Sway Me One More Time

Chapter 01

If grief had a sound, it wouldn’t be a loud wail or the crashing of waves.

It would be silence.

The kind that wraps around your chest in the quietest moments. It hums behind in every conversation, every laugh that feels borrowed, every smile you practice in the mirror before going out.

It would hide in the way you set your alarm 15 minutes earlier than necessary, just to stare at the ceiling. It would sit with you at breakfast, spill into your shampoo bottle, line the hem of your uniform. It would hum behind every sentence you say. Smile with you in the mirror.

Grief doesn’t make noise.

It waits.

Now, I sit at my desk in a room I tried to rearrange like it could somehow fix the parts of me that feel out of place, and glance at the clock, trying to convince myself that everything’s fine.

I thought rearranging the space would help rearrange the ache.

It didn’t.

The ache just found new corners to live in.

The wind brushes against the windows like it’s trying to remind me of something I’d rather forget.

I reach for my phone to check the time, but all I see are text messages from my best friends, Nai and Juno.

Nai: We’re going in as a group, okay? I don’t want to be alone in the hallway!

Nai: What are you guys bringing? Are we going full battle gear or bare minimum?

Juno: 2 pens, notebook, and blind faith

Nai: I have a notebook, lip tint, and beauty ;)

Juno: I’ll check later if you really brought the third one.

Nai: Haters gonna hate.

Nai: LUE?? Your fans await. Are you still alive?

Nai: She’s def ghosting us like it’s last year all over again.

Juno: Or maybe she’s playing the main character with her first-day look today.

Nai: I bet. But girl, if you read this, please reply “ok” or at least give a thumbs up so we don’t report you to the NBI.

Lueraina: 👍

Juno: Our nonchalant queen.

“Lue, breakfast!” Lola called out from the kitchen, her voice warm like the smell of garlic rice drifting into my room.

“Coming!” I answer, voice steady.

I put my phone away and stand up, slipping my arm through the tote bag hanging by my chair. I smooth down my uniform for the nth time, brushing invisible wrinkles from the fabric and adjusting every crease like it means something.

Everything has to look right. It’s the first day of senior year, after all—no room for mistakes, not even the small ones.

Downstairs, breakfast was waiting. Hot pan de sal, scrambled eggs, tapa, fried rice, and Lola’s signature tablea chocolate.

Mama was already dressed for work, sipping her coffee, while Lolo, always in his striped polo, flipped through the newspaper with his reading glasses perched halfway down his nose.

“My daughter’s in Grade 12 now,” Mama said.

“Final stretch,” Lola added while pouring the tablea chocolate on my mug. “Feels like just yesterday you were in Grade 1, so shy when we dropped you off. Now, you’re a full-grown lady.””

Lolo gave me a teasing look. “We already have a trophy case in the living room. Maybe you want to fill up the storage room too.” He adjusted his reading glasses, a small grin tugging at his lips.

Breakfast was always more than just a meal for us. It was a time to catch up and share our plans for the day, a moment of connection before we start our busy day. No matter how busy we got, we never forgot to check in with each other. It never felt complete without it.

Same routine. Same table. Same three hearts trying to fill the space of someone they never even knew.

Mama left ahead of us. She had to go to the next town to oversee a site visit and meet with contractors for one of her architectural projects. She runs a small but steadily growing firm specializing in residential and commercial buildings here in the province.

While Mama is focused and busy with her own work, Lola and Lolo still continue to manages our family business, a small cacao processing shop that sells tablea and local chocolate products around town.

After breakfast, Lolo would head out to start the car, the sound of the engine breaking the soft stillness of the morning, while I stayed inside helping Lola clear the table, her movements calm and practiced, like a familiar dance. She never forgets to prepare lunch and snacks for Mama and me, wrapping each meal with the same quiet love she’s always given. And every day, without fail, Lolo drives me to school. Through the years, this became the routine they’ve kept since I first wore my tiny uniform back then.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he asked as he opened the car door for me like he always did.

“Always,” I replied, sliding into the passenger seat and adjusting my tote bag on my lap.

I opened my phone to check if there are important announcements and I saw that there are messages again in the group chat of the three of us.

Nai: Queen, @Lueraina. Can you please spill our class section?

Nai: The line’s so long. It’s early in the morning and I’m already grumpy.

Juno: [sent photo.]

It was Nai, looking a little stressed as she sipped her iced coffee and pointed toward a group of students huddled around the bulletin board, scanning the list of sections.

Lueraina: 12-A. Ma’am Sol.

Nai: Thank you, my baby honeybunch lovey-dovey 143.

As we pulled out of the driveway, the morning sunlight streamed through the windshield, casting soft golden rays on Lolo’s striped polo and silver-streaked hair

The breeze slipped in through the window, carrying the scent of freshly watered grass and pan de sal from the bakery a few blocks away. Everything felt calm, like the day itself was giving me a moment to breathe.

As we neared the school, Lolo slowed the car near the gate. “You know, every time I drive you to school, it still feels like yesterday when we had to beg you to talk to your teacher in Grade 1.”

“I’m totally different now, so let’s not get sentimental, Lo.” I joked.

He chuckled. “Just remember—always be kind. Be sharp. And don’t let them see when you’re tired.”

“I promise,” I smiled, and he patted my head lightly before I stepped out.

The first day of senior year moved slowly, like the school was still waking up from summer. No rush, no heavy announcements. Just familiar routines—introductions, syllabi being handed out, and quiet murmurs of “What section are you in?”, “Where is this located?”, “Do you know him/her?” echoing in the hallway.

