THE LAST TO FALL

CHAPTER 3

SKYE’S POV

“This isn’t just about the story,” I said as I stared at the laptop screen. “The professor has to feel that we understand the emotions and motivations of the characters not just Ibarra, but everyone around him too.”

Eros shook his head and shifted in his seat. We were in the reading lounge of a coffee shop today it was quieter than yesterday, the air was cooler, and our focus was clearer.

“What I’m saying,” I repeated, “is that we need a fresh voice. Maybe we can write it in first-person from Maria Clara’s perspective.”

He glanced at me. “The silent girl-victim throughout the whole novel? You’re giving her a POV?”

I nodded. “She’s not just a victim. She has her own world we didn’t get to see in the book. That’s where we come in.”

He went quiet for a while, staring at the ceiling like he was thinking, though I knew he was really processing what I said.

“Interesting,” he finally said. “You take care of Maria Clara’s POV, I’ll handle Ibarra’s.”

“Deal,” I said. “But—”

“But the tone has to be aligned. They live in the same world they can’t sound disconnected.”

I looked at him, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. It was like he switched modes no longer the guy who’s always late and careless.

“You know,” I blurted out, “you’re full of surprises. I thought you were lazy.”

“Exactly,” he smiled. “You only thought that.”

We went back to writing. I was trying to shape Maria Clara’s voice the girl swallowed by silence, but with a soul powerful enough to stir emotion. Eros stayed quiet while typing, occasionally glancing at me like something was on his mind.

After nearly two hours, I shut my laptop and stretched.

“Break?” he asked.

I nodded. “Five minutes.”

I stood and went to the counter to buy water. When I returned, I was surprised to find him staring at my open file. I hadn’t saved the draft yet, and he had read a few lines that were... rather personal.

“Why are you—”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, raising his hands. “Your cursor slid and the file popped up.”

I sighed. “What did you see?”

“That line ‘If I weren’t born the daughter of a friar, maybe I would’ve chosen Ibarra even if it meant going against everyone.’”

I looked him in the eye. “What do you think?”

He went quiet before smiling. “It’s deep.”

A strange pain tugged at my chest not from his comment, but from that line itself. Because I didn’t just write it for Maria Clara. A part of it was my own voice.

“You know,” I said, “sometimes, it’s exhausting always trying to be right.”

I didn’t know why I said that. But I felt like I had to. To him. To Eros.

“Skye...” he said softly.

I looked at him. There were those eyes again the kind that see what you’re trying to hide. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything more. But I could feel it he wanted to.

And deep down, a part of me wanted to hear it too.

---

EROS’S POV

I don’t know what it is about this girl but the more time I spend with her, the more she feels like a question I want to figure out.

No joke at first, Skye was like an algebraic equation: complicated, pressure-packed, and the more you force it, the more you mess up. But after spending a few days working with her, I started to understand her rhythm.

She’s not mean. Just guarded. She’s not bossy. She’s just used to doing everything herself.

And through this project, I finally saw the real her when she wasn’t aware anyone was watching.

Like earlier, when I read her draft for Maria Clara’s POV. Each line it wasn’t just creative writing. It was like a mirror. She was hiding something she didn’t want to admit, but it slipped out between her words.

And I watched not to judge.

But to understand.

“Skye,” I called her name.

She looked up, surprised that I used her name. Not “ma’am,” not “partner.” Just Skye.

“I’ve been watching you write for a while,” I said. “When you’re not thinking about how people will see you… you’re more real.”

She didn’t reply. Just looked at me.

“You have a story too. Not just Maria Clara.”

The air between us grew heavier. The room was quiet, but it felt like we were the only ones there. I wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or unsure. But I was sure of what I wanted to say.

“You know,” I continued, “I didn’t expect this to turn out this way. I thought it would be messy. But I like it.”

“Clarity?” she asked, half-laughing.

“No. You. I like the way you see the world.”

Silence. She looked at me, and her eyes had a different spark in them. Like she wanted to believe me. Like she wasn’t used to hearing things like that.

“You don’t have to prove everything, Skye,” I added. “Sometimes, it’s enough just to be here.”

She suddenly turned her head, pretending to look out the window. But I caught the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

And in that moment, I knew.

Something had begun between us and it wasn’t just about the project.

I didn’t know where it would lead, but I wanted to keep going.

---

SKYE’S POV

I didn’t know why his words felt so heavy in my chest.

"You. I like the way you see the world."

"Skye, you don’t have to prove everything..."

Simple words. But it was like they hit the most hidden parts of me. No one had ever said that not Mom, not Camille, not even myself.

Maybe that’s why I turned toward the window, pretending to look at something. Not because I wanted to see anything but because I had to hide. If I looked at him any longer, I might break from the warmth he was giving.

I smiled, just a little, forced. But even forced, it carried a bit of tenderness.

“Let’s go,” I said, standing up. “I still have to finish the chapter summaries.”

He didn’t answer right away. Like he didn’t want the moment to end. But eventually, he stood too. “Up to you. I’ll take care of the last paragraph then. Just so you know I’m useful.”

I smirked. “I’d be happier if you stopped being late.”

“We’ll see,” he said, raising a brow. “If you put a smiley in your message, maybe I’ll wake up early.”

“Dream on,” I replied, but I smiled too.

As we walked out of the coffee shop, we didn’t say much. But we didn’t need to. Even in silence, it felt like we both knew something had shifted.

Something had changed between us. Not yet defined, not yet clear. But it was there. Slowly, quietly, sincerely.

And as we walked down the sidewalk back to the campus gate, I realized maybe it wasn’t enough to always be right.

Sometimes, what mattered more… was to feel real.

---

EROS’S POV

The next day, at the library she was already there. For once.

I immediately saw her ponytail, pulled tight, with a few loose strands framing her face. Her brows were furrowed as she read from her laptop, completely unaware that I was approaching.

“You’re early today?” I greeted.

She didn’t look up. “We’ve got a deadline, don’t we?”

I sat across from her. “I thought I was the only one taking this seriously.”

“Maybe you’re just being influenced by my discipline,” she replied sarcastically but the tone was soft, almost teasing.

I smiled at her. “Maybe.”

As we worked, I noticed she was smiling more often. Not the forced smile meant for public approval. The real kind. The kind that came out when I said something genuinely funny. The kind that softened her voice whenever she mentioned Maria Clara.

It wasn’t just a project for her anymore. It felt personal.

“So, what are you staring at?” she asked.

I was caught off guard. “Huh?”

“My screen. You’ve been staring for a while but you’re not even typing.”

“I was just thinking,” I said. “What if we don’t let this end on paper?”

She furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?”

“I want to write this like... a short film. Not just a project. Something that breathes.”

She fell quiet. Just for a second but I could tell she was surprised.

“You mean, after we submit this? Like a passion project?”

I nodded. “If that’s okay with you.”

She smiled. Not forced, not uncertain. Just calm and warm.

“I’m okay with that. As long as by then, you’re no longer late.”

I laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll fix my body clock.”

We continued working. Faster, lighter. We didn’t argue about where the emphasis should be. It was like we had a silent understanding. The story flowed better because of the contrast in our voices.

But the contrast didn’t just exist in the story.

Because between us me, the guy who didn’t know how to take things seriously, and her, the girl who didn’t know how to rest something new was quietly taking shape.

We probably couldn’t name it yet.

But we both felt it.