Work Text:
2001
Mornings at school always sounded a bit too loud—kids screaming in classrooms, teachers gossiping in their offices, parents attempting and failing to say goodbye. It was small, just three buildings and one quadrangle. Every classroom housed up to forty five students against one exhausted adviser. Everyday was a battle disguised as education.
The school was old too—unmanaged, underfunded. The paint on the classrooms was chipped, the flagpole leaned a little to the left, and quad flooded even in softer rains.
In the canteen, Maloi spent her days with her ladle and her hair net. Screaming at kids to fall in line, rolling her eyes when someone bought something while she was gossiping with Sheena. Dismissed kids when they paid with bigger bills. “Ay bahala ka, wala akong panukli diyan,” she’d say, as if she didn’t care about earning enough to afford healthy food. Or decent clothes. Or new shoes that could replace her rugby-scented strappy sandals.
She was too tired, too impatient, too stubborn. Too dejected for someone who’s only 23.
“Walong piso ‘to, te?” One student asked, putting the Bravo biscuit back on the basket. “Limang piso lang ‘to sa amin ah.”
Maloi didn’t even look at her, just pressed random buttons on her calculator. “Edi dun ka bumili.”
Across the quadrangle, Colet Vergara taught fifth grade Filipino. She was the quiet type—soft-spoken but strict, the kind of teacher who could silence a whole class with one look. At twenty-four, she was new to the school, still learning which electric fan worked and which one just made noise. Every day, she passed by the canteen for her turon and coffee, nodding politely at teachers, correcting students' postures, and answering her sudoku booklet.
One particularly crowded lunch break, Maloi noticed Colet entering the canteen. Her back was straight, every step as calculated as the tilt of her head. Colet mouthed a polite “good afternoon” to another teacher, and for the first time, Maloi stopped complaining about the kids or the line or the fact that the straps on her sandals were threatening to break again.
Colet’s eyes swept over the chaos in front of the counter—students elbowing each other for space, coins clinking, a mountain of wrappers already forming on the floor. She didn’t frown. She didn’t sigh. She just said, “Single line. Arms raised forward, please.”
And the kids listened. Instantly. No shouting, no bribery, no threat of calling the adviser. They fell into a line, arms out like little soldiers.
Maloi froze, ladle in hand, like she’d just witnessed a miracle or a haunting. Not even the principal could get those kids to behave without losing a lung.
She watched as Colet paid for her turon, thanked her softly, and walked away. No smirk, no triumph—just that calm, clean kind of authority that made Maloi suddenly aware of the grease on her hands and the loose thread on her apron.
For a second, the canteen felt quiet. Too quiet.
Then Sheena leaned in, whispering with a grin, “Uy, crush mo yata, ‘no?”
Maloi rolled her eyes, too hard, too late.
“Sino ba yun?” she said. But she kept looking at the empty spot where Colet had stood.
—
And since then, Maloi had been waiting.
Waiting for that familiar click of heels on the hallway tiles. For the soft rustle of a skirt that actually got ironed that morning. For the calm voice that could tame a room full of brats with just one sentence.
She started pretending it was a coincidence—that the turon just happened to be fresh when Colet passed by. That the Nescafé 2-in-1 was already ready, perfectly done the way Colet liked it: three quarters hot water, stir until the powder dissolves, then a splash of cold. She didn’t even know when she learned that detail. Probably from watching too much.
Sometimes Colet would nod, say “thank you,” and walk off again, quiet as always. No smile. No small talk. Just that small acknowledgment that landed like a secret.
Maloi hated it.
Or maybe she didn’t.
She told herself it was nothing—just routine, just customer service, just good manners. But every time Colet’s hand brushed hers while taking the cup, Maloi’s throat tightened like she’d swallowed all the steam rising from it.
After Colet left, she’d go back to yelling at kids, slapping the counter with her ladle, pretending the warmth in her chest was from the fryer oil.
After that day, Maloi started trying. Just a little. Not too obvious, not too desperate. Just enough to make the herself believe it was still casual.
