The Lost Purse
Sharon came home past eleven, cheeks flushed from a night with friends on 14th Street. "Susan, come with me," she ordered, kicking her slippers off.
Susan looked up from her notebook, hair tucked like curtains across her face. "Why?"
"My purse. Left it at Conan's place. If I go alone, Ma will skin me alive. You're the good one, come."
Reluctant but dutiful, Susan followed. The streets shimmered with karaoke and fried oil, laughter spilling from corners. At Conan's, the purse sat waiting on a couch like it had known Sharon would return.
"See? Easy," Sharon declared, triumphant.
But Conan himself appeared from the back, beer in hand, eyes catching on Susan as if she'd stepped out of a different story.
"Hi," he said carefully. "Sorry if this is creepy. I just wanted to say—you're very beautiful."
Susan blinked, startled, and because she was polite above all else, she answered softly: "Hello."
Sharon rolled her eyes and tugged her sister's arm. "We're going. Bye, Conan."
They walked home quickly, Sharon grumbling, Susan silent, cheeks warm under the streetlamps.
The Next Day
Sunday brought Conan to their door, Sharon in tow. He cleared his throat: Good Evening po Aling Aida, Ma'am Sheryl" , pwede po ba makausap si Susan? Sharon beside him was trying not to laugh to loud. She cannot comprehend why Conan likes her sister but she's ok with that, no biggie. She can tease Susan until the day they die.
Susan was walking toward the kitchen when she caught a glimpse through the thin curtain over their front yard: Sharon, standing with a man. Even at a distance, Susan's stomach tightened.
Her pulse said NO,NO, NO. I am not into boys ladies and gentlemen..jeeezzz louise. Before her sister could call her, she slipped under their dining table—a real Lazy Susan type, the kind with the spinning tray in the middle, bought secondhand from a Chinese restaurant years ago.
From there, crouched between chair legs, she listened to muffled voices. Sharon's laugh. Conan's awkward tone, asking permission from their mother to court her.
Susan pressed her back against the table's thick leg, praying the tray wouldn't spin and give her away. She stayed there, breath held, until at last Sharon shooed him off.
Only then did Susan crawl out, pale and angry. "Never again," she muttered.
When he left, Susan emerged, face pale, muttering, "Never again." Sharon laughed until her mother snapped at both of them for making the neighbors talk. Sheryl, watching, understood: her quiet sister's world was built on privacy, and Conan had stepped in like a hammer.
Sheryl's Day
That evening, Sheryl gathered bills on the table. Her mother sat with her Practical Nursing modules, rehearsing blood-pressure readings, whispering pulse rates into the air. "When I finish," her mother said, "I'll apply for the nurse post at your school. Half the tuition, half the sleep, but worth it."
Sheryl kissed her cheek, proud and guilty at once. She wanted her mother to rest, not start again.
Sharon breezed in from another shift, uniform glittery with fast-food grease. "Kids are loud, parents worse," she sighed, dropping her bag. "But tips are tips."
Sheryl swallowed irritation. Susan stayed in her room, headphones on, as if the world had locked her door from the outside.
Messages in the Quiet
Later, while washing dishes, Sheryl's phone buzzed.
Rafi:
Good evening. Did you survive your week?
Sheryl:
Barely. My students think Rizal wrote Noli Me Tangere in English.
Rafi:
Then they are creative. Wrong, but creative.
She laughed, drying her hands.
They traded small stories: him about sweeping the mosque courtyard after prayers, her about correcting essays with missing dates.
Sheryl:
Do you ever get tired of it?
Rafi:
Tired, yes. But peace comes after. I stand outside the mosque at night and breathe. Do you have a place like that?
Sheryl thought of the faculty room printer that only worked if you slapped it. Not peaceful. "No," she typed. "But maybe I should find one."
A Glimpse of Affection
Rafi:
Last Saturday, I thought I saw you. At the BF Homes jeepney terminal. You had papers in your arms.
Sheryl raised an eyebrow, smiling.
Sheryl:
That was me. You should've said hi. Teachers don't bite.
Rafi:
I wasn't sure. Next time, I will.
Her chest warmed at the thought. Next time.
Sheryl's Introspection
But when the house quieted, doubts returned like unpaid debts. Lying in bed, she whispered to herself:
This will not pan out. One—I'm Catholic, he's Muslim. Two—Mama will kill me if I fall in love with another Bisaya, not after Papa's secret in Las Piñas. Three—it's all wrong. I have bills, debts, siblings to raise. What can a mosque personnel earn? Like an altar boy's allowance? How do you build a life on that?
Bitterness turned into a joke she said out loud, soft in the dark:
"What I need is an MMMM—Matandang, Mayamang, Madaling Mamatay."
She laughed at herself, but the laugh hurt. It was armor, and armor was heavy.
Rafi's Introspection
Across the city, Rafi sat by his window, the night air tugging at his prayer beads. He remembered her laugh in their texts and thought of telling her the truth: that he wasn't just mosque personnel, but a prince with obligations waiting in Jakarta.
But he didn't.
She deserves someone simple, someone honest, he told himself. Not a man with palaces behind him.
He prayed for clarity, but part of him knew clarity would not mean peace.
And so the night stretched between Parañaque and BF Homes—two people who told themselves it couldn't work, even as they texted each other into sleep.