Chapter Text
August 3, 2026
Jhoanna Robles had learned that everyone had a story they were trying to hide.
The politician who smiled too much whenever he avoided a question. The businessman who answered with numbers because numbers sounded more trustworthy than feelings. The actor who joked every time the conversation came too close to something real.
People thought interviews were about answers.
They weren't.
They were about the silence before the answer. The tiny changes in someone's voice when they realized they were no longer in control.
That was where the truth lived.
And Jhoanna Robles had built an entire career finding it.
Her name had become associated with difficult questions and uncomfortable conversations. She was the journalist people respected and feared in equal measure.
Not because she was cruel but because she listened. She remembered. And she never let people hide behind the words they practiced before walking into the room.
Her editor, Sir Ronny, once told her that Jhoanna had a strange talent.
"You make people forget they're being interviewed."
At the time, she considered it a compliment.
Now, sitting inside a conference room at her magazine's office, staring at the assignment folder in front of her, she wondered if that was still true.
Because this time, she was the one who felt like she was walking into a trap.
The folder was simple.
White cover. Black letters.
A name printed across the front.
AIAH ARCETA
Even people who did not follow entertainment news knew who she was.
Aiah Arceta.
The country's obsession.
The woman whose face appeared on billboards, magazine covers, advertisements, and every corner of social media.
Everyone had a version of Aiah.
The hardworking performer. The humble celebrity. The girl who stayed grounded despite success.
The dreamer who made it.
Jhoanna had read every interview available. She watched old videos, studied answers, noticed patterns.
And every single article said almost the same thing — Aiah was kind. Aiah was grateful. Aiah was happy.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Jhoanna leaned back in her chair.
Perfect was always suspicious.
Nobody had a life without complications. Nobody became successful without losing something along the way.
That was the story she wanted.
Not the one everyone already knew. The person behind the image. The person behind Aiah Arceta.
She opened the folder.
The first page contained the approved questions.
How does it feel to become one of the biggest names in the country?
What inspired you to pursue your dream?
What message do you want to give your supporters?
Safe questions. Expected questions.
Questions designed for a celebration.
She flipped to the next page.
Her own notes.
The questions she actually wanted to ask.
What part of yourself did you leave behind?
What did you lose when you became successful?
Who do you miss the most?
She stopped. Her pen hovered over the paper.
For some reason, she wrote one more.
A question she did not plan on asking. A question that had nothing to do with journalism.
Who are you now?
Jhoanna stared at the sentence longer than she wanted to admit.
Then she closed the notebook.
This was work.
Nothing more.
Aiah Arceta was a subject.
And Jhoanna was a journalist.
That was all.
—————
The studio was quieter than Jhoanna expected.
Usually, celebrity interviews came with chaos.
Assistants running around. People adjusting outfits. Managers checking schedules. Someone always saying they were running late.
But when Jhoanna arrived, everything was already prepared.
The cameras were ready. The lights were positioned. The chairs were arranged across from each other.
It felt less like an interview and more like a conversation.
That bothered her.
Conversations were dangerous.
Interviews had rules.
A conversation could make people forget to protect themselves.
Jhoanna knew that firsthand.
"Miss Jhoanna?" A production assistant smiled at her. "She'll be here in a few minutes."
Jhoanna nodded. "She?"
The assistant looked confused. "Si Miss Aiah."
Right.
Aiah.
Of course.
She knew that.
She had spent the entire week preparing for this. She knew Aiah's schedule. She knew her career timeline. She knew her achievements.
She knew everything she needed to know.
Or so she believed.
The door opened.
And suddenly, the noise in the room disappeared.
Jhoanna looked up.
Aiah walked in without the dramatic entrance she expected.
She looked ... ordinary.
Not in the way magazine covers used the word, but in the way people forgot celebrities were allowed to be.
Her dark hair was neatly parted down the middle, the loose strands framing her face while the rest was gathered into a low bun at the nape of her neck.
She wore almost no jewelry, no statement pieces begging for attention. Just a fitted white knit top with thin black stripes tucked into a pair of light-wash jeans — simple enough that anyone else might have disappeared into the crowd wearing it.
