CHAPTER 16: STUDY
995 Words
The first time I step into Reagan’s room feels like crossing a line I didn’t know existed.
It’s a Thursday evening, two days before the college entrance exams. UP Diliman and Ateneo both have their tests on the same weekend—Saturday for UP, Sunday for Ateneo. We’ve been reviewing separately for weeks, but tonight he texts me after dinner.
My room. 7 pm. Bring your reviewers. I’ll help with math.
No emojis. No “please.” Just him.
I stare at the message for a full minute. My parents are out—Mom at a PTA meeting, Dad at a barangay assembly. The house is quiet except for the fan spinning above my bed.
I change into something simple—white t-shirt, denim shorts, hair in a loose ponytail. Pack my bag: math reviewer, calculus notes, past exam papers, extra pens, water bottle. I tell the house helper I’m going to Andra’s for a study group. She nods. Doesn’t question.
The tricycle ride to his subdivision takes twenty minutes. The driver knows me now—waves when I get off. I walk the last block alone. Big houses. Gated. Palm trees. Quiet streets lit by yellow lamps.
His gate is open.
I step in. The front door is ajar. I knock lightly.
“Come in,” his voice calls from inside.
I push the door. The living room is empty. Lights low. Aircon humming.
“Upstairs,” he says. “Second door on the right.”
I climb the stairs. Heart beating a little faster than it should.
His room door is open.
I stop in the doorway.
It’s not what I expected.
Not the cold, minimalist space I imagined for someone like him. The walls are light gray. A big window overlooks the garden—curtains half-drawn. Desk against one wall, piled with books and a laptop. Bookshelves full—physics textbooks, novels, a few old manga volumes. Bed neatly made. Dark blue sheets. A single framed photo on the nightstand—him as a kid, maybe eight, holding a basketball, grinning wide. First time I’ve seen him smile like that.
He’s sitting at the desk. Gray hoodie. Black shorts. Hair slightly messy. No uniform. No armor.
He looks up.
“Hi,” he says. Soft.
“Hi.”
He stands. Walks over. Takes my bag. Sets it on the chair.
“Come in.”
I step inside. Close the door behind me. Click.
The room smells like him—clean laundry, faint cologne, paper and ink.
He gestures to the bed. “Sit wherever. Floor’s fine too. I have cushions.”
I choose the bed. Sit on the edge. Legs crossed.
He sits on the floor across from me. Back against the bed frame. Our knees almost touch.
“Math first?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
We open our reviewers. Spread papers on the floor between us.
He starts with calculus—limits, derivatives, integrals. Things we’ve both mastered, but the exam questions are trickier. He explains a problem I got wrong last practice test. Patient. No judgment.
I listen. Nod. Take notes.
Half an hour in, he pauses.
“You’re tense,” he says.
I look up. “Am I?”
“Your shoulders. Your grip on the pen.”
I loosen my fingers. Didn’t realize I was holding tight.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just breathe.”
I do. Slow inhale. Exhale.
He watches me. “Better?”
“Yeah.”
We continue.
Another hour passes. We move to physics—electromagnetism, optics. He’s better at circuits. I’m better at waves.
We argue quietly over one problem.
“You forgot the phase shift,” I say.
“No. It cancels out.”
“It doesn’t. Look.”
I lean over. Point to the equation.
Our heads close. Hair brushes his cheek.
He looks at the paper. Then at me.
“You’re right.”
I smile. Small.
He smiles back. Real.
We keep going.
At 9:30, he closes his book.
“Break?”
I nod.
He stands. Offers his hand.
I take it.
He pulls me up. We sit on the bed side by side. Shoulders touching.
He reaches for a drawer. Pulls out a small box—chocolate-covered almonds.
“Mom bought these. Said they help with focus.”
I take one. Pop it in my mouth. Sweet. Crunchy.
“Good,” I say.
He eats one too.
We sit in silence for a while. Just breathing. Just being.
Then he says, “You’re going to do great.”
“So are you.”
He looks at me. “I’m not worried about me.”
I tilt my head. “Worried about me?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Because you push too hard sometimes. Forget to rest. Forget you’re already enough.”
I feel my throat tighten. Good tight.
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know.”
He leans in. Kisses me softly. Once. Twice.
We kiss slow. Hands gentle. His on my waist. Mine on his neck.
No rush.
No pressure.
Just us.
In his room.
On his bed.
Kissing.
When we pull apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too.”
We go back to studying.
But now my head is on his shoulder sometimes. His arm around me sometimes.
We finish at 11:30.
He walks me downstairs.
His parents are asleep.
At the door, he kisses me goodbye.
“Tomorrow?” he asks.
“Tomorrow.”
He waits until I’m in the tricycle.
I look back.
He’s in the doorway. Light behind him.
Smiling.
I smile too.
The ride home is quiet.
Rain starts again. Soft.
I lean against the window.
Penguin plush from the arcade on my lap.
Photos in my pocket.
His kiss on my lips.
Exams tomorrow.
But tonight?
Tonight was perfect.
His room.
His books.
His chocolate.
His love.
Enough.
More than enough.
- Writer
