SECOND CHANCE:FIRST BLUEPRINT

CHAPTER 32:THE CONSTANT VARIABLE

​The rhythmic, electronic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound slicing through the heavy silence of the hospital room. Papa Renato lay pale and forlorn beneath the thin white sheet, the plastic tubes connected to his arm looking stark against his weathered skin.

​I was standing by the foot of the bed, my fingers tightly gripping the metal rail, when the heavy wooden door of the room slowly creaked open.

​I turned around, expecting a nurse or a doctor. Instead, my breath completely caught in my throat.

​Reuben stood at the threshold. His hair was slightly disheveled, his university uniform wrinkled from what must have been a frantic tricycle ride from the campus, and his chest was still heaving as he tried to regulate his breathing. His dark eyes instantly locked onto mine, carrying a mixture of intense relief, pain, and exhaustion.

​I froze, my defensive walls immediately shooting up like a reflex. "What are you doing here?.." I whispered, my voice cracking slightly as I stepped away from the bed.

​Reuben didn't answer right away. He took a few slow, calculated steps into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn't look angry; he looked deeply hurt that I had kept him in the dark.

​"Kaya pala di mo sinasagot mga tawag at text ko, Malia," Reuben answered quietly, his voice dropping into a low, private register. He glanced past my shoulder, his gaze softening as he looked at Papa Renato sleeping on the bed, taking in the sight of the heart monitor and the medical equipment keeping my father stable.

​I swallowed the lump in my throat, looking down at the cold linoleum floor because I couldn't bear the raw sincerity in his eyes. "Reuben, you shouldn't be here. Malapit na ang Mock Boards mo. Dapat nasa library ka ngayon nagre-review. I... I can handle this. Kasama ko naman sina Mama."

​"Handle this alone?" Reuben stepped closer, stopping just a foot away from me. The familiar, comforting scent of his cologne faintly battled the harsh, sterile smell of the hospital room. "Malia, nakita ka ng kaklase mo kahapon na tumatakbo palabas ng campus na umiiyak. Buong gabi at buong umaga akong nag-aalala kung anong nangyari sa'yo. Bakit hindi mo sinabi sa akin?"

​"Dahil hindi mo naman problema 'to!" I suddenly snapped, though I kept my voice muffled so as not to wake my father. A single, hot tear finally escaped my eye, cutting through my stubborn facade. "Reuben, my family is facing a structural crisis right now. Haharapin pa namin ang billing, ang maintenance, ang katotohanang baka hindi na makapagtrabaho si Papa sa talyer. It's a financial mess. I didn't want to drag you into my deficit. You have a perfect life, a perfect future as a CPA... huwag mo nang guluhin ang math mo dahil sa akin."

​Reuben let out a soft, breathy sigh. Instead of backing away from my outburst, he did something that completely shattered my defenses. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently closing around my trembling, ice-cold hands, pulling them away from the cold metal rail of the hospital bed.

​"Sabi ko sa'yo nung nasa bus tayo, di ba?" Reuben murmured, looking down at me with an intensity that made my heart race faster than the monitor beside us. "Ang pera, ang oras, ang pagod—lahat 'yan nababawi, Malia. At hindi ko kailanman ituturing na pabigat o bawas sa hinaharap ko ang tulungan ka."

​He squeezed my hands tightly, his warmth seeping into my skin, anchoring me to the present.

​"Hindi ako narito bilang isang accountant para magkwenta ng asset o liability mo, Malia," Reuben whispered, his dark eyes shining with an unwavering, fierce devotion. "Nandito ako kasi gusto kong maging constant sa buhay mo, lalo na kapag ganitong magulo ang mga variables mo. Kaya please... huwag mo na akong itaboy. Let me help you bear this structure."

​Looking at his face, the heavy, suffocating weight I had been carrying since yesterday afternoon suddenly didn't feel so impossible anymore. For the first time in two lifetimes, I didn't have to calculate my survival completely alone.