Every morning, she’d spot Colet from across the quadrangle and blurt out a frantic, “Good morning, Ma’am Vergara!” Her voice would crack halfway through, like a radio losing signal. Sometimes Colet turned, sometimes she didn’t. When she did, it was only to nod politely, the same small smile she probably gave to everyone.
By lunchtime, she had a new strategy: shortchange herself.
“Wala pa akong barya, Ma’am. Balikan mo na lang mamaya,” she’d say, waving her hand like was no big deal. Then she’d spend the next hour waiting, watching the canteen door every time it opened.
Colet always came back. She paid the exact amount, not a centavo off. Sometimes she’d even say, “Thank you, Maloi,” in that soft, steady voice that could calm a storm.
Maloi would nod, pretending to count coins that didn’t need counting. “Okay lang, Ma’am. Libre na rin po turon niyo bukas,” she’d say, then immediately regret it.
Sheena would nudge her from behind the counter. “Ano, hindi ka na hihinga beh?”
Maloi would scowl, but her face would burn all the same.
It was ridiculous, she knew it. Pathetic, even. But in a place where every day looked the same—the same chipped walls, the same screaming kids, the same soggy rice—Colet Vergara was the only thing that made the noise sound like music.
—
Then, after a month of nothing but the same polite smile, Maloi started to unravel.
It wasn’t dramatic—just small things. Dropped ladles. Miscounted coins. Calling one kid “Colet” by accident.
Sheena noticed, of course. She always did.
“Te,” she said one afternoon, chewing on a stick of fishball, “kung hindi ka pa rin napapansin, baka gayuma na kailangan mo.”
It was a joke.
At least, Sheena thought it was.
Except that Maloi didn’t laugh.
Three days later, she was dragging Sheena to the outskirts of town—past the tricycle terminal, past the rice fields, up a narrow, winding road that smelled like wet soil and cow feces.
“Pag ako na-kidnap ng kapre dito, te, lagot ka sa nanay ko,” Sheena mumbled, clutching her bag too tight.
“Nuno lang magkakagusto sa’yo,” Maloi shot back, not even looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on the hill ahead, where the trees got bigger and the light got colder.
Then she stopped, pointed. “Ayun! Dito daw yun. Jhoanna daw pangalan nung may gayuma.”
The path was barely a path. Just gravel sinking into mud, lined with weeds and stones. At the top stood a crooked house with faded blue walls and smoke leaking from the kitchen window.
Sheena crossed her arms. “Te, sure ka ba dito? Baka manghuhula lang yan na nagbebenta ng Avon.”
Maloi grinned, a little too wide. “Eh ‘di bumili ka na rin ng lipstick mo habang nandito na tayo.”
And with that, she started walking toward the house, sandals squelching in the mud. She’d never been this determined in her life.
—
Jhoanna was younger than they expected. Maybe early twenties, too polished for someone who lived between a forest and a myth. The house didn’t smell like potions or herbs, just instant coffee and floor wax. There were blueprints scattered on the dining table, a model of a church made from an illustration board, and a cat sleeping on top of a half-open sketchpad.
“Freelance architect ako,” she said while lighting a stick of incense that didn’t seem necessary. “Tinuruan lang ako ng mama ko dati.”
When Maloi asked why she was even doing this, Jhoanna just shrugged. “Wala lang. Bored ako. Nakakasawa rin mag-drawing ng gusali na hindi naitatayo.”
Then gave a kind of smile that made it hard to tell if she was joking. “So, anong gusto mong timpla?”
Maloi blinked. “Anong... timpla?”
“Ng pagmamahal niya sa’yo.” Jhoanna set down three small bottles on the table—one red, one yellow, one a kind of murky gray. “Gusto mo ba ‘yung obsessed, yung tipong magpapakamatay pag nawala ka? O yung tahimik lang pero ikaw lang ang iniisip? Marami akong variation.”
Sheena snorted. “May ganon pa palang menu, te?”
Maloi hesitated. The idea of someone loving her that much sounded both flattering and horrifying.
Finally, she said, “Yung normal lang.”
