The Gap Between Us

CHAPTER 1: GLIMPSE

The ranking board is posted at exactly 7:15 a.m. on the third-floor corridor of St. Augustine Academy. I arrive at 7:23, when the initial rush has already thinned into scattered footsteps and forced indifference. Most students pretend the numbers don’t matter; the ones still lingering pretend they’re just passing by. I’m not pretending.

I stand three full steps back from the glass case. Far enough that no one behind me can study my expression while I study the columns. My breathing stays even—I’ve practiced that part for years.

I scan from the bottom up. Old habit.

Names and scores blur past like background noise until the top three lines come into focus.

Verano, Zhyra – 96.84

Third.

Again.

The number sits there, clean and unapologetic. Third place. Podium, but never the center spot. Close enough to feel the heat of first place, far enough that it still stings every single time I look at it. I’ve been here before—third last month, third the month before that, third for most of the last three semesters. It’s familiar. It’s safe. It’s also starting to feel like a cage.

Above my name:

Nakamura, Hiro – 97.92

Ty, Reagan Matthew – 98.41

Reagan is first.

Not Hiro.

Reagan.

A small gold crown symbol sits next to his name this month, the kind the registrar uses to mark the undisputed top. Hiro’s name is second for the first time in almost a full year. The shift is quiet, but it lands like a stone dropped in still water. Ripples spread whether anyone acknowledges them or not.

Reagan’s photograph is the same one they’ve used since freshman orientation: black hair cut so sharp the edges look machined, tie knotted with geometric precision, eyes aimed directly at the camera like he’s calculating how many seconds he has to tolerate the flash. No smile. No tilt of the head. No warmth. Just presence—cold, expensive, and completely unbothered.

Hiro’s photo is the opposite. Easy half-smile, head angled just enough to look approachable, eyes creased at the corners like he’s already decided the camera is a friend. Everyone likes looking at Hiro’s picture. Teachers quote him in class. Juniors ask for his notes. Even the cafeteria ladies slip him extra mango slices when he orders halo-halo. He’s the kind of smart that makes people feel included.

Reagan doesn’t get extra anything. He doesn’t ask. He simply exists at the top—finishing exams early, correcting teachers in that low, precise voice without ever sounding smug, walking the halls like the leaderboard is just irrelevant background noise. No one has ever seen him celebrate a win. No one has ever seen him look disappointed. He just… is.

And now the crown is his again.

I stare at his name longer than I mean to. The hallway noise fades a little. Andra finds me before I can pull my eyes away.

She slides up beside me, braid swinging, faint scent of vanilla lip balm she always over-applies.

“Third ulit. Pero top three pa rin naman, girl.”

“Top three is the seat right next to the winner,” I say quietly. “You just watch them take the medal.”

She follows my gaze. “Kinuha ulit ni Matt.”

“Yeah.”

She lets out a small whistle. “Hiro’s gonna be dramatic for like five minutes, then laugh it off and buy everyone milk tea after class.”

“Probably.”

We both look back at Reagan’s line.

He’s always been up there—at or near the very top, always the name people whisper about when they think no one’s listening. His scores don’t slip. Not during midterms when half the grade panics. Not during hell week when sleep becomes optional. Not even last February, when that surprise calculus quiz wrecked almost everyone’s averages. Reagan stayed above 98 while the rest of us fell. I’ve seen him finish problem sets in half the time anyone else needs. I’ve seen him correct Mrs. Delgado on a Kant interpretation—quietly, politely, but correctly—without a trace of arrogance. I’ve seen him walk out of exams ten minutes early, bag already slung over one shoulder, like the test was just paperwork he had to sign and file.

He never looks pleased about it.

Never looks relieved.

Never looks tired.

Just… done.

And now he’s first again.

Andra nudges my elbow. “Okay ka lang?”

“I’m fine.”

“That quiet-staring thing mo na naman.”

“Just thinking.”

“About beating him?”

“About closing the gap.”

She grins, the kind that usually pulls me out of my head. “That’s my girl. Competitive.”

I don’t smile back. My eyes stay on the board.

The distance isn’t small anymore. Not to me. I’ve spent too many nights with flashcards spread across my bed, too many mornings waking up with equations still running behind my eyelids, too many times telling myself one more chapter, one more problem, one more proof. And still, he’s there. Untouched. Untouchable.

Reagan doesn’t look like someone who stays up until dawn grinding through past papers. He looks like someone who understands the material so completely that the rest is just execution. That’s what stings the most. It’s not that he works harder. It’s that he doesn’t seem to need to.

The warning bell rings—two sharp tones that bounce off the lockers. Andra hooks her arm through mine and starts pulling me toward homeroom.

“Tara na. You can plot world domination after attendance.”

I let her drag me, but I glance back once before we turn the corner.

Reagan at the top.

Crown beside his name.

Hiro second.

Me third.

