His POV
1492 Words
Reig
I wasn’t supposed to care this much about an elementary reunion.
Yet there I was, standing in front of the mirror inside my condo unit in BGC fixing the sleeves of my black button-down like I was about to attend something important.
Maybe because it was important.
Because Clara was going to be there.
Even after all these years, just the thought of seeing her again was enough to make something restless move inside my chest.
Pathetic.
I grabbed my car keys from the counter and headed toward the elevator.
New York had changed a lot about me.
It taught me discipline.
Control.
Distance.
The city moved too fast for hesitation, and somewhere between graduating magna c*m laude from Columbia and surviving flight school with almost no sleep, I learned how to bury emotions beneath routines and responsibilities.
But apparently none of those things mattered when it came to Clara Villanueva.
My little rabbit.
Even thinking about the nickname after years still felt natural.
As the elevator descended, memories surfaced quietly.
Fourth grade.
Tiny hands.
Big brown eyes.
Always carrying too many books against her chest.
She used to follow me around during lunch breaks pretending she needed help with math even though she was smarter than half the class.
And God, she talked.
About random things.
Teachers she hated.
Movies she watched.
Stories she made up while eating snacks beside me.
She annoyed me constantly.
Maybe that was exactly why I liked her so much.
When my family migrated to New York, I honestly thought I’d forget about the Philippines eventually.
Instead, Clara somehow followed me everywhere.
Brown eyes reminded me of home.
Girls laughing too loudly reminded me of her.
Even during college, during the busiest years of my life, there were moments she appeared in my head without warning.
Especially late at night.
Especially when life became too quiet.
Everything in my life was planned carefully.
A secured aviation career in New York.
A future already waiting for me.
A life people would probably call successful.
Except this.
Because the truth was, I came back to the Philippines for one reason.
Her.
The realization sounded insane even in my own head.
But it was true.
I wanted to know if the girl I spent years remembering still existed.
And if she did
This time, I wasn’t letting timing steal the chance from me.
I reached the parking area and got inside my car, but instead of driving immediately, my phone rang through the speakers.
Mom.
I answered with a sigh. “Ma.”
“Are you driving already?”
“About to.”
“You should’ve eaten first.”
“I ate.”
“What did you eat?”
I stared blankly through the windshield. “Food.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I laughed quietly. Some things never changed.
Even after years abroad, my mother still worried like I was a teenager living under her roof.
“You sound tired,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re always fine. That’s why I don’t trust it.”
I leaned my head back against the seat.
Outside, the city lights reflected against nearby glass buildings while traffic moved endlessly through BGC.
Home.
The word still felt strange after spending years in New York.
“You’ve been back for two weeks and barely rested,” my mother continued. “You keep attending dinners, family gatherings, meetings”
“You invited half of those people.”
“Because everyone wants to see you.”
I smiled faintly.
That was another thing about coming home.
Suddenly everyone knew everything about you.
The son who studied abroad.
The pilot.
The achiever.
People looked at me now like I had my life completely figured out.
Funny.
Because the truth was, the only thing currently occupying my mind was a girl I hadn’t properly spoken to in years.
“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” my mother observed.
“I’m driving to a reunion.”
“With your elementary classmates?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
That one word carried suspicion immediately.
“Mama,” I warned.
“There’s a girl there, isn’t there?”
I laughed despite myself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I carried you for nine months. I know your voice.”
I rubbed my jaw while smiling quietly.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Aha.”
Her voice sounded victorious now.
“What’s her name?”
“Clara.”
The line went silent for two seconds.
“The little girl who cried when you left for America?”
I closed my eyes.
“You remember that?”
“She cried in front of your father’s car for almost ten minutes.”
I groaned softly.
My mother laughed warmly. “You liked her very much.”
Still do.
The thought came too naturally.
Too honestly.
“I don’t know if she even remembers me properly anymore,” I admitted quietly.
My mother hummed thoughtfully. “A girl never forgets the boy she cried for.”
I stared out the windshield again.
Maybe.
Or maybe I was just being nostalgic over something that only mattered to me.
“What if she changed?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“She definitely changed. You changed too.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Her voice softened.
“People grow up, anak. Sometimes they become softer. Sometimes life makes them tired. But if someone mattered to you before, you’ll still recognize them somehow.”
I swallowed quietly.
Because that was exactly what scared me.
That I would recognize her immediately.
And realize I never truly moved on at all.
“Don’t overthink too much,” my mother continued gently. “Just see her first.”
I smiled faintly.
Too late for that.
Because I had been thinking about Clara for years.
After ending the call, I stayed inside the parked car for another minute.
The air-conditioning hummed softly around me while old memories continued to replay inside my head.
Clara stealing fries from my tray during lunch.
Clara getting angry because I teased her handwriting.
Clara showing me drawings she made during class instead of listening to the teacher.
I still remembered how proud she looked whenever I praised her art.
Even back then, she loved drawing more than anything.
There was one memory I remembered especially clearly.
We were sitting under the covered walkway near the elementary building while waiting for our parents.
She spent almost thirty minutes sketching random students passing by.
“You really like this,” I told her.
“I’m gonna be an artist someday,” she answered without hesitation.
I smiled faintly at the memory.
Back then, Clara sounded so certain about her future.
I wondered what happened to that version of her.
And maybe tonight,
I’d finally find out.
I still remembered the last conversation we had before I left.
She cried because I was moving away.
I remember standing outside their gate while she held onto my sleeve, eyes swollen and nose pink from crying too much.
“You’ll forget me,” she accused between sniffles.
I laughed back then because we were children.
“You’re too annoying to forget.”
That only made her cry harder.
I could still remember how small she looked standing there while I climbed into the car.
For years after moving abroad, I thought about messaging her.
But life happened too fast.
New schools.
Cultural adjustments.
Pressure.
Expectations.
And eventually, too much time passed.
Still, every now and then, I searched for her online.
Just curiosity at first.
Then habit.
Then something far more dangerous.
I saw fragments of her life through social media.
Photos with friends.
Art sketches.
Late-night posts.
Pictures of coffee cups and sunsets.
She changed slowly over the years.
But somehow still felt like Clara.
There were times I almost messaged her.
Especially during difficult nights in New York when exhaustion made me sentimental.
But what exactly was I supposed to say?
Hi. I know it’s been years, but I think a part of me never really left you.
Insane.
So I stayed silent.
Until Marco mentioned the reunion in our group chat months ago.
And suddenly coming home became the easiest decision of my life.
I finally started the engine.
The drive toward the rooftop bar was smooth, but my chest felt strangely tight the entire time.
I kept wondering what version of Clara I was about to meet.
Maybe she already had someone.
Maybe she forgot about me completely.
Maybe I was the only i***t who carried childhood feelings into adulthood.
The thought should’ve embarrassed me.
Instead, it only made me grip the steering wheel tighter.
Because despite everything
Despite the years.
Despite the distance.
Despite the life waiting for me in New York.
The truth remained painfully simple.
If Clara asked me to stay here instead of leaving again next year,
I probably would.
- Writer