Jhoanna nodded thoughtfully, as if normal were the rarest order of all. “Normal lang,” she repeated, like it was a word she hadn’t heard in a long time. “Sige. Pero tandaan mo, ha—wala talagang normal sa gayuma.”
Sheena leaned toward Maloi and whispered, “Te, pa’no pag naging palaka si Ma’am Vergara?”
But Maloi was barely listening. For the first time in weeks, she felt something different from exhaustion—something reckless, stupid, and alive.
—
The next morning, Maloi could barely keep her hands still.
By lunch break, her apron was already smudged with fingerprints from all the times she’d wiped them on it. The fryer hissed, the kids screamed, the ceiling fan coughed dust—but none of it felt real. What mattered was the cup waiting on the counter: Nescafé 2-in-1, three-quarters hot water, mix, then cold. And one extra drop of something that shimmered when it caught the light.
When Colet finally appeared at the doorway, everything in Maloi went quiet.
Same crisp blouse. Same neat bun. Same voice—calm but firm—as she said, “No running in the canteen, please.”
The students froze. She didn’t even raise her tone.
Maloi forced a smile, though her mouth was dry. She handed over the turon, the cup warm against her trembling fingers. “Good afternoon, Ma’am,” she managed, too fast, too eager.
Colet took them with that usual grace, nodded politely. “Thank you, Maloi.”
Then she turned away.
Maloi followed her with her eyes, pulse heavy, stomach twisting. Watched as Colet took her usual seat near the window, tore a piece of turon with those careful fingers, and lifted the cup.
Then—the sip.
The slight tilt of her chin. The slow movement of her throat as she swallowed.
Maloi waited.
For a peculiar blink.
For a shiver, maybe. A pause, a sudden turn, a something.
But Colet just sipped again, wiped her lip with a handkerchief, and then started with her sudoku.
The sound of children shouting came rushing back, the same as always.
The same noise, the same heat, the same everything.
Maloi stared at the half-empty cup in Colet’s hand, her chest hollowing out.
Maybe Jhoanna had tricked her. Maybe she mixed it wrong. Maybe love, like everything else in this godforsaken school, was just another broken thing that didn’t work the way it should.
She picked up her ladle and threw it on the sink. “Sa kabila na kayo!” she barked, louder than she meant to. “Sarado na kami.”
—
Two days later, Maloi was mid-plea.
“Sheena, please. Balikan natin. Last na, promise.”
“Ayoko nga,” Sheena said flatly, munching on a banana.
“Libre kita ng buko juice,” Maloi offered.
“May sarili akong buko sa bahay.”
“Wag ka na maglaba buong buwan. Ako na.”
Sheena looked up, unimpressed. “Te, tatlong damit lang nilalabhan ko sa isang linggo.”
Maloi groaned, head thunking against the canteen counter. “Sheena, please! Baka mali yung timpla. O kulang sa—”
Then, a voice.
Soft. Familiar.
“Good morning, Maloi.”
She froze. Sheena did too, mid-chew.
Because Colet Vergara never came to the canteen this early. Not once.
Maloi straightened so fast her hairnet almost slipped off.
“Uh—uhm—Ma’am Vergara! G–good morning po!” she stammered, too loud, too eager.
Colet shifted her weight, looking strangely unsure. “Pabili ng kape.”
For a moment, Maloi couldn’t move.
Ito na ba yun? Gumagana na ba ang gayuma?
Then she jolted to life—hot water, powder, stir, a splash of cold, her hands shaking just enough to spill a little on the saucer.
When she handed it over, Colet’s smile was wider than usual. Softer. Almost warm. “Thank you.”
She turned to leave—then paused, walked back two steps, and said, almost like a reflex, “Ang ganda mo today.”
The words hung in the air, absurd and fragile.
Colet blinked, eyes flickering with confusion, like she didn’t understand what had just left her mouth.
“Oh—uhh—sorry—” she mumbled, flustered for the first time. Then she walked off quickly, coffee trembling slightly in her hand.
Sheena whistled. “Hala, te! Congrats. Baka effective nga.”
—
What followed was a blur.
Colet started showing up more often. Sometimes with an excuse, sometimes with none at all. She’d wait by the canteen counter even after the line disappeared, idly folding tissue paper squares while Maloi wiped tables that were already clean.
