Bylines & Heartlines

“Lead pa lang, kulang na agad sa laman.” Aira Ignacio tapped her red pen on the edge of the paper, staring down at the article like it had personally offended her. Nakaupo siya sa pinakadulo ng newsroom, sa spot na palaging amoy toner at luma nang papel. Around her, the air buzzed with low chatter and the occasional clack of worn-out keyboards, but in her corner, it was all precision and pressure. “Wala kang quote mula sa scholars mismo. Puro summary ng announcement. Ano ’to, memo?” she added, eyes fixed on the junior writer in front of her. “Sorry, Aira,” the girl mumbled, hugging her notebook. “Akala ko po—” “Don’t assume,” Aira cut in. “Ask. That’s what journalists do. Go back, interview at least two students affected. Real names. Real voices. Okay?” The girl nodded and walked off, face flushed with embarrassment. Aira took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Hindi niya ugaling manigaw o manglait, pero wala siyang pasensiya sa half-baked journalism. Not when the student body relied on The Sentinel to tell them what no one else would. She glanced at the whiteboard beside her: LAYOUT DEADLINE: THURSDAY, 7PM TUITION POLICY FORUM – FRI, 3PM, ADM AUDI PRESS PASS CLAIMING – OSA, WED PM Sa gitna ng lahat ng ‘yan, may isang name na halos gusto niyang burahin. ELIJAH. Underlined. Twice. As if summoned by the spite of her own handwriting, the newsroom door creaked open. And there he was. Elijah Reyes. Late. Again. Holding a disposable coffee cup and radiating the same brand of quiet arrogance that somehow made half of the publication staff adore him and the other half—namely Aira—want to commit minor crimes. “Tamang tama,” Elijah said, taking a casual sip. “Namiss niyo ba ako?” “Late ka na naman,” someone muttered. “Fifteen minutes,” Aira replied flatly without even looking at him. “That’s not late. That’s disrespect. Ano ’to, fashionably late or chronically arrogant?” Elijah grinned, the kind of grin that made people swoon and Aira scowl. “Good afternoon din, Ignacio,” he said, placing his drink right next to the sacred pile of edited drafts. “Namiss mo agad ako?” “Actually, hindi,” sagot niya, hindi man lang tumingin. “Pero namiss ng ethics mo ang call time natin.” Before he could retort, dumating si Ma'am Laurel, their publication adviser. Sharp heels, sharper eyes. She scanned the room, then settled her gaze on the two of them. Before she could say anything sharper, Ma’am Laurel entered the room, holding her clipboard like it contained the fate of their futures. Her heels clicked with finality as she made her way to the center of the room. “Ignacio. Reyes. Sa labas,” she said. “Now.” Aira’s stomach dropped. They followed her out into the hallway. The buzz of the newsroom dulled behind the glass door as Ma’am Laurel turned to face them with the exhaustion of someone who had dealt with one too many teenage egos. “May story kayong kukunin,” she began. “Breaking. Potential front page.” Aira straightened. Elijah perked up. “Bukas, ADM Auditorium. Forum tungkol sa tuition transparency. For the first time, ilalabas ng finance office ang breakdown ng student fees. May mga alumni, admin, OSA heads, and student council reps na invited. At may nag-leak sa ‘kin na may protest daw sa labas.” That got Aira’s full attention. “Gusto ko ng in-depth coverage. Hindi lang event summary. Gusto ko ng context. Perspective. Pressure points. Ang angle na hindi makikita sa sss post ng university. And for that,” Ma’am Laurel paused, “kailangan ko kayong dalawa. Together.” “Joint byline?” Elijah asked, lifting a brow. “Yes,” Ma’am Laurel said without flinching. “Joint byline. Joint responsibility. Gusto ko ng matino, transparent, at hindi bias na article.” “Pwede namang ako na lang, Ma’am,” Aira offered. “No offense, pero—” “Too late,” Elijah cut in, smiling. “Offense taken.” ““But he’s—” Aira tried. “—qualified,” Laurel replied. “Both of you are. This isn’t about personal comfort. It’s about the story.” Laurel continued. “Ignacio and Reyes, kayo ang dalawang pinakamagaling dito. Magkaiba kayo ng estilo, pero pareho kayong matalim. You balance each other out. Now do your job.” End of discussion. Aira swallowed her protest, jaw clenched. She could already feel the headache forming. The moment they were back inside the newsroom, Elijah plopped into the seat across from her. “So. When do we start?” “We don’t,” Aira replied, eyes on her laptop screen. “We divide. I’ll take the financial breakdown and talk to OSA.” “And I take the student council and protest angle?” he asked, casually. “Exactly.” “Okay,” he said slowly. “But eventually, we’ll need to merge it into one article.” “I’ll write the final draft,” Aira said. “You send me your notes. I’ll handle the narrative structure.” Elijah laughed—low, warm, irritating. “You’re cute when you pretend to be in charge.” Aira looked up, eyes cold. “And you’re exhausting when you pretend to be useful.” He leaned forward, hands clasped. “You know what I think? This’ll be good for us.” “We are not an ‘us.” “Not yet,” he said with a wink. Aira stood, collected her notes, and gave him a look that could freeze ink. “I’m here to write the truth, not entertain your fantasies.” “Not fantasies,” he said, pointing to himself. “Reality.” She scoffed and walked past him, deliberately brushing her shoulder against his arm, not out of affection but to make it clear: You are in my way.