Chapter 2
1321 Words
We stepped into the quiet library, the soft glow of old lamps casting warm pools of light on the wooden shelves. Andy walked a few steps ahead of me, his hands tucked into his pockets, moving with that calm, measured stride he always had.
“Follow me,” he said, nodding toward a dim corner.
I thought we’d just stop between the shelves, but instead, he pushed open a narrow door I hadn’t even noticed. It creaked softly, and a small room opened up—hidden, almost secret.
The moment the lights flickered on, my breath caught.
Canvases.
Everywhere.
Paintings leaned against the walls, propped on easels, stacked on tables. The room felt alive—bursting with color and quiet stories.
“Andy…” I whispered, stepping in as if afraid to disturb the air. “These are beautiful.”
I moved instinctively toward a portrait of a woman. The strokes were delicate yet sure—the kind of skill that came from someone who didn’t just paint but felt. The woman’s eyes gleamed with a softness that almost made her real.
My fingers hovered near the canvas, tracing the air above the signature at the bottom.
“Andres,” I read aloud.
My eyes widened. “You… this is yours?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Yeah. Is it… okay?”
“Okay? Andy, this is incredible! I never expected this from you. I mean—aren’t you studying architecture? Why didn’t you take fine arts? This—this talent is insane.”
He laughed under his breath. “Look who’s talking, Cecil.”
“But we’re different. Your dad—he supports you. You can ask him anything you want.”
His smile faltered.
A flicker of something I couldn’t place—sadness? Bitterness?
Then it was gone.
“So you really don’t know,” he murmured.
“What do you mean?” I asked carefully.
He stiffened, then turned away quickly, dodging the question.
“No—nothing. Come here, there’s… something else I want to show you. Actually, that’s why I brought you here in the first place.”
Before I could press him further, he reached into the drawer of a small table and pulled out a tiny envelope. He held it out to me, his expression unreadable.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking it.
“You don’t recognize it?”
I flipped it over—and the world seemed to tilt.
My handwriting.
Happy Birthday, Andy.
Written five years ago, uneven and playful.
“This—this is my birthday card to you!” I blurted out.
“Mm.”
“But didn’t you… I mean, I thought—”
“I kept it,” he said simply. “Actually, I took it back from Yaya a week later.”
I stared at him, overwhelmed.
Five years.
He kept it for five years.
Inside, the watercolor drawings I’d made were still bright, un-faded—as if time hadn’t dared touch them.
“You… kept this?” My voice softened. “Andy, it’s just a cheap card. I made it with leftover watercolors.”
He shook his head. “Your mom—Tita—she told me you stayed up late making it. I… I appreciated that. It was the only handcrafted gift I ever got. And once I began understanding art, I valued things like these even more. So… I kept it.”
Emotion swelled in my chest—warm, unexpected.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “I thought you’d thrown it away. I really worked hard on this, you know.”
I reached for it again. “Can I… maybe have it back? I can keep it safe now.”
“Nope.”
He held it away from me, grinning.
“You already gave it to me. I’m just letting you relive the memory.”
I laughed helplessly. He wasn’t giving it back. No chance.
“Thank you… and sorry again about what happened back then,” he said quietly. “I promise, I’ll keep this card like it’s one of my treasures.”
His sincerity made something flutter in my chest.
“Really? Well… thank you. I didn’t think you’d appreciate it this much. It actually means a lot.”
His smile softened.
“I’m glad you’re happy. At least now, maybe I’ve made up for that terrible thing I did to you.”
I laughed. “Yes. More than enough.”
He didn’t laugh back.
He just looked at me—straight into my eyes—with a kind of lightness, a quiet joy I’d never seen in him before.
And I couldn’t look away.
⸻
Dinner was quiet, the soft clink of cutlery filling the space.
We had just taken our seats when auncle Diego cleared his throat and turned his attention to me.
“So, Cecil,” he began, his voice smooth and authoritative, “how are your studies at the new university? Everything going well?”
I straightened slightly, setting down my napkin.
“Yes, Tito. I’m adjusting well.”
“Good. And is Andy helping you? You know you can always ask him if you have questions.”
“Ah—yes, of course.” I gave a quick, awkward laugh. “Actually, he was the one who guided me during my first week at school.”
I glanced at Andy beside me and smiled. He responded with the smallest nod, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he didn’t want to make a big deal of it.
“That’s good to hear,” Uncle said. “I was afraid he might be ignoring you. I would’ve had to straighten him out.”
Andy coughed—loudly and obviously fake.
Mama laughed, giving me a discreet wink.
“Oh no,” I said quickly, “he’s not like that. He’s quiet, but he’s kind.” The words slipped out before I realized I’d said too much. “Actually, Mama—did you know Andy is a really talented painter?”
Andy froze.
And so did the table.
The glass of water he was holding wobbled dangerously as he choked on a sudden cough, nearly spilling it.
Mama raised her brows. “Oh? Talented painter?”
“Yes! I saw his works earlier—Mama, they look professional.” I spoke without filter, still excited from what I had seen.
But Tito Diego didn’t look pleased.
He set down his fork slowly, deliberately.
“So… you’re painting again?”
His tone wasn’t curiosity. It was warning.
Andy looked down. “Dad… those are old pieces. From before.”
A stretch of heavy silence settled over the table.
Then Tito leaned back, exhaling sharply.
“And your project?” he asked, voice suddenly clipped. “Your professor told me the presentation of your house model is this week.”
Andy straightened a little. “It’s almost ready. Just finishing the details, then I’ll be good to go.”
“Make sure you are,” Tito said. “I have high expectations of you. Remember—you need to finish that course in two years. The new company will open soon, and I intend for you to run it. As CEO.”
The knife in Andy’s hand stilled.
His jaw tightened.
“Yes, Dad,” he said quietly. “I’ll do what’s needed.”
Mama and I exchanged a glance, both of us falling completely silent.
No one dared breathe.
The air felt tight—like the walls themselves were listening.
Guilt twisted in my chest.
I peeked at Andy.
He didn’t look at me, but the muscle in his jaw kept pulsing, betraying everything he wasn’t saying.
And suddenly, the memory of his earlier words echoed in my mind—
“So you really don’t know.”
Maybe… I really didn’t.
I swallowed hard.
Shet.
Did I just get him in trouble?
- Writer
