Chapter 2 | Grumpy Chef, Sunshine Florist
1133 Words
Cassie's POV
My flower shop smells like regret and roses.
Mostly regret.
“Sunflower & Co.” is what I painted on the glass door. Big words for a 3x4 meter space sa ground floor ng apartment building. One wall. One counter. One dream that’s running out of water.
Rent is due in 2 months.
I have 47 pesos in the register.
And a wilting bouquet of baby’s breath that looks exactly like my savings account.
I’m 26. I moved to Manila to be “free.”
My mom said, “Cassie, you’re too loud for this city. Too much.”
She was right.
The bell above my door jingles.
No one came in.
Just the wind. And the sound of my own breathing.
I lean on the counter and count sunflowers. Twelve.
I bought them yesterday with my last 600 pesos.
If I don’t sell them by Friday, they’ll be trash.
Like me.
That’s when I hear it.
Thud.
From upstairs. Unit 4B.
Dante.
He dropped something heavy. Probably a pan. Probably his patience. Probably the last bit of himself he was pretending to hold together.
I met Dante Morales 24 hours ago.
He has the face of a man who hasn’t slept since 2019. Black hoodie. Forearms that look like they could break concrete. And eyes that say, “Go away,” without moving his lips.
He also has Mimi.
Mimi knocked on my door at 7AM. Hair a mess. Eyes too big for her face.
“Ate, is Daddy dead?”
I almost laughed.
Then I saw her eyes.
Big. Scared. Practiced. Like she’d asked that before and didn’t like the answer.
So I made pandesal.
And sinigang.
And coffee. Black. No sugar.
Because men like him don’t take sweet. They think they haven’t earned it.
He didn’t say thank you.
He said, “I didn’t ask you to.”
I should’ve left it there.
I didn’t.
Because when I was 8, my dad walked out. No note. No fight. Just gone.
And my neighbor, Mrs. Dela Cruz, knocked on our door with lugaw every night for a week.
She didn’t ask.
She just stayed.
So I learned early: you don’t wait for permission to be kind. You just do it.
So I knocked.
And now I’m here, staring at 12 sunflowers that won’t pay my rent, thinking about a grumpy chef who put my flower in a mug with no water.
He was going to throw it out. I know. I saw it in his face.
But he didn’t.
Hope is stupid.
I have too much of it. It’s my worst flaw.
The bell jingles again.
Real this time.
It’s Ate Nene, the guard. Clipboard in hand. Tired eyes.
“Cassie, anak, may order ka. Hotel sa Makati. 2 dozen sunflowers. Delivery by 5PM.”
My heart jumps. Hard. Like it forgot how.
“Sure po? Bayad?”
“Half muna. Balance pag deliver.”
She puts 800 pesos on the counter. Crisp. Real.
800 pesos.
That’s food.
That’s electricity.
That’s not being kicked out on the 1st.
“Thank you, Ate Nene!” I hug her before I can think. She smells like Vicks and second chances.
“Bayaran mo rent mo ha. Wag mo gastusin sa bulaklak.”
“Yes po.” Lie.
I spend the next 3 hours cutting stems, arranging, tying ribbon. My hands are fast when I’m not scared. My hands are fast when I’m not thinking about eviction.
By 4:30PM, I have two dozen perfect sunflowers in a box.
Yellow. Loud. Alive.
Everything I’m pretending to be.
I’m locking the shop when I see him.
Dante.
He’s walking from the elevator, carrying Mimi who’s asleep on his shoulder. One small arm around his neck. Gray hoodie. Dark circles deeper than this morning. A paper bag from a convenience store. Probably instant noodles. Again.
He sees me.
Stops.
I should walk away.
He told me to. With his silence. With his back.
Instead, I say, “Rough day, Chef?”
He doesn’t answer.
He looks at the box. Then at me. Then at the floor. Anywhere but my eyes.
Mimi stirs. “Ate Cass…” she mumbles, half-asleep, voice sticky with sleep.
Dante’s jaw tightens. He shifts her weight like she’s heavy, but I know it’s not her. It’s everything else he’s carrying.
“We’re busy.”
“I know. I’m just delivering.”
I hold up the box. My hands don’t shake. Much. “You want one? For your mug. The other one died, right?”
His eyes snap to mine. Angry. Cornered. Hurt.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be nice to us.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because I’ve heard them before.
From my mom: “Don’t be so loud, Cassie. People will leave.”
From ex-friends: “You’re too much.”
From landlords: “Pay on time or don’t be here.”
Don’t be a problem.
Don’t be loud.
Don’t be here.
But I am here.
So I do the stupidest thing.
I take one sunflower from the box. Just one.
I hold it out to him. Stem between my fingers. Like an offering. Like a white flag.
“It’s free,” I say. Soft. No smile. Because this isn’t funny. “No strings. No rent. No thank you needed.”
He stares at it like it’s a knife. Like it’s going to cut him open.
Mimi peeks from his shoulder. She sees the flower. Her eyes go wide. Even half-asleep, she knows yellow. She knows hope.
“Daddy, please?”
Dante closes his eyes.
For one second, the mask slips. He doesn’t look grumpy.
He looks tired.
Like a man carrying more than a sleeping child. Like a man who’s been carrying alone for three years.
He doesn’t take it.
But he doesn’t walk away either.
He just stands there.
Blocking the hallway.
Blocking me.
Blocking everything.
And I stand there too.
Holding a sunflower between us.
The building is quiet.
Except for my heart.
And it’s way too loud.
He finally steps aside. Just enough to pass.
“Move, Cassie.”
I do.
But I leave the sunflower on top of his delivery box before I go.
“Keep it or trash it,” I say over my shoulder. Voice steady even though my hands aren’t. “But sunflowers don’t die fast when someone’s watching.”
I walk back to my shop.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, and he’s still standing there, I might believe this could work.
And I can’t afford to believe in things that don’t pay rent.
I can’t afford to believe in men who say “don’t be nice to us.”
The door to Sunflower & Co. closes behind me.
End of Chapter 2
- Writer
