CHAPTER 12: ARGUMENT
1257 Words
The argument doesn’t start with shouting. It starts with silence—the kind that builds slowly, layer by layer, until the air feels thick enough to choke on.
It begins on a Thursday afternoon, two weeks after the Sofia misunderstanding. Everything has been quiet. Too quiet, maybe. We’ve fallen into a rhythm: library after school, roof deck when the weather allows, occasional walks to the gate with hands brushing but not always holding. No big gestures. No public displays. Just us, balancing on the edge of something real without naming it.
I like the quiet. I thought he did too.
That Thursday, we’re in the library—usual table, usual window, usual two chairs pulled close enough that our elbows touch when we reach for the same reference book. We’re working on college entrance essay outlines. Not for the same schools—mine is UP Diliman, his is Ateneo—but we’re helping each other brainstorm. Or we were.
I’m reading my draft out loud. Quiet voice. Careful words. It’s about chasing something intangible—rankings, excellence, the feeling of being enough. Halfway through the second paragraph, I pause.
He hasn’t said anything in ten minutes.
I look up.
He’s staring at his own notebook. Pen tapping once. Twice. Then still.
“You okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up right away. When he does, his eyes are steady but distant.
“Your essay,” he says. “It’s still about rankings.”
I blink. “Yeah. That’s the prompt. Reflect on a challenge that shaped you.”
He nods once. Slow.
“But it’s still about first place. About closing the gap. About beating someone.”
I feel the words land like small stones in still water.
“I’m writing what I know,” I say carefully.
“You know more now.”
I set my pen down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He exhales. Short. Controlled.
“It means you’re first now. You got there. And your essay is still written like you’re third. Like you’re still chasing. Like nothing changed.”
I feel heat rise in my chest. Not anger yet. Just surprise.
“Everything changed,” I say. “I’m writing about the chase because that’s what shaped me. The years of being close but not close enough. The nights I stayed up because I couldn’t stand being second.”
He looks at me. Really looks.
“And now you’re first. So what’s next? Second place again? Or someone else’s first?”
The question hangs there. Sharp.
I feel my throat tighten.
“You think I’m still competing with you?”
“I think you’re still competing with the idea of me. The version that was untouchable. The one who never smiled. The one who didn’t need anyone.”
I stare at him.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
I push my chair back. The legs scrape loud against the floor. A few heads turn. I lower my voice.
“I stopped chasing rankings the day I realized the gap wasn’t just numbers. It was you. And I crossed it. Not to win. To reach you.”
He doesn’t flinch. But his jaw tightens.
“Then why does your essay still read like you’re proving something to the old version of me?”
“Because that version shaped me. You shaped me. The competition. The waiting. The noticing. All of it.”
He leans forward. Voice low.
“I don’t want to be the thing you have to overcome anymore. I want to be the thing you choose. Not because you beat me. Because you want me.”
I feel tears prick. Hot. Sudden.
“I do choose you. Every day. Every time I don’t run. Every time I stay.”
“Then write about that,” he says. “Not the chase. The staying.”
Silence stretches. Thick. Heavy.
I stand. Gather my things.
“I need air.”
He doesn’t stop me.
I walk out. Fast. Through the library doors. Down the corridor. Out to the courtyard. The air is humid—rain coming again. I find the old bench under the acacia tree. Sit. Hug my knees.
My phone buzzes.
Andra.
You okay? Saw you leave library fast.
I don’t reply.
Another buzz.
Reagan.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push.
I stare at the message.
Then type.
I know. But you did.
Three dots.
Then:
Can we talk? Roof deck?
I hesitate.
Then:
Not today.
I turn the phone off.
The rest of the afternoon is quiet. I go home early. Lie in bed. Stare at the ceiling fan.
Mom knocks once. “Dinner?”
“Not hungry.”
She doesn’t push.
Night falls. Rain starts. Soft at first. Then hard.
My phone lights up again. I turn it on.
Reagan.
I’m outside.
I sit up fast.
What?
Your gate. I walked.
In the rain?
Yes.
I stand. Pull on a hoodie. Run downstairs. Mom is in the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“Just… air.”
She looks at the window. Rain pounding.
“Be careful.”
I open the gate.
He’s there.
Soaked. Hair plastered to his forehead. Shirt clinging. No umbrella. No jacket.
He looks at me.
“I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”
I step under the small roof overhang. He stays in the rain.
“Come inside,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Not until we talk.”
Water drips from his hair. Runs down his face.
I feel my throat close.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For pushing about the essay. For making it sound like your past doesn’t matter. It does. It made you who you are. And I like who you are.”
I swallow.
“But I got scared too,” he continues. “Scared that you’ll always see me as the top rank. The one to beat. Not the one to stay with.”
I step out into the rain. Let it soak me.
“You’re both,” I say. “The top rank. And the one I stay with. That’s not changing.”
He looks at me. Rain in his lashes.
“Then why did you avoid me?”
“Because hearing you say that hurt. Made me think maybe I’m still third in your eyes too. Still chasing. Still not enough.”
He steps closer. Rain pouring between us.
“You’re enough. You’ve always been enough. I just… I want you to see that. Without the rankings. Without the gap.”
I reach for him. Fingers brush his wet sleeve.
“I see it,” I whisper. “I see you.”
He pulls me in. Arms around me. Tight. Rain soaking us both.
We stand like that. In the downpour. At my gate. No words.
Just holding.
After a long time, he pulls back. Cups my face.
“No more avoiding.”
“No more pushing.”
He nods.
We kiss in the rain. Slow. Wet. Real.
When we separate, he smiles—small, real, only for me.
“Inside?” he asks.
I nod.
We go in. Dripping. Laughing softly.
Mom sees us. Raises an eyebrow.
“Dry clothes,” she says. “Both of you.”
Reagan looks sheepish. “Yes, ma’am.”
We change. Sit in the living room. Towels around our shoulders. Hot tea.
Mom leaves us alone.
We talk. Really talk. About the essay. About fear. About staying.
No more silence.
No more distance.
Just us.
Soaked. Shaken. Stronger.
- Writer
