Nunca Pensaste Quedarte

TRIGGER WARNING: s3lF hArmIng. read at your own risk. Yara's POV “Readings here, retdems there. It’s impossible to be happy like this!” Jana groaned dramatically before dropping into the chair across from us. “That’s true,” Dia agreed, pushing her hair back. “Yara and I have three retdems a week. What did I even do in my past life to deserve this?” “Relax,” I said, opening my Pharmacology book. “They’re just training us to be strong for the future.” Jana sighed loudly. “I didn’t tell you earlier—I got 60 out of 65.” "What's wrong with that?" I asked. "I only had one mistake, Just once. Yet, they already took away my five points!" She said frustrated “That’s still high,” Dia said. “What subject? Who’s your teacher? So I could put an hex on her” “Med-Surge and Ma’am—” “Shhh!” I cut her off, glancing around. “Walls have ears. You’ll get reported to the dean.” They both giggled. “Read first,” I continued. “Later, I’ll make a Quizlet so we can review.” That finally made them quiet down. Dia and I had been friends for years. Jana was younger—still in 2nd year—but somehow she fit right in with us. We’d joined plenty of friend groups before, but we always ended up sticking to each other. Maybe it was because of Nursing. Maybe it was because we understood the pressure. It was exhausting. But whenever I imagined graduating, helping my family, maybe even working abroad someday—it made everything worth it. “OMG, he’s so handsome!” someone whispered behind us. “Handsome and smart. He’s top one in their practice test!" ” “What practice test?” Dia muttered. “They’re training for the board exam already. I can't imagine the pressure.” “Who are they talking about?” Dia whispered. “Maybe Max?” Jana guessed. “Who’s that?” “Focus on your readings,” I reminded them. Still, I knew exactly who they meant. Maxwell. First-year students still stared at him like he was a celebrity. Eventually, they’d get used to it. We were seated at a long table in the canteen. Jana and I were side by side; Dia sat across from us. It was almost lunchtime, and the place was slowly filling up. “Girl, Dia and I are going to the restroom. My bladder is about to explode,” Jana announced. “Guard the seats!” Dia added dramatically. “Don’t lend them to anyone.” “Unless it’s Maxwell,” Jana whispered with a grin. “Extra points.” “You two are unbelievable,” I muttered. They left, still giggling. I was highlighting a paragraph when someone stopped beside me. “Hey, may I borrow this chair?” I didn’t look up immediately. “Sorry, my friends just stepped out. They’ll be back.” Then I raised my head. And I froze. ...It was him. Maxwell... “Oh. I’m sorry,” he said gently. Before I could respond, Dia suddenly reappeared. “What’s happening here?” “I just asked to borrow a chair,” Maxwell explained. “Ohhh,” Jana sang. “Actually Maxwell, We are leaving too.” “We are?” I blinked. “Yeah, girl,” she whispered urgently. “Do you want this seat?” Jana offered him sweetly. “No, thank you. I just need one chair.” “Then take it,” Dia said, grinning. “Thank you,” he replied, flashing that bright, effortless smile. When he walked away with the chair, I stared at my so-called friends. “Now what? Where are we supposed to sit?” “Oval,” Dia declared excitedly. “It’s hot there.” “It’s overcast. It’s windy,” Jana insisted, already dragging me outside. The injustice of the canteen’s broken air-conditioning remained unresolved. We settled on the oval field. From where we sat, we could see soccer players stretching and elementary students practicing for track and field. “Wow,” Jana whispered dramatically. “What a beautiful view.” I followed her gaze. It wasn’t the sky she was looking at. “I wasn’t informed there would be this many pogi here,” Dia said jokingly. “I would’ve worn a gown.” I rolled my eyes. “Study. If you fail, that’s on you.” “Don’t jinx us!” Jana cried. Eventually, they stopped their “pogi hunting” and focused on reviewing. The day passed in a blur—recitations, readings, food breaks, and endless complaining. After dismissal, we went our separate ways. Dia lived near the school. Jana had to take a jeepney. As for me, I headed to the hospital. My mom is a General Surgeon. My dad is a Med-Surg nurse. Most days, they practically live in the operating room. Sometimes I joke that I grew up in a hospital more than in a house. I was about to enter Mom’s office when I