Then there were the walks.
“Uwi na 'ko,” Maloi would say, half-joking.
“Hatid na kita,” Colet would reply, not joking at all.
It became a habit. Down the cracked sidewalks, passing the same sari-sari stores and the same kids playing tumbang preso. Sometimes Colet would carry Maloi’s tote bag, sometimes she’d insist on paying for taho. Maloi would tease, “yaman talaga ni Ma’am Vergara,” and Colet would just smile, shaking her head.
Their first time holding hands wasn’t even romantic. It was when they were crossing the street, and Colet reached for her instinctively. Maloi tried to make a joke—something about not dying yet—but the words came out thin. They didn’t let go right away.
Then came the first kiss.
It wasn’t fireworks. It was awkward. Quick. Somewhere behind the waiting shed, right before the rain started. Maloi could still smell the turon from Colet’s breath, and Colet laughed into her neck, quiet and nervous. Still, something in that small clumsy kiss made the world feel different—like maybe the potion wasn’t needed after all.
Days blurred into a montage of ordinary sweetness:
Maloi taught Colet how to drive a tricycle, both of them screaming when it lurched forward.
Buying Manila paper and chalk at the mall, laughing too loud in cramped convenience stores. Eating kwek-kwek by the roadside, orange crumbs on Colet’s blouse, Maloi wiping them off without thinking.
They argued over silly things: which teacher Maloi would date if she hadn’t met Colet, whether the Bravo biscuits were better than Magic Flakes, who would get the last sip of coffee. Maloi always lost, and Colet always pretended not to notice, smiling that small, patient smile that made Maloi want to both groan and melt at the same time.
Every moment felt simple, real—too real. And sometimes, when Colet smiled at her for no reason, Maloi thought: this is it. No turning back now.
—
Maloi had started noticing the cracks.
The little things.
The way Colet left dirty dishes in the sink overnight. The way she kept correcting Maloi’s posture, tugging her shoulders back even when Maloi was comfortable. The way Colet was impossibly picky about food, sniffing everything Maloi cooked before taking a hesitant bite, then casually saying, “matabang,” or “hindi ganito yung timpla ng mommy ko.”
Her laughter grated too—always a tiny, condescending chuckle when Maloi mispronounced a word, or when she fumbled some simple task. She shushed Maloi during movies, as if speaking over the screen was a crime. Public displays of affection? Nonexistent. Even a hand brush or a quick hug felt like a sin under Colet’s watchful eyes.
She always had to win. Every argument. Every choice. Where to eat. When to cross the street. What clothes Maloi should wear.
Maloi loved her. Truly. But she was also… exhausted. Sick of it. Sick of this bossy, distant version of Colet that only surfaced when anyone else was around—or when she thought she needed control.
So Maloi went back to Jhoanna.
“May timpla ka ba na… ano,” she trailed off, scratching her head. “Yung clingy sa’kin. Tapos sinusunod lahat ng gusto ko. Walang tampo, walang… utos.”
Jhoanna sighed, flipping a pen between her fingers. Then she handed Maloi a small red bottle. “O, ayan. Buti na lang hindi ka humingi ng magpapakamatay para sa'yo.”
Maloi held the bottle against her chest. “Salamat… sana effective.”
“Good luck, madam.”
Maloi nodded, feeling the strange mix of guilt and excitement coil in her stomach. She slipped the bottle into her bag and stepped back into the school.
That afternoon, the small red bottle waited on the counter. Invisible, but alive in its own way, ready to slide into Colet’s drink.
Maloi’s hands shook when she poured the liquid into Colet’s cup. She stirred until it vanished, leaving nothing but an almost imperceptible shimmer on the surface.
When Colet arrived, Maloi’s chest twisted. She handed over the coffee, her voice tighter than usual.
“Good morning, Ma’am Vergara.”
Colet took the cup, nodded, paused… just a fraction longer than usual.
Maloi’s stomach flipped. Please… pag di gumana ‘to papatayin ko si Jhoanna.
