When He Borrowed My Pen

02

I barely made it through my 3 p.m. meeting. Every five minutes, my mind was running a diagnostic. Did I really just let a stranger walk off with my favorite pen? A white, extra-fine point gel pen that never smudges? It wasn't about the pen. It was about the excuse. I needed a reason to see him again.

So, I raced straight to the café, the anxiety in my chest vibrating faster than the phone alerts I was deliberately ignoring.

As I pushed open the door, the familiar blast of warm espresso and vanilla hit me, but today, I was tuning into something else. I scanned the room—the rows of students buried in laptops, the couples sharing milkshakes, the lone, quiet figures in the corner spots. My eyes hunted for that specific constellation of features. The messy dark hair, the slight chinito shape of his eyes, the concentration in his brow.

He wasn't there.

I felt the sudden deflation in my shoulders, a wave of disappointment so sharp it actually stung. I told myself it was a relief—at least I wouldn’t have to stumble through another awkward greeting. But the truth, which I kept locked firmly behind the fortress of my overworked mind, was that the day already felt duller. My almost-story had ended before the first paragraph.

I settled into my usual spot, opened my laptop, and tried to focus on the revised proposal I had to memorize for the council meeting tomorrow. I pulled out my backup pen—a clunky, generic thing that just felt wrong—and stared at the blank page. I was supposed to be a focused student leader, a Pres with ice in her veins, but every time the door chime rang, I glanced up, expecting him.

"Leigh, kanina kapa tulala dyan sa docs," Nicole announced, sliding into the seat across from me. She looked at my laptop screen and groaned dramatically. "Hindi ka pa kakagatin niyan, Pres. You need a break." Joel trailed behind her, nodding in agreement.

"I wish they wouldn't," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "I just want this perfect. If this proposal gets rejected again, I swear I'm resigning."

"Seriously, Leigh. Pahinga din pag may time," Joel said, nudging my arm. "Remember that budget drill last week? Traumatic experience for us all."

Nicole ignored the reports and leaned closer, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Forget the budget. Tell us about the chinitong moreno guy yesterday. The one who borrowed your pen and made you forget how to function."

My cheeks immediately heated up. "Nicole! Nanghiram lang yung tao. Wag kang malisya."

"Sus, kinilig ka naman," Joel laughed, using my discarded council report as a coaster for his iced coffee. "I saw you, Leigh. For three whole seconds, you looked like a Disney princess who found her prince."

Before I could mount a proper defense, which would have involved a lot of aggressive typing. The barista’s voice cut through the background music.

"Iced Matcha Latte for Miss Leigh!"

I blinked, confused. Someone ordered for me again. "Hindi ako nag-order niyan," I told Nicole. I walked to the counter, still arguing internally. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they mixed up the names.

But this is no mistake. Routine nato everytime na nandito ako sa cafe.

I took the cup. My name was written neatly on the side—and right below it, nestled perfectly against the green paper sleeve, was a small, looping message:

"Laban lang, Pres ♡"

My lips parted, and a sudden, sharp intake of breath caught in my throat. Pres.

I whipped my head around, scanning the café frantically. I checked the back tables, the pick-up counter, and the hallway leading to the restroom. Nothing. Just the low hum of the espresso machine and the easy chatter of strangers.

But the message was undeniable. It was a direct, personal response to our quick, awkward encounter. He knew I was the stressed-out President, and he had seen right through my facade—all within a two-minute exchange.

Nicole and Joel walked up behind me, their conversation dying in their mouths as they spotted the note.

"Wait, kanino yan galing?" Nicole whispered, her eyes wide. "That's not your handwriting! Who calls you 'Pres' besides us, your long-suffering friends?"

"And who sends you free matcha?" Joel added, snatching the cup before I could hide it. He turned the cup slowly, analyzing the small, neatly drawn heart. "This is it, Pres. May secret admirer kana yieeee."

“No time for that noh.” A lie.

If only someone I've always dreamed of would come and save me like a prince charming.

My chest tightened, a strange, hopeful ache settling deep inside. It wasn't the cost of the drink; it was the sheer thoughtfulness. He had remembered my drink from the day before, remembered the silly nickname, and left a small, quiet message that felt more powerful than any loud declaration. He didn't want anything from me—no forms, no approvals, no signatures—he just wanted me to breathe.

I sat back down, cradling the cold cup in my hands. The warm, comforting scent of the matcha seemed to glow under the café lights. Deadlines, responsibilities, the mountain of work—all of it pressed in, but the note lingered, a small anchor in the chaos.

Who are you, mister matcha giver?

I took a slow sip, letting the bittersweet warmth settle in. Whoever he was, he had brightened my day without even knowing it.

"Pres, una na kami," Nicole finally said, pulling on her bag. "But you absolutely need to find out who this is. This is the plot twist we deserve."

I just nodded, watching them leave. I was going to find out. I owed him a proper thank you, and maybe, just maybe, I deserved to see that gentle, promising smile again.

I left a note. Maybe he’ll never see it.

But part of me hoped he would—hoping that he would notice the message I left behind, and that someday, just maybe, he’d finally step out of the shadows.



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