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The last session of the 20th Congress ended the way every session eventually did.
The Senate President's gavel struck the rostrum one final time, followed by a motion to adjourn. The familiar words echoed through the chamber before giving way to the quiet bustle of people rising from their seats. Chairs scraped against the polished floor, conversations resumed, and staff members in the gallery broke into applause. Around the hall, senators exchanged handshakes, hugs, and promises to keep in touch while photographers hurried everyone together for one last group photo.
The chamber, which had been filled with debates and speeches only moments before, now carried a different kind of noise—the soft hum of goodbyes.
Warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the rows of desks that had witnessed years of legislation, disagreements, and hard-won victories.
For most of the people in the room, it was simply the end of another Congress. For Senator Risa Hontiveros and Senator Sherwin Gatchalian, it was the end of twelve years.
Two consecutive terms. Twelve years of walking the same hallways, sitting through late-night hearings, surviving marathon budget deliberations, sharing hurried cups of coffee between committee meetings, and crossing paths so often that seeing each other had become part of the rhythm of every working day.
Somewhere in those twelve years, neither of them could remember exactly when it happened, but the Senate had quietly become synonymous with one person.
Not the institution. Not the work. Just each other.
"Seatmate."
Sherwin looked up at the familiar voice, the corner of his lips lifting before he even realized it.
Risa stood a few steps away, a few folders tucked against her chest, her Senate ID still hanging from its lanyard despite the fact that neither of them would need it after today. There was a tiredness in her eyes that only someone who had spent the last twelve years beside her would notice, but her smile was as warm as ever.
"Bakit nandito ka pa?" she asked.
He glanced at the box beside his desk before looking back at her. "I could ask you the same."
She let out a small laugh and lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
"Last day."
As if those two words were enough to explain why neither of them seemed ready to leave. Maybe they were.
The nickname had begun sometime during their first term. Their desks had been close enough that they were always passing documents back and forth, borrowing pens, or leaning over to exchange the occasional comment before the session officially began. One morning, after Sherwin had hurried into the chamber just in time for the roll call, Risa had greeted him with an amused, "Good morning, seatmate."
He had laughed, called her the same thing in return, and somehow it never stopped.
The name followed them through the years. Their staff picked it up first, then colleagues, until even reporters occasionally referred to them as "seatmates" whenever they were spotted chatting before session. It had always been a harmless joke—one of those small things that naturally became part of a workplace after spending enough years together.
Neither of them had ever given the nickname much thought. Not until today. Tomorrow, someone else would occupy their seats in the chamber, and for the first time in twelve years, neither of them would have a seatmate anymore.
The hallways outside the session hall buzzed with quiet farewells. Staff members wheeled boxes toward the elevators while family members wandered through offices one last time, taking photos and reminiscing. Everywhere he looked, people were saying goodbye to the place they had called home for years.
Sherwin realized he wasn't grieving the building at all. The Senate would still stand tomorrow, its halls just as polished, its chamber just as grand. But the people inside it would ju st be different.
Buildings stayed. People didn't.
His office looked strangely unfamiliar now that it had been emptied. The bookshelves stood bare, the framed photographs had been wrapped carefully in newspaper, and years of plaques and awards disappeared into cardboard boxes marked FRAGILE. It no longer felt like the room he had spent twelve years walking into every morning. It already felt like it belonged to someone else.
His chief of staff had left half an hour earlier, offering one last handshake before heading out.
"See you around, SP."
Sherwin found himself smiling at the memory.
Politics had a language of its own, made up almost entirely of hopeful promises. Let's have coffee. We'll stay in touch. See you around. They were the kinds of things people said because endings were easier to bear when they sounded temporary. He wasn't sure which one stung the most.
Almost absentmindedly, his gaze drifted toward the hallway. Risa's office was only a few doors away—it always had been. For twelve years, if he needed to ask about a bill, compare notes before a committee hearing, or return a folder she'd accidentally left behind after session, he only had to make that short walk down the corridor.
It had never occurred to him that there would come a day when there would be no office to walk to.
No reason to knock on her door.
No certainty that, on any given Tuesday morning, she'd be somewhere in the same building.
The thought settled quietly beneath his ribs. It wasn't the kind of grief that arrived all at once. It simply lingered, refusing to leave.
Risa was folding the last of her scarves into a box when she paused, her hand lingering over the neatly stacked clothes. The office felt strangely bare now. The books that had once filled the shelves were gone, leaving behind empty spaces that made the room seem smaller than she remembered.
A bouquet of flowers rested on the corner of her desk, beside a handwritten letter from one of her staff members thanking her for twelve years of service. She smiled as she read it, then slipped it carefully into a folder she had set aside to take home.
Laughter drifted in from the hallway.
"Ma'am, picture po!" one of the younger staff members called.
"Coming!" She called back, looking up with a smile.
It was another round of photos, another warm embrace, another promise to keep in touch. The kind of goodbye she had expected from the moment she first took her oath twelve years ago.
She had always believed that public office was temporary. Power was borrowed, never owned, and one day every public servant would have to leave the office they once called their own. She had made peace with that long before this day arrived.
What she hadn't prepared for was something far smaller.
Tomorrow morning, she wouldn't walk past Sherwin's office on the way to session. She wouldn't catch sight of him hurrying down the hallway with coffee in one hand and a stack of folders in the other, usually arriving just in time. She wouldn't hear someone teasing, "Seatmate, bilisan mo," followed by the laugh that inevitably came after.
