Rafi — The Call from Jakarta
The video call connected on its third chime. His brother Hanif's face filled the screen, sharp against the polished wood panels of the Jakarta palace.
"Rafi," Hanif said, voice clipped. "Mother is worried. The majlis is next month. You cannot avoid it again."
Rafi leaned back in his Manila condo, beads coiled in his fingers. "I told her—the mosque here needs me. The community work—"
"The mosque," Hanif cut in. "You've made it an excuse. You were not sent abroad to sweep courtyards. You were sent to prepare. You are a prince, not personnel."
Rafi's jaw clenched. He had heard this sermon his entire life.
Hanif sighed, adjusting his cuff. "They will ask about alliances again. About ministers' daughters. You cannot hide in Parañaque forever."
"I'm not hiding," Rafi said quietly. "I'm working."
When the call ended, his reflection lingered on the black screen. Child of the palace, mosque volunteer, runaway heir—all true, none fitting.
He opened his closet and reached for the dark suit he had packed months ago and never touched. Mayor Bernabe's office had invited him tonight as a "community representative." A banquet hall, speeches, formality. The kind of event Hanif would approve of.
As he buttoned the crisp white shirt and tightened the tie, he felt heavier, not lighter. If I were honest with Sheryl, he thought, this is closer to who I am than the broom. But she would only see another lie.
He polished his shoes, whispered a prayer, and left.
Sheryl — The Mirror and the Bombshell
Sheryl adjusted the folds of her blue silk dress, eyeing the cut in front where the fabric seemed to have been slashed open and filled with a panel of white silk. The silk shimmered faintly, elegant in a way she didn't feel. She twisted before the cracked mirror, unsettled by the open back that bared skin she normally hid beneath cotton.
Her mother entered with laundry, stopped, and smiled. "Ang ganda talaga ng anak ko", her mother said . You remind me of your father when he wore his Knights of Columbus sash—Vice President of the chapter, always dignified. I'm proud of you."
The warmth bloomed briefly.
Then her mother added, too casually: "By the way, Sharon is seeing someone. A high school boy. Can you imagine?"
The warmth died.
Sheryl pressed her lips together, staring at her reflection. Blue silk or not, she still looked like the girl cleaning up after everyone else's foolishness.
The Cultural Night
The city gymnasium buzzed with drums and lights. Students in barong and saya waited their turn, officials shook hands, the mayor grinned at every camera.
Sheryl worked backstage until one of her Grade 9 boys turned pale and vomited into a bag. She soothed him, fetched water, called his mother, and waited until he was safely led away. By the time she exhaled, the applause for tinikling had already rolled over the hall.
Hungry, drained, she slipped to the snack table. Trays of puto, lumpia, pancit, menudo, and ofocurse rice beckoned. She reached for a plate—another hand brushed hers.
She looked up.
"Sheryl?"
"Rafi?"
The world dimmed.
No one else noticed—teachers were fussing over costumes, the mayor was mid-speech. But she noticed him.
The dark suit, perfectly cut. The white shirt, sharp and pressed. Shoes polished, a discreet watch glinting on his wrist. He looked like he belonged here, and not just as a guest. He looked practiced in belonging.
Her mind did its cruel arithmetic: That suit could cover my electric bill twice over. Those shoes—three months of Savier's allowance. Mosque personnel? Hardly. Maybe he makes more than me. Maybe triple.
And yet she felt her smile rising unbidden, as fragile as silk.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, too sharp.
He lifted his plate, sheepish. "Community guest. Just helping. And eating."
She laughed before she could stop herself. Relief tasted dangerous.
"And you?" he asked.
"Teacher duty. Student emergency backstage. This is my prize." She gestured at the lumpia.
They stood shoulder to shoulder. For a heartbeat, she forgot Sharon's mess, her father's absence, the weight of bills. She was just a woman, and he was just a man, and the air between them hummed.
The Balcony
Rafi's gaze drifted toward a side door ajar. Beyond it, a narrow balcony overlooked the street. "Do you need air?" he asked.
She hesitated, then nodded.
The city sprawled below, puddles catching the orange glow of lamps, traffic inching slow under drizzle. Behind them, the hall thudded with drums and speeches. Out here, it was only rain and quiet.
They stood at the railing, the chill seeping into her palms. His sleeve brushed her bare elbow where silk ended, and her skin betrayed her by noticing.
She turned, and his eyes were already on her—steady, unflinching, as though memorizing. She realized she was doing the same.
Not a date. Not a confession. Just silence that pulsed like it meant more than it should.
She looked away first, breath catching. "I should go check on my students."
"Yes," he said softly, though he didn't move. "But… thank you. For sharing the air."
She nodded, heart rattling, and they stepped back inside as if nothing had happened.
Sheryl's Introspection
On the jeepney ride home, she hugged her bag, the silk folded inside. She replayed his smile at the snack table, the silence on the balcony, the way the city lights had reflected in his eyes.
This isn't love, maybe a crush? she scolded herself. It's hunger disguised as happiness. I have debts, siblings, responsibilities. I don't have the luxury for giddiness.
Yet her chest betrayed her with warmth. Happiness is expensive, she thought bitterly. Maybe that's why I've avoided it.
Rafi's Introspection
In his condo, he draped the suit carefully over a chair. He should have been proud of representing his community tonight. Instead, he couldn't stop seeing the blue silk, the bare line of her back in the drizzle.
Desire and reverence knotted together until he clenched his fists. He wanted her with respect, and he wanted her with heat, and both at once unsettled him.
On his prayer mat, forehead to the floor, he whispered: "Forgive me for the fire You placed in me. Forgive me if awe and want refuse to part."
But when he stood, he knew the truth: distance would be wiser, yet her laughter and the shimmer of silk had already closed that gap.