And then Colet blinked. Looked at her like she was seeing her for the first time. And whispered, shyly, almost uncharacteristically:
“Ang ganda mo, mahal. Saan mo gustong kumain mamaya?”
Maloi’s heart skipped. She grinned despite herself. Part of her felt triumphant, but another part felt guilty.
Because she loved her. And now, maybe, she could finally have her exactly how she wanted.
—
At first, it was small. Almost sweet. Colet wouldn’t let go of Maloi’s hand. She kissed her in public, cheek or mouth, with a boldness that made Maloi blush—and sometimes groan.
The house sparkled. No more dirty dishes, no more crumbs, no more mess anywhere. Maloi could barely leave a coffee cup out without Colet swooping in, washing it, drying it, arranging it perfectly.
But then it got… relentless.
She followed Maloi everywhere. To the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the bedroom. If Maloi moved, Colet was a shadow. Standing too close, brushing against her arm, murmuring, “Huwag mo akong iiwan, mahal.” She asked constant, repetitive questions: “Saan ka pupunta? Kailan ka babalik? Pwede ba akong sumama?” Even when Maloi was clearly busy, Colet hovered, arms folded, eyes like a needy child, waiting for approval. Or worse, panicking if Maloi looked at her the wrong way.
Mornings were the worst. Maloi woke up early to pee, thinking she could sneak a moment of freedom—but no. Colet would sit up in bed, crying softly.
“Bakit ka umalis?”
“Nag-CR lang ako,” Maloi muttered, trying to roll her eyes.
“Bakit mo ako iniwan?” she sobbed.
Evenings were no better. Maloi joked once, “Tumahimik ka nga!” and Colet didn’t speak for hours. Not a word, not even a sigh. When Maloi finally relented, whispering, “Pwede ka nang magsalita,” Colet spoke in a soft, careful tone as if afraid she’d disobey again.
She refused to let go. Not for work. Not for errands. Not for the shower. She followed Maloi into the bathroom, tapping on the door, whispering, “Bilisan mo, please” or “Miss na kita, mahal,” until Maloi’s patience thinned.
Her presence was constant, suffocating. She kissed Maloi awake, kissed her asleep, kissed her just because Maloi laughed. Sometimes she fell asleep clutching Maloi’s arm or leg, refusing to move until Maloi physically disentangled herself.
Maloi loved her, yes. But she was exhausted. Every space, every action, every single breath seemed no longer her own. Colet’s devotion was now a chain she didn’t know how to break.
So Maloi went back to Jhoanna again.
“Ano na naman?!” Jhoanna hissed, narrowing her eyes.
Maloi held up her hands, pleading. “May timpla ka bang… mahal niya pa rin ako, pero relaxed lang siya?”
Jhoanna gave her a long look, like she was debating whether Maloi had finally lost her mind. Then she shoved a small blue bottle into her hands. “O, ayan. ”
She shut the door with a snap, leaving Maloi blinking at the tiny bottle.
The next day, Colet was… different.
Too different.
She showed up to school in oversized sweatpants and a wrinkled hoodie, hair in a messy bun, slippers on her feet. Maloi blinked. The same teacher who had once enforced perfect posture, uniforms, and deadlines now wandered the halls without direction.
Students noticed too. Her lessons were half-hearted. Sometimes she didn’t even check homework, just nodded, “Okay na yan,” and moved on. The meticulous grids and colored charts that used to cover her classroom walls were gone, replaced by blank whiteboards and doodles she had drawn absentmindedly the night before.
She ate too many snacks in the staff room, sitting on the floor with her back against a cupboard, tossing chips into her mouth by the handful, crumbs falling onto her hoodie.
Even her interactions with Maloi were… laid-back. No more urgent “dito ka lang, mahal,” whispers, no more obsessive hand-holding. If Maloi went to work, showered, or ran errands, Colet either stayed in bed or read a book, occasionally glancing up with a lazy smile.
Housework? Optional. Dishes piled up again. Laundry lingered in baskets for days. The kitchen often looked like a battlefield after Maloi cooked. Colet didn’t notice—or didn’t care.
