Noted with Reservations

CHAPTER 4: The Load-Bearing Wall

Six o'clock in the morning. It smelled of dew and the exhaust from early-morning jeepneys. But to me, it smelled like regret.

My phone buzzed under my pillow like a fire alarm. I didn't even need to check the caller ID. I already knew who was interrupting my remaining thirty minutes of sleep.

"What now?" I answered hoarsely, without even opening my eyes.

"You're late by forty-five seconds, Cruz," Waeren’s voice was as irritatingly clear as the sunlight.

"I sent you a location pin. Be there in an hour. Dress appropriately. We have a site inspection before our afternoon studio."

"Site inspection? Waeren, we’re just students. Why do you act like you’re in charge of all urban planning?"

"Just get here. And bring the red folder I left in the drafting room locker yesterday. The combination is 06-15."

I froze. Wait, that’s my birthday. 06-15. June 15th?

"Hey, why is my birthday the passcode to your locker? Are you stalking me?"

There was a long silence on the other end. A silence heavier than a Building Code manual.

"It’s a default setting, Cruz. Don’t flatter yourself," he said before hanging up on me.

An hour later, I was standing in front of a modern townhouse inside a high-end subdivision in Sta. Cruz. I was carrying the red folder and my T-square bag like a shield against the judgmental world of the rich.

Waeren walked out from the gate. This time, he wasn't in a polo shirt. He was wearing a fitted black shirt and cargo pants, holding a tape measure and a digital laser distance meter.

"You look like you struggled with the tricycle ride," he remarked, noticing my hair escaping its tie.

"It’s called commuting, Waeren. Reality check: not all of us have air-conditioned cars that smell like pine trees," I snapped back.

"Here, here's your folder with my birthday as the passcode."

He snatched the folder. "It’s not your birthday. It’s the date of the foundation of the first architecture firm I ever admired. Coincidence is not a structural basis, Cruz."

"Sure. Defensive much? So, what am I doing here? Holding your umbrella? Buying your coffee?"

"Inside," he ordered curtly.

The inside of the townhouse was still bare. Concrete, the smell of dust, and exposed wiring. But even like this, you could see the vision. Large windows, an open floor plan—the kind of place where you could get lost in all that space.

"This is my family’s project. I’m handling the interior renovation as part of my internship requirement," he explained as he began taking measurements.

"I need you to record these. Precision is key. If you miss even a millimeter, the custom cabinetry won't fit, and I will deduct the cost from your debt."

"Wow, threats already? Can't you just say, 'Good morning, Xy, you look nice today'?"

"I don't lie to my employees, Cruz."

I rolled my eyes and took out my notebook. For three hours, our world revolved around the house. He measured; I wrote.

"Kitchen island clearance: 1200mm," he dictated.

"Noted."

"Master bedroom window sill height: 900mm."

"Write this down too: Waeren's ego height: unreachable," I whispered.

He stopped and looked at me. The sunlight from the large window hit his face, showing the sweat forming on his forehead. So, even robots sweat.

"You talk too much for someone who hasn't finished her own preliminary designs for next week," he said, stepping toward me.

"Why did you even enter architecture, Cruz? You’re chaotic, you’re blunt, and you clearly hate following rules."

I put my pen down.

"Because I want to prove that people like you aren't the only ones allowed to build houses. I want to design spaces for real people—the ones who make messes, the ones with messy lives, the ones who don't need perfect lines to be happy."

He stared at me. It was a look I couldn't read. It was like he was studying a blueprint without a legend.

"Architecture isn't about making people happy, Cruz. It's about keeping them safe."

"And who’s going to save them from a boring life if everything looks as clean as a hospital?"

Before he could answer, my stomach growled. A loud sound that shattered the silence of the townhouse.

"That," Waeren said, the corner of his lip lifting slightly, "is the most honest thing you've said all day."

He took me to a small roadside eatery—a 'gotohan.' I was shocked to see him sit on a wooden bench while wearing his expensive watch.

"I thought you only ate at Michelin-star restaurants," I said as I inhaled my porridge with extra garlic.

"A building is only as good as its foundation, Cruz. And sometimes, the best food is found in the simplest structures," he replied, carefully sipping his soup.

In the middle of our meal, the rain suddenly poured down. The kind that gives no warning, just instant heavy rain.

"s**t, my blueprints!" I yelled, remembering my tube was outside my bag. I moved to run out, but he grabbed my arm.

"Don't. It's already wet. Running out there will just get you soaked and sick. You can't work if you're ill."

"But Waeren, I stayed up all night for those!" I felt my eyes well up. It wasn't because of the rain; it was the exhaustion. The pressure. The fear that he was right—that maybe I didn't belong in this world.

He turned to face me. He pulled out his handkerchief—the white one that was always clean—and handed it to me.

"Redraw it," he said, his voice turning soft for the first time.

"I'll stay with you at the studio later. I'll teach you the shortcuts in CAD. You won't fail, Cruz. Not while you're under my supervision."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"Shouldn't you be happy that I messed up?"

"Because," he paused, looking at the rain pouring outside, "a calculation error is only a failure if you don't know how to compensate for it. And I'm starting to think... you're the kind of error that's worth the adjustment."

I don't know why, but the racing of my heart was louder than the rain hitting the tin roof.