I keep walking.

The rest of the morning passes in fragments. Roll call. Reminders about upcoming intramurals. Andra doodling tiny cats wearing mini-crowns in the margins of her planner. I take notes in the lighter handwriting I’ve developed since summer—cleaner loops, softer pressure on the pen. I don’t grip as hard anymore. It feels like breathing with more room.

At lunch we sit by the windows with the usual group. The canteen is loud—trays clattering, laughter spiking over the chatter, someone yelling about spilled juice. I eat slowly, eyes drifting to the entrance every few minutes without meaning to.

12:14. Hiro walks in with the debate team trailing behind him. He’s laughing at something someone said, head tilted back, left dimple flashing for exactly 0.7 seconds into the genuine smile. I’ve timed it once. He spots our table, waves, throws that bright, easy smile that makes half the room smile back on reflex.

I nod. Small. Polite. The usual flutter in my chest—familiar, safe, harmless.

Then Reagan enters.

Alone.

He doesn’t scan the room for friends. Doesn’t search for a table. Straight to the line, picks the same grilled chicken and brown rice he always gets, pays with a black card that probably has no visible limit, then heads to the corner table by the emergency exit—the one no one else sits at because it’s too close to the kitchen noise and smells faintly of frying oil.

He sits facing the wall, opens a textbook, eats while he reads.

No phone.

No conversation.

Just focus.

I watch him for maybe seven seconds longer than I should.

Andra kicks my shin lightly under the table. “nakatitig ka na naman.”

“Observing.”

“Sure.”

I look away.

But the image lingers: Reagan alone in the corner, book open, fork moving mechanically, completely unbothered by the chaos around him. He’s first again. And it looks like nothing to him. Like first place is just his default state. Like the rest of us are still trying to reach a place he’s already living in.

I stab a piece of chicken.

I’m not angry.

Not jealous—not exactly.

Curious.

Because if someone can hold the top for so long without looking like they’re straining, without looking tired, without looking satisfied—

maybe the top isn’t as distant as it feels.

Maybe I just need to see it more clearly.

Maybe the boy who never smiles is the

only one who truly knows the way up.

I finish lunch slowly. The bell rings for fifth period.

Advanced Calculus.

Reagan’s class.

I gather my things. Stand up. Walk a little faster than usual toward the math wing.

Not because I’m late.

Because I want to see what the top looks like when you’re finally standing close enough to feel the gap.

The classroom is already half-full when I arrive. I take my usual seat near the window—third row, left side, good light, good view of the board. Andra slides in beside me, dropping her bag with a dramatic sigh.

“Ready to suffer through derivatives again?”

“Always.”

She leans closer, voice low. “You’ve been weird since the board.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

I don’t answer. My eyes drift to the door.

Reagan walks in last, two minutes before the bell. He doesn’t look at anyone. Just walks to the back row, center seat—the one no one else takes because it’s directly under the aircon vent and gets cold. He drops his bag, pulls out his notebook, opens it to a fresh page. The lines he draws with his mechanical pencil are perfectly straight, no ruler needed.

Mr. Santos starts the lesson without preamble. Limits. Continuity. The usual warm-up.

I take notes. Clean. Focused. But every few minutes my gaze flicks to the back.

Reagan isn’t writing much. He’s listening. When Mr. Santos calls on someone for the chain rule example, the answer is half-right. Reagan doesn’t raise his hand. He just waits.

Mr. Santos notices. “Mr. Ty?”

Reagan speaks without standing. Low. Calm. “The derivative of the inner function should be multiplied before the outer. It’s cos(3x) times three, not just cos(3x).”

The room quiets for half a second. Mr. Santos nods once. “Correct. Thank you.”

No smugness. No triumph. Just fact.

I feel something tighten in my chest. Not irritation. Not admiration. Something in between.

The lesson drags on. I solve the problems on my own paper. My answers match the board. Clean. Accurate.

When the bell rings, everyone packs up fast.

Andra stands, stretching. “Library later? I need to finish that history essay.”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you there.”

She leaves with the crowd.

I stay a moment longer, organizing my notes. Reagan stands too, slings his bag over one shoulder, starts toward the door.

Our paths cross near the front.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look at me directly.

But as he passes, his voice—quiet, almost casual—cuts through the noise of shuffling feet.

“Your handwriting changed.”

I freeze.

He keeps walking.

I turn. “What?”

He pauses at the door, half-turns. Eyes meet mine for the first time today. Steady. Unreadable.

“Less pressure on the pen. You press lighter now. Calmer.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just nods once—small, almost imperceptible—and leaves.

The classroom empties.

I stand there, notebook still in my hands, heart beating a little too fast.

Calmer.

He noticed.

I didn’t even notice myself.

I exhale slowly. Pack my things. Head to the library.

The gap is still there.

But for the first time, it feels like someone on the other side might have looked back.