Yet, when Maloi sat beside her, Colet would stretch lazily, rest her head on Maloi’s shoulder, and murmur a sleepy, “I love you.” Sweet, calm, unbothered. Utterly different from the desperate dedication she had once shown.
Even walking down the street was slow and careless. Students shouted greetings at her, and she waved vaguely, like someone waving at nothing. She still taught, technically—but only when she felt like it. Otherwise, she leaned back in her chair, sipped coffee, and nodded absentmindedly.
Maloi sometimes laughed, sometimes groaned. Colet’s extreme relax-ness was cozy, yes, but also maddening. The panic was gone, but so was the spark—the frantic, messy, passionate chaos she had once felt.
Maloi realized something that hit her harder than any exhaustion or frustration: she’d been trying to change Colet, to turn her into someone she isn’t, when all she really wanted was for Colet to be…happy. Not clingy. Not lazy. Just happy. At peace.
So by six in the morning, she was back at Jhoanna’s door.
Jhoanna opened it, hair sticking out in every direction, oversized white shirt, squinting like she hadn’t slept in a week. “Ano na naman?” she groaned, dragging Maloi inside. Without another word, she handed her a small yellow bottle. “Sasaya siya diyan, promise.” And promptly disappeared back into her house.
Maloi stared at the bottle, swallowed, and ran.
The next lunch break, Colet arrived at the canteen. She drank the potion and… it worked.
Too well.
She was happy.
Too happy.
She laughed when nothing was funny, tilting her head back like the world was some giant joke. Maloi blinked. She had forgotten that Colet could be this carefree.
But Maloi soon realized that Colet’s happiness wasn’t just constant—it was relentless, and sometimes completely tone-deaf.
When Maloi slammed the kitchen counter in frustration after a long day at work, Colet popped up behind her with a grin. “Baby ko, relax! Smile lang! Ang ganda mo pa rin!”
Maloi glared. “Hindi lahat ng problema pwede mong ngiti-an!”
Colet just nodded, overly enthusiastic, “Everything is possible, mahal!”
When Maloi cried over a dead relative, Colet hugged her tightly and whispered, “Wag ka malungkot, mahal.” Maloi sniffled. “Namimiss ko lang kasi—”
“Shh! Masaya lang tayo!” Colet interrupted, smiling.
Her persistent glee made Maloi feel like she was living inside a cartoon. She wanted the old spark back, but instead she got this overly sunny, oblivious version who smiled in the face of every disaster.
Maloi loved her, yes. But sometimes she wanted to scream, throw a pillow, and have Colet cry with her—just a little—to remind her that life could still be real, messy, and human.
God, she was exhausted. Every tweak, every little edit she’d tried to make—obsessive Colet, relaxed Colet, happy Colet—had backfired in ways she hadn’t expected. Each version had its charm, sure, but also its own brand of madness. She hadn’t realized she’d been chasing control over someone else’s feelings, and now she was tired.
Bone-deep tired.
So of course… she went back to Jhoanna.
When Jhoanna saw Maloi walking up the gravel path toward her house, she lit a cigarette for the first time in years.
“Anong timpla na naman gusto mo?” she asked, giving Maloi a glass of water without even a glance.
Maloi didn’t answer.
This time… she didn’t know what version of Colet she wanted to wake up to. The obsessive, frantic love? The chilled-out indifferent one? The ridiculously happy, laughs-at-everything version? None of them felt right anymore.
She let out a long, shaky sigh, pressing the glass to her lips.
She held back tears.
“Gusto ko na siyang palayain,” she whispered, almost to herself.
Jhoanna studied her quietly for a moment, flicked the cigarette ash, and finally nodded. “Hindi kasi natin pwedeng i-manipulate yung pagmamahal.”
“Alam ko.”
“Eh bakit ka bumili ng gayuma?”
“Kasi nagbebenta ka!” Maloi hissed, wiping a tear from her cheek. "Kasalanan mo rin 'to eh!"
Jhoanna sighed, shaking her head, and took another small bottle from the altar. This time the liquid inside was murkier, almost cloudy, like it carried the weight of its purpose.