She didn't.
There was something quietly magnetic about her.
The studio lights caught the softness of her features as she smiled at someone just outside Jhoanna's line of sight.
It wasn't the dazzling, practiced smile she'd seen on magazine covers or television appearances.
This one was smaller. Warmer. The corners of her eyes crinkled ever so slightly, as though smiling came more naturally than posing ever could.
Jhoanna found herself watching longer than she intended.
No overwhelming celebrity energy. No obvious attempt to impress anyone.
She greeted the staff first. She thanked the makeup artist. She apologized when she accidentally stepped too close to someone adjusting equipment.
Small things. Ordinary things. Unimportant things.
Things Jhoanna noticed because noticing was what she did.
Then Aiah looked at her.
For one second, neither of them moved.
It was brief. Almost invisible.
But Jhoanna saw it.
Because she always saw things.
Aiah recovered first. A small smile appeared on her face.
"Hi, Jho."
Jho.
A name that belonged to a different time.
A time she had spent years convincing herself was over.
She forced herself to smile.
"Hi."
Her voice sounded normal.
She was proud of that.
Aiah walked closer and offered her hand.
"Good to see you again."
Again.
Another word. Another small thing.
Another thing only they understood.
Jhoanna shook her hand.
Professional.
"Thank you for coming today."
Aiah's expression changed slightly.
Almost like she found the sentence funny.
"Always."
Jhoanna released her hand.
She ignored the strange feeling in her chest.
This was an interview.
That was it.
Before either of them could continue, the studio door opened.
"Aiah."
A woman stepped inside, a tablet tucked beneath one arm and a phone in the other. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every schedule in the building by heart.
"Ay, good. Nandito ka na."
She stopped beside Aiah before finally looking toward Jhoanna.
For the briefest moment — her expression changed.
"... Jhoanna Robles."
Unlike Aiah, she didn't smile immediately.
She crossed the room with measured steps, stopping just far enough to keep the interaction professional.
"I honestly didn't think tatanggapin mo 'tong interview."
Jhoanna held her gaze. "And yet, who invited whom?"
There was a quiet satisfaction in watching Rica Delgado wince at the statement.
"Still ... thank you pa rin," Rica said regardless. "Alam mo naman, with everything going on, we needed this."
We needed this.
Aiah stood still like a statue beside her manager, and Jhoanna tried not to look at her. Even more, she tried not to let Aiah's lingering stare bore through her.
"You don't have to thank me," Jhoanna gestured lazily toward the cameras, the lights, the neatly arranged set. "Trabaho lang naman 'to."
Her voice was calm.
Calmer than she felt.
"And besides ..." She met Rica's gaze without blinking. "May kailangan din akong makuha rito."
Rica's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the tablet tucked beneath her arm.
Jhoanna caught it.
Of course she did.
She always noticed the smallest tells.
Like how Aiah kept rubbing the hem of her sleeve between her fingers.
"Which is?" Rica asked carefully.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jhoanna's lips.
"The same thing every journalist wants ..." She let the answer hang. "The truth."
Jhoanna didn't look at Aiah when she said it.
She didn't have to. The room was quiet enough for her to hear Aiah inhale. Rica was the first to recover. The polite smile returned as though it had never left.
"Good," she said, clearing her throat. "Mukhang ready na tayong lahat."
She looked toward the crew. "Five minutes?"
The director nodded. "Five."
With five minutes left before filming, the room stirred back to life.
A lighting technician climbed onto a small ladder, adjusting one of the overhead panels until the harsh white glow softened into something almost flattering. Another crew member crouched beside the chairs, tugging invisible creases from the rug beneath them.
The choreography fascinated Jhoanna.
No one seemed to give orders.
Everyone simply knew where they were supposed to be. Like an orchestra that had rehearsed the same performance a hundred times before.
It reminded her that interviews were never really conversations between two people.
They were productions.
Someone decided the lighting. Someone approved the wardrobe. Someone rehearsed talking points. Someone chose where the cameras would sit.
Jhoanna welcomed the interruption. It gave her new subjects to observe — and fewer reasons to look at Aiah.
