Jay-Jay's POV
The office was unusually quiet that morning. The hum of the city below barely penetrated the polished glass walls of SE Tower. I sat at my desk, fingers lightly tapping the edge, staring at the skyline as though it might give me answers I didn't yet know I needed. The meeting with Keifer had ended two days ago, and yet its weight lingered like a shadow I couldn't shake.
I had thrown myself into work since then — analyzing projections, reviewing reports, strategizing expansions — anything to occupy my mind. But every time I closed my eyes, his presence surged back, uninvited yet unavoidable. That look, the subtle intensity behind his eyes, the way he had silently reminded me I wasn't entirely in control anymore.
It wasn't just Keifer. It was everything he represented: a past I had tried to bury under years of discipline, control, and relentless work. A past I had built my life to escape.
I rubbed my temples and leaned back in my chair. Despite Coel and Samy's quiet presence nearby, the office felt emptier than usual. I could sense their curiosity, their unspoken concern, but they knew better than to press. Some things were mine alone to face.
And then it hit me — the flashback that had been lurking beneath the surface all morning.
Section E.
The laughter of my classmates, the chaotic corridors, the sunlight filtering through our old classrooms. The memory was sharp, vivid, as though no time had passed at all. I was seventeen again, impulsive, meddling, and always in the middle of someone else's drama.
Yuri teasing me endlessly, his voice always sharp but playful, Keifer quietly observing with that sly, knowing smile that had a way of making my pulse race. Ci-N — always rolling his eyes at my antics, yet never failing to stand by me, even when I pushed everyone else away. My friends — each one distinct, loud, messy, and wonderful — filled every hallway and corner with life.
I could see myself in my old uniform, rushing between classes, juggling homework and social chaos, spilling coffee on someone's notes, defending a friend from a cruel joke. The memory was chaotic, messy, and intoxicating. I laughed aloud, even in my office, despite myself. The sound echoed against the glass walls, surprising Coel and Samy.
Keifer appeared next in the memory — not the cold, polished businessman from New York, but the boy who had quietly stolen my heart without asking. He had this way of standing back, letting me act, but always noticing everything, understanding everything. And yet, even in that past, I had been reckless — teasing him, ignoring boundaries, laughing off warnings, all while he silently claimed me as his own.
Ci-N's laughter rang beside me. He had always been my anchor, though perhaps not always my protector in the ways Keifer had been. And I remembered the sting in his eyes the day I left for New York. He didn't understand why I had to go, why I had to leave, and I hadn't had the words to explain. The memory made my chest ache.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, pressing a hand to my forehead. Section E wasn't just a memory; it was the foundation of everything I had built. The friends I had loved, the heartbreak I had endured, the chaotic joy I had lived through — all of it was woven into me. And somehow, the past had a way of following me, sneaking into my perfectly structured life in New York.
I remembered my eighteenth birthday — the laughter, the friends, the surprise gifts. The ring from Keifer, a small but powerful symbol of his devotion. I remembered the late-night pool party, the gentle teasing, and the first intimate moment we had shared. Even now, years later, that night replayed vividly in my mind, reminding me of both the innocence and intensity of that time.
And then came the pain. The quiet departure to New York. Ci-N's confused eyes the last day I saw him, the tearful goodbyes, and the friends who didn't fully understand my reasons. Leaving had been necessary, but the weight of separation had etched itself into my soul.
I inhaled deeply, trying to ground myself in the present, but the memories were relentless. I thought of Keifer — not the man in the boardroom, not the head of Watson Corp, but the boy who had promised, always promised, "I'll love you till the scientists find the end of the universe." The words had been his shield, his claim, his subtle, unwavering devotion. And now, all these years later, they were more potent than ever.
Coel's calm voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "Jay-Jay… you've been distant all morning. Are you sure you're okay?"
I lifted my head, forcing a smile that felt fragile. "I'm fine, Coel. Just… strategizing for the next quarter."
He didn't press further, and Samy's concerned glance said more than any words could. Their patience, their understanding, reminded me that even in New York, I wasn't alone. I wasn't the girl who had to fight through Section E alone anymore.
Yet the memories refused to release me. I saw Keifer again — teasing, protective, infuriatingly attentive — and felt the old tension that had always existed between us. My chest tightened as I recalled small, perfect details: the way he remembered my coffee preferences, the subtle touches, the quiet assertion that I had never truly belonged to anyone but him.
The flashback expanded further — field trips, hotel rooms, laughter, small arguments, whispered secrets, and tiny, reckless joys. Each memory was a thread, tangled with the next, weaving a tapestry of a past I could never fully escape.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to shut out both past and present, but the memories demanded attention. They reminded me of who I had been, who I had become, and who I still wanted to be. I had survived Section E, survived heartbreak, and now, in New York, I had built an empire. I was no longer just Jay-Jay; I was Jasper Jean Mariano, CEO, leader, protector — but the girl from Section E still lived within me, irrepressible, stubborn, alive.
The phone buzzed. A report from the Asia investors. I glanced at it but didn't read — not yet. I needed a moment, a breath, a reminder that control was mine, even if my heart felt fragile.
The sunlight shifted as if mocking me, highlighting the edges of my empire while illuminating the cracks of memory. I realized then that no matter how perfectly I built my life, the past would always be there, persistent and insistent, demanding recognition.
Coel cleared his throat again, more firmly this time, holding a tablet with the next agenda item. "The investor reports are ready. Should we start reviewing them?"
I nodded, straightening in my chair, allowing the controlled, composed CEO to return. "Yes. Let's begin."
As we delved into numbers, strategies, and projections, the memories softened but did not disappear. I carried them quietly, privately, like treasured scars, reminders of everything I had lost and gained. They had shaped me, hardened me, and yet, left me open in ways I hadn't anticipated.
By midday, I had regained composure. The office buzzed with activity, decisions were made, plans solidified. Still, in a quiet corner of my mind, Section E lived on — vivid, loud, irrepressible, and unforgotten.
I allowed myself a small smile. The past was powerful, persistent, but it did not define me entirely. I was Jay-Jay — extroverted, meddling, passionate, resilient. I had survived, I had thrived, and I would continue to do so.
Shattered stillness, yes. But I was still standing.