They say high school corridors are designed like arteries: narrow, pulsing with life, and always leading somewhere—until two paths inevitably cross.
For Stella, her second semester at Saint Aurelia had finally settled into a rhythm. Predictable. Safe. She had claimed the window seat near the back—quiet, shielded from the center of classroom chatter. Her mornings started with green tea and morning stretches. Her lunches were a ritual of solitude, spent under the old acacia tree with Amie or a dog-eared novel she’d reread at least five times. She kept her head down, her grades up, and her distance clear.
And somehow, in a school not that big, she had managed to never cross paths with Vince.
Not directly. Not really.
She saw him sometimes, of course—passing in hallways, at general assemblies, at the edge of her vision like a flickering ghost she refused to acknowledge. But they had mastered the art of avoidance. Stella never let her eyes wander in his direction. Vince, for his part, seemed equally uninterested.
Until that week.
It started with a seating reshuffle.
Their homeroom adviser, Ms. Lazo, stood at the front of the classroom that Monday with a clipboard and an overly chipper tone. “To freshen things up and promote new synergy, we’ll be rearranging seats today!”
Groans rose like a chorus. Stella’s heart immediately sank. She liked her seat. She liked her space.
One by one, names were called and students shuffled their desks. When Ms. Lazo reached the final pairings, she smiled, tapping her pen.
“Vince, you'll take Seat 15B. That’s next to… Stella.”
The room exhaled. A few students side-eyed each other.
Stella didn’t move at first. Her pen hovered just above her notebook, as if even gravity didn’t want to disturb the balance of her world. Then slowly, quietly, she gathered her things and slid over one row.
Vince took the seat beside her with a grunt. Their elbows were inches apart.
They didn’t greet each other.
Didn’t look at each other.
Didn’t breathe more than necessary.
That was Monday.
By Thursday, the universe—cruel, comedic thing that it was—decided to nudge harder.
On the bulletin board outside the AV room, a new poster was tacked up:
“Annual Student Film Festival – Team Applications Open. Sign up in Pairs.”
By the time Stella arrived, most slots were filled. Amie had already partnered with someone from the Media Club. She waved apologetically. “Sorry! You were in Physics kanina and I didn’t want to miss out.”
Stella nodded. “No worries.”
She had no intention of signing up anyway—until Ms. Lazo cornered her at dismissal.
“I saw your short story in the newsletter,” the teacher said brightly. “Excellent voice, really. You’d do great for the script portion. We still have one slot left. And one unmatched student.”
Stella’s smile was tight. “I think I’ll pass—”
“Oh no, I’ve already put your name in. And Vince’s.”
Stella blinked. Her stomach dropped.
“Wonderful pairing!” Ms. Lazo beamed, oblivious. “Artistic synergy! Be sure to submit your concept next week.”
That afternoon, Stella stared at her notebook during the first meeting like it might suddenly transport her to another timeline.
The classroom had emptied except for the two of them. They sat at a back table, a script prompt between them:
“A story of memory, and the things we leave behind.”
Ironic.
Painfully so.
Stella kept her eyes on the page. “Ako na bahala sa script. I’m better at it.”
Vince leaned back in his chair. “Okay, cool. Less work for me.”
“We’ll need to shoot outside school. I’ll find a place.”
“Sure. Text me kung may naisip ka.”
A pause. A breath.
“Just so you know, I’m not doing romance,” she added, sharper than she intended.
Vince scoffed softly. “Chill, I’m not interested either. Wasn’t even planning on it.”
For the next several days, they communicated in clipped sentences and scheduled silences.
Stella worked on the script late into the night, crafting a quiet, bittersweet story of a girl who returns to her childhood home only to find the memories haunting the walls more than the people inside it.
Vince never questioned her choices.
He showed up to filming on time. He brought the props she listed. He even held the boom mic properly without complaint. At one point, she watched him stay up late in the computer lab, editing the raw footage with the kind of precision she hadn’t expected from him.
He didn’t say a word when she asked for re-edits.
He just did them.
And then, on the last day of shooting, it rained.
It wasn’t forecasted. Stella had checked three weather apps.
They were filming at a rooftop café just outside the school perimeter—a place Stella had discovered during her long walks and bookmarked for its moody charm. She wanted the final shot to include clouds rolling behind the characters, a metaphor for fading memory. The kind of symbolism she liked to tuck into her work like hidden messages in a bottle.
But clouds didn’t stay.
They cracked.
Rain poured without mercy, cutting their filming short. Vince grabbed the tripod; Stella shielded her laptop with her jacket. They dashed under the café’s metal awning, breathless, soaked, and now completely out of options.
Stella’s phone buzzed once before dying.
"Wala na. Dead batt. No signal pa," she muttered.
Vince huffed beside her, brushing wet hair from his face. "Figures. Nice timing, universe."
They stood side by side, arms barely touching, but their shared silence was heavier than any thunder overhead.
Stella didn’t speak.
But Vince did.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said quietly. “You know, back in fourth grade.”
Not accusatory. Not sarcastic.Just honest.
She turned her head slowly, rain sliding down her temples.
They looked at each other—for the first time, truly. Not across classrooms. Not past people. Not in deflection.
Just… here.
And it hit her, all at once: the boy she used to know was still in there, somewhere behind the broader shoulders and sharper jaw. Behind the guarded expressions and sardonic tone.
“You changed your hair,” he said, trying for casual.
“You still suck at small talk,” she replied—but her voice had softened. Just a bit.
He laughed under his breath, a low chuckle that warmed the cold air between them. “You used to like that about me.”
“Nah, I used to like a lot of things,” she said, almost reflexively.
Then paused.
She hadn't meant to say that.
The rain roared around them like white noise. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Vince leaned against the wall. “The story’s good, by the way.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The script. It’s… good. Real. It’s not what I expected, but it hit.”
Stella looked down at her soaked sneakers. “Thanks.”
More silence. This time, it wasn’t strained. Just... tentative. Like a bridge under construction.
“You know,” Vince said, glancing up at the sky, “they say memory’s like water. Doesn’t matter how much you try to contain it—it finds a way to seep through.”
Stella folded her arms, watching droplets slide from the café’s rusted awning. “Maybe. Or maybe it just teaches you what to let go of.”
He glanced at her, something unreadable in his expression. “Still poetic.”
“Still infuriating,” she shot back.
But this time, they both smiled.
And for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel like a battlefield. It felt like a truce.
Maybe that’s what memory was really for—not just to haunt or to hold, but to soften.
To make space for something else.
Something new.
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