”
Angel didn’t let her finish. She reached out, gently taking Lyann’s hand, still damp from the sink. “I saw you,” she said. “I always did.”
The weight of those words settled over them like a balm.
Lyann blinked, her voice wavering. “Then why did it feel like I was always behind?”
Angel gave a faint, bittersweet smile. “Kasi hindi ko alam kung paano mag-slow down without falling apart. Ayokong masaktan ka trying to catch a meteor crashing down.”
Lyann squeezed her hand, grounding them both. “We were just kids,” she whispered. “Trying to survive in a world that didn’t leave room for soft hearts.”
Angel nodded, her eyes glassy. “And yet here you are. Still soft. Still standing.” The Archer chuckled, clutching the Eagle's hands closer, "Still siopao."
They both laughed again, the kind that stitched old wounds, even for a moment. For a while, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was healing.
Suddenly — “Ate Lyann!”
The restroom door creaked open and KC’s voice rang out.
“Ay, sorry. Akala ko ikaw lang nandyan, ‘Te Ly. Hanap ka na ni Coach.”
The rookie’s eyes fell to their hands, still laced. “Nice game, Ate Angel. Congrats!” KC said with a beaming smile before leaving.
Lyann turned, then looked back one last time.
“Una na ko, ah. Kitakits?” she asked, hope laced in hesitation.
Angel nodded, but didn’t move. “Yeah. Kitakits.”
Lyann lingered, took her time drying her hands, searching Angel’s face for answers to questions she didn’t know. Still, she left.
Angel stood alone by the sink, water still running, staring at her reflection.
In the mirror, ghosts stared back at her.
Unspoken feelings.
Unresolved tension.
And the memory of a smile that refused to fade.