"Miss Robles?"
A young production assistant approached, holding a clipboard.
"Can we do a quick audio check?"
Jhoanna nodded. She barely registered the microphone being clipped onto the lapel of her blazer.
"Can you count from one to ten for me?"
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
Her voice echoed faintly through the studio speakers.
"Crisp," someone from the control booth said.
"Now Miss Aiah."
Aiah cleared her throat.
"One."
The single word sounded softer than Jhoanna remembered.
"Two."
Still gentle.
"Three."
Jhoanna hated herself for noticing, and looked away before the memory could settle.
The audio technician gave them a thumbs-up.
"We're good."
As everyone dispersed to their stations, Rica's phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen.
Whatever she read made the color drain ever so slightly from her face.
She locked the phone immediately.
Another detail.
Rica excused herself with a quiet, "One minute," before stepping toward the hallway just outside the studio.
People rarely excused themselves in the minutes before an interview unless something had gone wrong.
Across the studio, Aiah remained in her chair.
The makeup artist returned with a powder puff.
"Sorry, touch-up lang po, Miss Aiah."
"It's okay," Aiah said with an easy smile.
She tilted her chin without being asked, closing her eyes for a moment as the makeup artist dabbed away the shine the studio lights had already begun to leave behind.
"Thank you."
The makeup artist smiled. "Welcome po."
It wasn't the first time Jhoanna had heard those words that morning.
Thank you.
To the production assistant who handed her a bottle of water. To the cameraman who apologized for adjusting the height of her chair. To the stylist who brushed an invisible strand of hair behind her ear.
Small courtesies are easy enough to fake.
But people usually performed kindness for an audience.
There wasn't one now.
The cameras were idle. The monitors still displayed color bars.
Half the crew weren't even looking at her, yet Aiah thanked everyone anyway.
Jhoanna frowned almost imperceptibly.
It was inconvenient.
She had spent the better part of a week studying interviews, articles, and carefully curated public appearances, looking for the person hidden beneath the headlines.
Instead, the woman sitting across the room kept reminding her of someone she was trying very hard not to remember.
She looked away.
First impressions made for terrible journalism.
Familiarity made for even worse judgment.
She would trust neither.
Not today.
A voice crackled through the studio speakers.
"Thirty seconds, everyone."
The room responded almost instinctively.
Crew members disappeared behind cameras. Headsets were adjusted. The monitors flickered from color bars to a live feed of the set. Someone counted down lens settings under their breath. Another checked the framing one last time.
The quiet transformed into concentration.
Jhoanna smoothed an invisible crease from the sleeve of her blazer. Not because it needed it. Because it gave her hands something to do.
Across from her, Aiah settled into her chair.
She sat comfortably — not with the rigid posture of someone trying to look perfect, but with the ease of someone who had done hundreds of interviews before.
Her fingers found the hem of her sleeve again.
She wondered if Aiah knew she was doing it.
Probably not.
The habits people never noticed were usually the honest ones.
A production assistant stepped between them.
"Water?"
Jhoanna accepted a bottle with a quiet, "Thank you."
The assistant handed one to Aiah as well.
"Thank you," Aiah echoed.
The assistant smiled before hurrying off the set.
Silence settled between them again.
Jhoanna kept her eyes on the cue cards resting on her lap.
The questions stared back at her.
How does it feel to become one of the biggest names in the country?
She almost laughed.
That wasn't the first question she wanted answered.
Across from her, Aiah spoke softly, "So ..."
Jhoanna looked up.
Aiah's smile was careful. "I guess we're really doing this."
For a heartbeat, Jhoanna couldn't tell if Aiah meant the interview.
She chose a safer interpretation.
"We are."
Nothing more.
The silence that followed stretched just long enough to become noticeable.
And just when Aiah was about to say something else —
"Rolling in ten!"
The director's voice cut cleanly through the room.
Every conversation stopped. Every movement settled. Every eye shifted toward the two women seated across from each other.
Jhoanna took one slow breath.
This was the moment everyone believed an interview began.
But she knew better.
For her, it had started the second Aiah walked through the door looking so little like a stranger.