From the gate, I spotted Nai almost instantly. She stood out with her curled hair and iced coffee in hand, a slight furrow in her brows as she gestured animatedly toward a group of confused-looking students huddled near the bulletin board. Beside her was Juno, looking as chill as ever with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“LUE!” Nai called the moment she saw me, waving like a lost child reuniting with her mother.

I walked over, already smiling. “You guys are early, huh?”

“Girl, I woke up at four para mag-makeup, only to end up sweating in the line for the section list,” she huffed, taking another long sip from her coffee.

Juno raised a brow. “That’s your fault for insisting on being early when you could’ve just asked Lue.”

“Excuse me, it’s a different energy when it’s face-to-face. Live audience,” Nai said with a dramatic hair flip.

“But you still asked me anyway. Anyways,” I said, linking arms with her as she rolled her eyes. “Let’s go. Our classroom is on the third floor.”

We walked together, weaving through the crowd of first-day excitement and nervous laughter. There were posters on the walls reminding everyone of the school rules, a teacher walking a lost transferee to the right building, and the faint smell of fresh wax on the newly polished floors.

By the time we got to the third floor, our section was already buzzing with energy. A few students were claiming chairs by the windows, some already starting to decorate their lockers, and one group in the corner was loudly debating about their summer vacations.

The three of us found seats in the middle row, our usual spot.

“Okay, if there’s a class photo later, we should be ready.” Nai said, touching up her tint in her compact mirror.

“I swear, you treat every school day like a red carpet event,” Juno muttered while scrolling through his phone.

The classroom was warm, but not too hot—just enough for the windows to be open and let the breeze in. The chairs were the same, a little squeaky, the whiteboard newly cleaned. It felt familiar but distant, like a home you grew out of but still return to.

Ma’am Sol entered a few minutes later, her voice calm and welcoming as she greeted us and gave a short introduction. We went through the typical syllabus talk, icebreakers, a quick rundown of grading systems. Nothing intense.

By recess, we were starving.

“Canteen?” Juno asked, already halfway out of his seat.

“Obviously,” Nai replied, pulling me with her as we exited the room and joined the early rush of students eager for snacks and a break from introductions.

The corridors were louder now—laughs bouncing off the walls, shoes squeaking, familiar greetings called across the halls. It was easy to forget, even for a moment, that something inside me still ached. Even if the grief stayed tucked in the back of my mind, moments like this helped me breathe again.

It felt... almost normal.

Since I didn’t have to buy anything, I decided to look for a table first before the crowd doubled. The canteen was already packed—students weaving through the lines, trays clattering, everyone talking over each other like it was a reunion. I managed to grab a spot near the far end, a little less chaotic. At this rate, I might just eat lunch in the classroom later. At least doon, tahimik.

They dropped their trays onto the table with exaggerated sighs just as I was unsealing my baon. Lola had packed a lot, so I shared some with them without even asking—they already knew the drill. Nai immediately declared it “Lola-core,” and Juno rated it a perfect 10 for presentation.

Recess was far from boring. It was passed in laughter and low-key people-watching. Nai and Juno were their usual selves, animatedly rating and pointing out new students like they were curating a playlist of personalities. Lahat may commentary. I just laughed, letting their chatter fill the spaces where silence used to stay.

The rest of the day just went like that—slow, hazy, uneventful in the way first days usually are. Our new teachers seemed kind but guarded, as if they were still adjusting like we were. The air was warm, the rooms a little too quiet between lectures, and the bell always seemed to ring too soon or too late.

I was zipping up my bag after our last class when I reached into my wallet to check for loose coins—then felt it.

The star charm.

A small silver star, cool against my fingertips, tucked carefully into the side pocket. Hidden, like a secret I never outgrew.

Tiny, silver, and a little scratched at the edges—still intact after all this time. Geighbryel gave it to me in Grade 9, quietly, almost awkwardly, after he saw it in a shop and said it reminded him of me. “Lucky charm,” he said with that full-smile of his, because I always joined contests. He said I was the kind of person who could light up a room without trying, and that stars like that shouldn't burn out.

I forgot I still carried it. Or maybe I chose not to remember.

I haven’t told anyone I still keep it. Nai would call it tragic, and Juno would probably try to snatch it and throw it in the school fountain like some cleansing ritual.

But I can’t seem to let it go.

Maybe because some days, it’s all I have left of what used to be. Of what we were.

I snapped the wallet shut, slipping it back into my bag before I could spiral any deeper.

My friends already went home ahed since I still need to attend our first SSLG meeting for this school year.

The hallway was already a mix of post-class exhaustion and lingering first-day energy, students chatting about homework, schedules, and snacks.

I headed straight to the SSLG office—our small but familiar space tucked between the library and the guidance center. The door was already propped open, warm light spilling out into the hallway. Inside, some of the officers were already gathered, slouched in their usual seats, snacks in hand, laughter filling the room like it always did when we were together.

“You’re late,” teased Renzo, our treasurer, tossing me a choco bar.

“No, it's just that you guys went ahead because you were excited.” I shot back, catching it with a grin.

It was always like this—easy. We weren’t just co-officers, we were friends who had been through late-night Zoom calls, endless paperwork, school events that ran longer than they should’ve, and that one time we almost got locked in the AVR. There was comfort in the familiarity, and in the way we worked—light but focused, serious but never stiff.

We were planning a mini welcome celebration for all the transferees, new students, and new school faculty staffs and non-faculty staffs. Not just one, two or three—this year had plenty.

It felt good, in a way, to be part of something that made others feel like they belonged. Even if I was still figuring that out for myself.

I jotted down notes, shared a few ideas, and nodded through the meeting, but my fingers kept brushing against the star in my pocket, like a quiet reminder that some things—some people—don’t really leave. They just wait.

Maybe because I wasn’t ready to let go of the part of me that still believes.

In it.

In him.