They were such ordinary moments that she'd never thought to treasure them.
So why did losing them feel like the hardest goodbye of all?
Neither of them remembered when work had become companionship.
Maybe during the budget hearings that ended after midnight, when they shared vending machine coffee because every café had already closed, or maybe during difficult sessions, when one would glance across the chamber after delivering a speech and the other would answer with the smallest nod—as if to say, You did well.
Affection hadn't arrived all at once. It had settled quietly into the spaces between ordinary days—through one committee hearing after another, shared jokes before session, cups of coffee squeezed between meetings, and conversations that always began with work but somehow drifted elsewhere. By the time either of them realized it had become something that no longer fit neatly inside friendship, it had already taken root.
Neither of them could say when it happened, and neither dared to ask. Some realizations came attached to consequences, and they both understood consequences far too well. They were public servants, public figures, colleagues, and friends. There was always another reason to wait, another election, another session, another tomorrow. Until, after enough years, silence stopped feeling like a choice and became a habit.
And habits, they had learned, were the hardest things to break.
By the time the afternoon sun dipped lower, the Senate hallways had grown noticeably quieter. Most of the media had already packed up, leaving behind only the occasional click of a camera from staff taking one last photo with colleagues. The building seemed to exhale, settling into a silence it rarely knew during session days.
Sherwin stepped out of his office, a cardboard box balanced against one arm.
Almost at the same time, the door across the hallway opened.
Risa.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. They simply looked at each other, as though surprised to find the other still there.
"Last box?" She asked with a small smile.
"The last one." He replied, glancing down at what he was carrying and nodded.
"So... tapos na talaga tayo." She said with a soft chuckle.
He looked around the corridor they had walked countless times over the past twelve years. Staff offices stood open, nearly emptied of books and framed photographs. The familiar bustle was gone.
"I guess we are."
Without saying anything else, they started walking toward the elevators.
It felt strangely natural, like the hundreds of times they'd walked side by side after committee hearings or late-night sessions. Their pace matched without either of them trying, and neither seemed in any hurry to reach the end of the hallway.
"So..." Risa began.
"So," he echoed.
"We're very articulate today." She said, shaking her head, still with a smile.
"I think we've used up all our speeches."
That earned another laugh, softer this time.
Silence settled between them again—not awkward, never awkward. It was the kind of silence that only came after years of familiarity, when neither person felt compelled to fill every pause.
After a while, Risa glanced at him.
"You know, SP..." she said, almost absently. "Mami-miss kitang tawaging seatmate. Kahit pa ang tagal na kitang hindi seatmate."
Sherwin looked ahead, a smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.
"So am I."
It was such a silly nickname.
One that had started as a joke during their first term and somehow stayed with them through twelve years of hearings, committee meetings, and ordinary mornings before session.
Neither of them had realized how much it had come to mean until there would be no reason to say it anymore.
The elevator chimed softly as it reached their floor.
The doors slid open, but neither of them stepped inside.
Instead, Risa turned to him.
"Thank you."
He looked at her, puzzled.
"For what?"
She smiled, though there was something wistful behind it.
"For twelve years."
He held her gaze for a second longer than he should have. There were so many things he wanted to ask. Was that all this was? Twelve years? Instead, he only nodded.
"No... thank you."
It felt painfully insufficient. Then again, it always had.
Risa extended her hand.
It was the same handshake they'd shared after difficult negotiations, successful bills, and international conferences. Familiar enough that it should have felt routine.
It didn't.
Sherwin took her hand, and for the briefest moment, he wondered what would happen if he simply didn't let go.
The thought startled him; Perhaps, another life, another version of them. One where timing had been kinder.
"I'm going to miss you."
The words rose uninvited, stopping just short of becoming sound.
He swallowed them.
Some feelings, once spoken aloud, demanded an answer. He wasn't sure either of them was ready to hear one.
Risa noticed the flicker in his expression. For a heartbeat, she almost asked him what he was thinking. Instead, another thought crossed her mind.
We should still have coffee.
She almost said it. But coffee had never really been about coffee. It would have been another way of asking him not to become a stranger. Another way of asking if twelve years could somehow survive outside these walls.
She wasn't sure they could.
The elevator waited patiently.
Finally, she stepped inside.
As the doors began to close, she smiled.
"Take care, seatmate."
Sherwin smiled back.
"You too."
The doors slid shut.
The following Monday, the Senate convened again.
The chamber looked almost exactly the same with new senators occupied familiar seats, staff hurried through the hallways carrying folders and coffee, committee meetings resumed, roll call was taken. The institution moved forward with remarkable ease.
Sherwin woke that morning out of habit, glanced at the time, and instinctively wondered if session had already started. For the briefest moment, he caught himself thinking that Risa was probably already at her desk.
Then he remembered.
Across the city, Risa reached for a folder on her dining table before quietly laughing at herself. There was no plenary to prepare for, no committee hearing waiting that afternoon.
She wondered, almost instinctively, whether Sherwin had rushed into the chamber at the last minute again. The thought lingered for a second before dissolving into a quiet smile.
There was no chamber. No session. No seatmate.
History would remember them for the laws they authored and the lives they changed. It would remember speeches, committee reports, and legislation, neatly preserved in the Congressional Record.
What history would never remember was the quiet grief of two people who spent twelve years choosing silence because there was always another session, another hearing, another tomorrow.
Until there wasn't.
And by the time they realized they had been counting on tomorrow all along, they had already run out of them.