A transfer student in the middle of the term?
Trouble.
That's what most of them assumed. But Rue had learned early that trouble often looked a lot like silence.
He arrived just after the flag ceremony one Monday, when the sun was already blistering and the classroom fans were whirring like they were on life support. Their adviser, in a sweat-dampened polo, gestured toward the door like a magician presenting a new trick.
"Class, this is Elijah Jameson Cortez. Let's make him feel welcome."
He didn't smile. Didn't wave. Just nodded, brown eyes cast downward beneath the brim of a navy cap he never removed.
Where most students wore sandals, Elijah wore spotless sneakers.
Where others rolled up their sleeves, he layered a flannel shirt over his uniform
A single earring glinted from his left ear. Earphones dangled around his neck even when unplugged.
He looked like he had come from somewhere else—like Manila maybe, or from a version of high school that played background music and had aesthetic lighting.
Most of the class stared at him, whispering. Rue just sighed and scribbled something in her planner.
Another stray, she thought.
He was sent to sit at the back, beside his cousin Gabby. He didn't say a word for the rest of the day.
Over the next few weeks, Elijah stayed on the edges.
He never raised his hand. Ate lunch alone. Wandered in and out of breaks like a ghost with earbuds.
When group activities started, he didn't approach anyone. He lingered beside Gabby, who always hovered near Rue's group. Elijah came with her like a shadow—but didn't speak unless spoken to.
Rue noticed. Of course she did.
During one activity, when no one else wanted to be paired with him, she dropped a worksheet on the desk next to him.
"Help with the materials list," she said casually. "You look like you'd have neat handwriting."
He didn't reply. But when the project was submitted, the materials list was impeccable.
Rue never asked why he was so quiet, but eventually, the gossip filled in the blanks.
Gabby let it slip one afternoon: Elijah's parents were splitting. Things got messy. He'd flunked two subjects in Manila, and his father blamed the friends he'd been hanging with—said the city had been too permissive, too fast.
So they sent him away.
Back to the province.
To start fresh.
It wasn't his choice.
Of course he didn't want to be there. Of course he folded into himself like a letter never meant to be read.
After that, Rue doubled down on being the anchor.
She made sure he always had a role in the group—quiet but essential. She gave him her notes when he missed class. She sent him on errands with half-jokes and light sarcasm. She registered him in events he hadn't asked to join.
"You're in the intramural's basketball team now" she teased once as he frowned at a signup sheet.
"Why?" he asked flatly.
"Because we're one man down, and if I don't sign one up we'd lose by default." Rue shrugged. "And there's always snacks."
He blinked at that. And for the first time, she caught a flicker of a smile.
Sometimes, she'd head down to the river behind the school with Charlotte and a couple of friends to eat lunch—just to escape the heat and noise. Most days, she'd find him already there with Gabby, sitting on a low cement ledge under the trees, reading or sketching or listening to music that probably didn't match the mood.
She'd pass nearby and toss him a piece of her sandwich without asking. Sometimes he'd catch it. Sometimes he'd just let it fall.
"Let's get going, we're late for fourth period." she'd tease.
He'd say nothing, or just glance her way with a look she couldn't decipher.
One Friday, after school, she returned to her desk to find a note folded neatly and slipped between the pages of her science notebook.
No name. Just tiny, slanted handwriting.
"Thanks. I hate this school a little less now."
She read it twice on the jeep ride home. Smiled to herself and tucked it into her wallet, next to her student ID.
She didn't tell anyone about it.
Didn't need to.
...
Rue stirred in the hammock.
The ocean was still dark, the stars a little dimmer now. A warm breeze rustled the trees, the salty air thick with dew. Her stuffed octopus had slipped to the ground, and one of her arms dangled lazily over the side.
A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted, tugging the blanket tighter around herself.
From a few feet away, Elijah sat cross-legged on a blanket, watching her in silence.
The fire from earlier had died down to glowing embers. His shoes were off. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands were clasped together as if in prayer.
He didn't know how long he'd been watching her sleep — maybe an hour, maybe more.
He should've looked away.
But he couldn't.
Because this Rue — wrapped in a cheap blanket under palm trees, vulnerable in a way she'd never allow herself to be while awake — wasn't the same Rue he remembered.
She used to be light. Direction. Motion.
She used to hold the whole class together with clipboard in hand and sarcasm in her smile. She had been the one to pull him from the fog of loneliness, to make him feel useful, normal, seen — back when he was the one with the broken pieces.
But now?
She was different.
She still had that fire. That grit. That spine.
But her smile didn't always reach her eyes.
And her laugh… it sometimes cracked at the edges, like it was stitched together just enough to function.
Elijah had heard things.
Whispers. Pieces.
That her father had been in a terrible accident. That her mother had died not long after. That Rue had vanished for a while — kept her circle small, even with Charlotte, even with the world.
She had turned inward. Like he once did.
The irony didn't escape him.
Back then, she had created space for him. Pulled him in, gave him roles, places, excuses to belong.
Now, she was the one floating. Unmoored.
And he?
He was too late.
He should've written. Should've called. Should've explained why he left. That it wasn't about her. That he was just trying to survive his own mess.
But time had passed. Distance had grown. Excuses had piled.
And yet, here they were — beneath the same sky, again, as if the world had looped around to give them another chance.
She murmured something in her sleep and shifted, one hand brushing the empty space beside her where her octopus had fallen.
Elijah picked it up quietly and tucked it into her arms.
He didn't touch her. Didn't dare.
But as he sat there — tired, heart aching, unsure of what tomorrow would bring — he made himself a silent promise:
If she lets me,
I'll be there this time.
Even if I'm late.
Even if I don't deserve it.
I'll show up.
Because Rue didn't deserve to carry the weight alone. Not anymore.
And this time… maybe he could be the one to give her a place to rest.