spotted someone familiar in the hallway. Maxwell? I looked away quickly and stepped inside to wait. “Nak,” Papa called, opening the door. “Papa.” “Go home first. Your mom had an emergency operation.” “She couldn’t even tell me? We’re in the same hospital,” I teased lightly. He walked closer, his expression softening. “Sorry. We’ve both been busy. We’ll make it up to you on your birthday.” “You said that last year,” I muttered, half-joking. He changed the subject, and just asked me if I want him to take me home, but I refused. I needed air. Instead of going home, I headed to the hospital rooftop. It was peaceful up there. A soft breeze brushed against my skin. Flower displays lined the corners, and a hammock swayed gently between two posts. I used to come here whenever I felt lonely. Especially when I was upset with Mom. I sat on the hammock, staring at the gray sky. “What’s with the pout?” a voice suddenly said behind me. I gasped and nearly fell off. A soft laugh followed. I turned sharply. “Maxwell?” “Every time we meet, you’re frowning,” he said. I rolled my eyes, "We’ve barely met" I thought. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Just needed some air.” He stepped closer. And that’s when I saw it. Something metallic in his hand. ...A blade. My heart skipped. The breeze no longer felt comforting. “Maxwell…” I said carefully, my voice barely steady, but I couldn't utter a work. At last I pretended not to notice at first, but I reached for his hand and gently pushed up his sleeve, checking for bruises—any sign that he might have hurt himself. And there they were. “What’s this?” I asked, as if I hadn’t already guessed. “Just a scratch,” he said quickly. “I was petting a cat earlier. She scratched me.” He said, But I didn't believe him. He held my gaze, stubborn even now, as if he could outlast the truth by sheer will. Good thing I never went anywhere without my first aid kit. I kept hold of his hand as we sank down onto the steps. With my free hand, I pulled the small kit from my bag and unzipped it. The sharp scent of alcohol filled the air between us. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine. “No,” I agreed softly, offering him a small smile. “I don’t. But my conscience won’t let me sleep if I don’t. So just… let me.” He exhaled, but he didn’t pull away. “This might sting,” I warned. I pressed the gauze gently against his wound. He tensed—his fingers tightening around mine for just a second—but he didn’t complain. He never did. I worked carefully, cleaning away the blood, dabbing alcohol pads, wrapping the bandage with steady hands even though my heart was anything but steady. The world seemed to shrink to the quiet rhythm of our breathing and the brush of my fingers against his skin. When I finally finished, I leaned back slightly, still holding his hand. “There,” I said softly. “All done.” But neither of us moved... “Uh… it’s getting late,” I said, the words tripping over themselves. My voice sounded tight, unfamiliar. “I need to go.” Before he could answer—before I could lose my nerve—I turned and walked away. No goodbye. No glance back. For a few steps, I felt nothing. Then everything rushed in at once. My heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out the sounds of the street. The moment replayed in fragments—his eyes on mine, the warmth of his hand gripping my fingers, the quiet between us that felt heavier than words. It had been a brief, fragile kind of bliss. And that terrified me. I let out a breath that turned into a nervous laugh. “Don’t tell me I’m turning into one of his fangirls,” I muttered under my breath. “That’s ridiculous.” I shook my head as if I could physically dislodge the thought. I would never. I’m not like that. I kept walking, faster now, convincing myself it was nothing. Just a simple act of kindness. I cleaned his wounds. That’s it. End of story. It won’t happen again. …Right? I must’ve looked insane, half-whispering to myself as I walked. A few people glanced my way, but I ignored them. “I just cleaned his wounds,” I insisted quietly. "It’s not a big deal.” A beat of silence. “I’m a nice person,” I added defensively, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “Of course I would do that!” But no matter how many times I repeated it, my heartbeat refused to calm down. And deep down, I knew the truth wasn’t nearly as simple as I wanted it to be.