The Derivative of Us

The University Library’s 4th floor was affectionately—or perhaps derisively—known as the "Engineering Dungeon." It was a place where the ventilation system hummed with a low-frequency thrum that mimicked a tension headache, and the air held a permanent cocktail of smells: ozone from the overworked photocopiers, the bitter metallic tang of graphite, and the collective, heavy desperation of students surviving on 3-in-1 coffee and sheer spite. ​Haizel adjusted her glasses, the plastic bridge sliding down her nose for the tenth time that hour. Her eyes felt like they had been rubbed with sandpaper. She was staring at her Research Capstone draft, the white screen of her laptop searing its way into her retinas. Being a Grade 12 STEM student in a university-integrated high school was a peculiar kind of purgatory. Technically, she wore the same school colors as the "gods" of the college department, but she felt worlds apart—a mere mortal wandering the halls of Olympus. ​"Calculus is a scam," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. She leaned her forehead against the cold, scarred wood of the library table. The surface was etched with decades of graffiti—everything from 'F=MA is a lie' to 'I hate my life 2014.' Bakit kailangan ko pang i-derive 'to? she wondered. If x approaches infinity, my patience approaches zero. ​She was currently locked in a losing battle with a complex integration problem for her Physics advanced placement class. It was a problem that felt less like education and more like a personal vendetta. Every time she thought she had isolated the variable, every time she felt the rush of a potential solution, the units failed to cancel out. A rogue "meter" would stay hanging, mocking her. It was frustrating, it was exhausting, and in the cavernous silence of the 4th floor, it felt incredibly lonely. ​ ​The silence was shattered by the screech of a heavy wooden chair. It was a sharp, grating sound that set Haizel’s teeth on edge. ​She looked up, a sharp retort sitting on the tip of her tongue, ready to give a dirty look to whoever had dared to disturb her rhythmic suffering. But the words died in her throat, dissolving into a confused hum of adrenaline. ​The guy sitting across from her looked like he had been sculpted out of marble—provided that marble was currently suffering from a severe case of academic burnout. He was draped in a dark grey hoodie, the heavy fabric sporting the weathered gold logo of the Civil Engineering department. A drafting tube was slung over his shoulder like a weapon of war, and he unceremoniously dropped a textbook onto the table that looked thick enough to stop a bullet: Structural Theory. ​He didn't acknowledge her. He didn't even look at her. He simply unfurled a massive roll of blueprints, the thick paper crinkling loudly in the quiet room. Without a word, he began erasing a section of a drawing with such savage intensity it looked like he was trying to scrub a sin away from the parchment. ​Haizel tried to force her gaze back to her notebook. Focus, Haizel. You have a deadline. He’s just a person. A tired, grumpy person. But her eyes were traitorous. They kept drifting upward. He had a jawline that could probably be used to calculate a perfect 45-degree angle, and his fingers—long, slender, but callosed at the tips—held a mechanical pencil with a precision that was almost hypnotic. He wasn't just drawing; he was constructing. ​“Focus, Haizel,” she scolded herself in a tiny, internal voice. “STEM student ka, hindi fangirl. Newton didn't discover gravity by staring at a guy’s side profile.” ​She turned back to her nemesis: int x^2 cos(x) , dx She was hopelessly stuck on the second round of integration by parts. Her brain felt like a gear with a broken tooth—spinning, but never catching. She began tapping her pen rhythmically against the table. ​Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. It was the beat of a pop song she couldn’t remember the name of. ​"Can you stop that?" ​The voice was deep, a resonant baritone that reminded Haizel of the low, dangerous hum of a high-voltage transformer. It was edged with a sharp, jagged irritation. ​Haizel froze, her pen poised mid-air. She looked up, and this time, Morti was looking back. Up close, his eyes were even more intense than she’d realized—dark, ringed with the shadows of sleepless nights, but incredibly sharp, like a pair of dividers. ​"S-sorry," Haizel stammered. Her Tagalog accent, usually clipped and professional, came out thick and clumsy in her nervousness. "Hindi ko napansin. I was just... thinking." ​Morti glanced down at her notebook, his gaze sweeping over her messy scribbles. He let out a small, huffy breath. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it felt like a judgment—a critique of her entire academic existence. ​"You're using the wrong u for your substitution," he said, his voice flat. "Kaya ka umiikot sa circles. You're making the integral harder for yourself with every line you write." ​Haizel felt a flush of heat creep up her neck. Her pride, usually her strongest suit, stung. "I know what I'm doing. I'm following the LIATE rule. Algebraic before Trigonometric." ​"Then you’re applying it wrong," Morti said simply. It wasn't an insult; it was a statement of fact, which somehow made it worse. ​He reached across the table. It was a sudden, invading movement. Before she could protest, he took the pen right out of her hand. His fingers momentarily brushed against hers—a brief, accidental contact that sent a jolt like a static discharge through her arm. ​He pulled her scratch paper toward him and scribbled a single, elegant line of math. ​"Let u = x^2 and dv = cos(x) dx. Do it twice. Don't overcomplicate the constants yet. Algebra na lang 'yan, wag mo nang gawing drama." ​He handed the pen back, the plastic still warm from his grip. His gaze lingered on her face for a micro-second longer than necessary—long enough for Haizel to notice a small scar near his eyebrow—before he returned to his blueprints as if she had ceased to exist. ​"I'm Haizel," she said, her heart doing a weird, non-linear acceleration that definitely wasn't in the curriculum. ​"I didn't ask," he replied. His tone was still cold, but it had softened, losing the jagged edge of his initial annoyance. "But since you're taking up space in the CE section... I'm Morti. 4th year. And if you’re going to stay here, make sure your 'constant' doesn't include noise. I have a plate due in four hours that determines if I graduate or die." ​Haizel looked down at the paper. His handwriting was terrifyingly perfect—clean, architectural, and slanted at a precise angle. It was the handwriting of someone who didn't allow for errors. She looked back at him, the grumpy, exhausted Engineering student who had just dismantled her problem in five seconds. ​"Salamat, Kuya Morti," she teased, her courage returning in a sudden, mischievous spark. She wanted to see if she could break that stoic, marble-like exterior. ​He winced at the "Kuya," the corner of his eye twitching. One side of his mouth quirked up—not a smile, but a sign of life, like a c***k in a dam. "Don't call me Kuya. It makes me feel older than I already feel. Just... finish your work, STEM girl." ​Haizel turned back to her notebook. As she began solving the problem using his logic, the numbers finally started to click into place. The "meters" canceled out. The variables aligned. But for the first time in her life, the most interesting thing in the room wasn't the satisfaction of a solved equation. ​It was the boy across the table, buried in a sea of blue lines and structural calculations, who seemed to be the only variable in the room she couldn't solve.