She looked at Maloi, her expression softer than usual. “Sigurado ka ba?”
“Oo,” Maloi whispered, heart beating so hard it hurt.
Jhoanna gave her a sad, knowing smile. “Pag-ininom niya ‘to… mawawala lahat.”
"Ha?" Maloi’s hand trembled. “Hindi niya na ako makikilala?”
“Makikilala,” Jhoanna said gently, “Pero hindi niya na maalala na minahal ka niya.”
—
That night, Maloi watched Colet sleep. The dim light caught in her hair, her breathing was steady, peaceful. For a moment, she almost convinced herself that maybe, just maybe, everything could stay this way—if she closed her eyes and kept pretending.
Her mind replayed fragments of their love:
The first time Colet let Maloi braid her hair, awkward fingers fumbling but laughing through the tangles. Maloi showing Colet how to balance a plate on a rickety cart in the canteen, both of them wobbling and nearly dropping everything.
Walking home under a sudden downpour, soaked to the skin, Colet laughing while Maloi grumbled about her sandals. Late nights sprawled on the quiet street, pointing at constellations they barely remembered the names of, making up stories about them instead.
Warm mornings where they shared leftovers from street stalls, sitting on the apartment steps, watching the world wake up without saying much at all. The stolen kisses behind classrooms, the late-night talks where the city felt empty and theirs alone.
And yet… she realized the truth.
None of it was real. Not really. The love Colet had shown her had been make-believe, a series of choices Maloi had made for her. Obsessed. Relaxed. Too happy. Too clingy. Too perfect.
Real love wasn’t like that.
Love wasn’t something you could tweak or order or edit.
Love was sitting through terrible days together in silence. It was arguing over which side of the bed was yours, and still letting them take it anyway. It was laughing and crying over the same stupid movie fifteen times, and listening to their endless, messy stories about work even when you were tired. Love was stepping over clothes they’d left on the floor for the hundredth time, swallowing your frustration when they forgot to do the dishes, and still wanting to hold their hand at the end of the day. People couldn’t pick which parts of someone they loved—they loved the whole package. The good, the insufferable, the filthy, the mundane.
Most of all, love was constant, relentless choosing. No magic, no spells, no shortcuts. Just waking up every day and deciding, over and over again, to love someone as they were.
So Maloi returned Colet’s things to her apartment. She hid their photo albums in the back of a drawer, and washed Colet’s dishes for the last time.
And tomorrow…
Tomorrow, during lunch, when Colet took her turon and her coffee, Maloi would watch.
She would watch her sip, watch her swallow, and watch her forget.
She would watch the love they had shared fade like mist in the morning sun. And somehow, Maloi knew she would survive it.
Because this time… she was making the right choice.
—
A few days later, Colet was Colet again. Strict, stiff, silencing a classroom with a single look again. And Maloi… well, Maloi was still Maloi. Short-tempered with the kids, clumsy with rice portions, cursing under her breath when someone asked for extra vinegar.
Colet walked in with another teacher, smiling politely, talking about how late they’d stayed up making lesson plans. Maloi tried to look anywhere else. Tried to focus on her calculator, pretending to solve twenty minus fifteen. Anything to avoid looking at her, to avoid remembering.
When Colet and the other teacher reached her counter, Maloi was ready with the turon and coffee, her hands steady despite her chest pounding. But Colet didn’t even glance at it. Instead, she asked softly, “Ay, may bibingka pa ba, Maloi?”
She smiled. Soft. Tired. Maloi handed over the bibingka, counted the change, and forced herself to be thankful for the brief, almost incidental contact of their palms brushing. That was all she got now—fleeting, ordinary, real.
And she watched Colet walk away, still with her colleague, unaware. Unaware of the love she had carried for her, the love she had to let go. Maloi pressed her fingers against her lips, tasting the sweetness of the kisses she’d once tried to conjure.
Everything—and nothing—was back to normal.
—
By 5 pm, the rain had turned the streets into puddles. Jeepneys groaned under too many passengers and taxis refused to stop, “baha na sa kanto!”
Maloi stood just outside the school, her left sandal finally gave up. She kicked it into the street and cursed, “Tang ina…”
“Okay ka lang?”
