CHAPTER 3: WHISPERS IN THE HALLWAY
668 Words
(Ameenah's POV)
ONE WEEK HAD PASSED since the festival, but the memory of those brown eyes still lingered in my mind like a beautiful dream I was afraid to forget. The weight of my father's expectations felt heavier than ever, each mention of Mark Lim's name feeling like another brick added to the walls of my gilded cage.
Ngayon, pumunta ako sa University of Mindanao para sa aking research paper about sustainable business practices in Mindanao. The campus buzzed with energy—students rushing to classes, groups debating in corners, the smell of coffee and old books mixing in the humid air.
Habang naglalakad ako papunta sa main library, may nakita akong pamilyar na pigura sa may College of Architecture. Siya yung lalaki sa festival.
Nakaupo siya sa mga hagdanan, may hawak na sketchpad, completely absorbed in drawing the old church across the street. His focus was intense, his hand moving with practiced grace across the paper. From this distance, I could see the passion in his expression—the same passion I saw when he helped that child.
Ang galing niya mag-drawing, I thought, feeling a strange pull to approach him.
Bigla siyang lumingon, as if sensing my presence, and our eyes met for the second time. This close, I could see the details I missed before—the slight scar above his eyebrow, the way his eyes crinkled when he recognized me, the strong but gentle lines of his face.
"Hi," he said, his voice warmer than I remembered.
"Hello," I smiled, feeling unexpectedly nervous. "Ikaw 'yung... sa festival? Yung tumulong sa bata?"
"Oo," he laughed, a sound that felt like sunshine. "Rafael Santos. But my friends call me Rafa."
"Ameenah Al-Farouq."
"I know," he said softly, and I braced for the usual reactions—the awe, the curiosity about my family's wealth, the distance that my name always created. But instead, he added, "Nakikita kita sa mga newspaper articles about your family's charity work for indigenous communities. That literacy program you started in the uplands—it's making a real difference."
I felt my breath catch. He knows about my work? Not just my name?
"Thank you," I said, genuinely touched. "Pero... between you and me, mas gusto kong maging Ameenah lang dito. Just another student."
Tumango siya, his understanding evident in his eyes. "Gets ko 'yon. Sometimes, it's nice to be seen for who you are, not what you represent."
We talked then—about architecture, about heritage conservation, about why he loved sketching old buildings. "Parang bawat gusali ay may kwento," he explained, showing me his sketchpad. "And if we don't preserve them, we lose parts of our history."
His words resonated with me deeply. This was the kind of passion I rarely encountered in my world of business meetings and social functions.
"Alam mo," he said after a comfortable pause, "may alam akong magandang view ng city. Sa Mt. Apo viewdeck. You can see the whole city from there—the mosques, the churches, the mountains meeting the sea. Dapat mong makita 'yon someday."
Is he asking me out? My heart leaped, but reality quickly set in. The daughter of Jamil Al-Farouq, going to a secluded viewdeck with a man she barely knew? Impossible.
"Baka... puwede isang araw," I said, the words feeling heavy with unspoken limitations.
Tumango siya, his expression understanding yet slightly disappointed. "Oo. Isang araw. When the time is right."
As we parted ways, I felt his gaze follow me until I turned the corner. The encounter left me with a strange mixture of exhilaration and sadness.
Habang nasa loob ng air-conditioned na sasakyan papauwi, iniisip ko si Rafa. His genuine interest in making a difference, his passion for preserving beauty, his way of seeing beyond surfaces.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I thought I had lost—hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, there was more to my life than the carefully planned future my father had mapped out for me.
- Writer