Colet’s voice cut through the rain and embarrassment.
Maloi looked up, shivering. “Ah… o-okay lang ako, Col—Ma’am Vergara.”
“Share na lang tayo ng payong,” Colet said, casual, giving that almost-shy smile.
God. That smile. Maloi almost cried right there. Colet only ever did that when she wanted something but didn’t want to ask outright.
“Wag na po—” Maloi started, but Colet shook her head.
“Sige na,” she said. “Saan ba bahay mo?”
Oo nga pala.
Di mo na maalala.
What if malunod na lang ako sa baha?
Colet waited, patient and unaware.
Unaware that she had walked Maloi home a hundred times before. That they’d washed dishes together in Maloi’s kitchen. That she had once mumbled in her sleep on Maloi’s chest.
Maloi forced a slow, tight smile. “Malapit lang naman. Kaya ko na.”
Then, before she could protest, Colet slipped an arm around her side and pulled her close.
Maloi went stiff.
“Yan,” Colet said, unbothered, “para kasya tayo sa payong.”
“Baha na kasi—”
“Lika na, Maloi.”
And just like that, they walked. Awkwardly at first. Colet stepped on Maloi’s foot once, she laughed before she could apologize. They waded through ankle-deep water, mud clinging to their clothes. Colet was completely unfazed.
Then, the wind snapped the umbrella in two, and for a heartbeat, they stopped, staring at each other.
And then they laughed. Not politely, not forced. Just laughter that spilled over the rain, the mud, the cold.
They kept moving, trudging through the flood and the muck. Maloi didn’t notice she was barefoot anymore. Didn’t care. She only noticed the warmth of Colet’s arm pressed against her, the scent of concrete and rain, the strange comfort of being small and soaked and entirely human with someone she had once tried to control with magic.
When they reached Maloi’s gate, Colet paused. She didn’t step back right away. Her eyes lingered on the house, on the chipped paint of the gate, the small garden Maloi had never had time to tend properly. And then she looked at Maloi.
For a moment, it was like her skin was trying to remember something her brain couldn’t. A glint of familiarity, a shadow of all the times they’d walked this street together, laughed together, argued over nothing, held hands without thinking.
But it slipped away before she could name it.
Maloi felt it too—the hesitation, the pause, the almost-recognition—but she swallowed it down, shoved it into the corner of her chest. She cleared her throat. “Dito ka na lang maghintay ng taxi mo, okay?”
Colet’s lips twitched, uncertain, like she wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.
Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”
Maloi stepped back, letting Colet stand there under the dripping leaves, her arm slipping away from Maloi’s waist. The rain continued to fall, and for a moment, the world felt like it was holding its breath—maybe remembering, maybe forgetting.
"Ang sarap ng bibingka mo, Maloi," Colet said after a long stretch of silence, soft, almost contemplative.
Maloi laughed. Loud. Too loud for the quiet street. Too out of place. And it made Colet laugh too, though more confused than amused.
"Bakit?" Colet asked, eyebrows furrowing.
Maloi shook her head, still chuckling. "Meron pa sa loob," she said, trying to hold back laughter, "gusto mo pa ng bibingka ko?"
"Sure."
Then they walked in.
Maloi was still laughing a little too hard, clutching her side as she tried to calm herself. Colet trailed behind, scratching her head, completely oblivious to the innuendo she just made.
Maloi’s laughter bubbled up again. Because she knew Colet had no idea—didn’t even suspect—that she’d just said something deliciously dirty without realizing it. And that made it all better.
Colet tilted her head and asked, “Bakit ka tumatawa?”
Maloi shook her head again, teasing this time. “Wala lang… masarap naman talaga ang bibingka ko.”
Colet nodded seriously, still trying to piece together the joke, while she melted a little inside, loving the way Colet could make her laugh without ever trying.
Maloi realized that this version of Colet—who didn’t remember, who didn’t carry their shared past—was someone she would have to learn to love all over again, if she’d ever have another chance.
And this time, she’ll do it right.
Otherwise, Jhoanna might kill her.