More Than What They See

CHAPTER 11: The Secret Look

Rhian’s POV

It was Friday, and the moment the last bell rang, I did not waste a second saying goodbye to anyone. I picked up my bag and walked straight to the small eatery, because I knew we really needed the extra pay. The owner told me earlier that there would be a small gathering tonight, so I had to stay longer than usual. I moved from one table to another without stopping—wiping every corner clean, scrubbing piles of dishes until my hands turned red, and carrying heavy trays of food back and forth. My whole body ached, my legs felt like lead, and my shoulders burned with every movement, but I bit my lip and kept going. Every peso I earned would help Mama pay for our rice and my school supplies, and that thought was the only thing pushing me forward.

It was almost closing time when the bell above the door rang again. I looked up while holding a pitcher of water, and my breath hitched. It was Gio, Jace, and Francis. They wore simple shirts and jeans, like they had been walking around the whole afternoon and just wanted a quiet place to sit for a while. When their eyes landed on me, Gio’s lips curved into that familiar mocking smirk right away.

“Well look who is here again,” he said loudly enough for everyone inside to turn and look. “Our very hardworking classmate. You look so tired, Rhian. I wonder if you can even stand up much longer without falling down.”

Jace walked closer, pretending to pass by, and purposely bumped my hand hard with his elbow. The water I was holding spilled all over the floor, splashing my shoes and the hem of my skirt.

“Oops,” he said with a fake innocent smile. “You should be more careful next time. You might slip and embarrass yourself even more than you already do.”

I froze in place, gripping the empty pitcher tight. Tears were already burning the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. I told myself he would join them, laugh along, and say something even worse like he always did in school. But Francis just stood there, staring at me for a long moment—looking at my tired eyes, my rough hands, and the way I held back my pain—before he turned to his friends.

“I said stop it,” he said quietly but firmly, his voice sharp and serious. “Let us just order and leave her alone.”

Gio and Jace stopped laughing instantly, looking at each other in surprise.

“Wow Francis,” Jace teased, raising an eyebrow. “Do you like her or something? Don’t forget who we are and who she is. You don’t need to act like this.”

Francis fell silent. He clenched his jaw and looked away, saying nothing more. I walked over slowly to take their order, my hands still trembling a little. I took out my small notebook and pen, keeping my eyes fixed on the paper so I would not have to meet their gaze.

“What would you like to order, sirs?” I asked softly.

“Three bowls of noodle soup,” Francis answered first, his voice softer now. “And three cold drinks.”

I wrote it down quickly, but before I could walk away, I heard him speak so softly that only I could hear it.

“Once you finish here, please go straight home and rest. Do not push yourself too hard.”

I did not look up or answer. I just nodded and walked back to the kitchen, my mind full of questions I could not find answers to. When they finished eating and paid, they left without saying anything else. But as Francis stepped out the door, he glanced back at me one more time—a look so full of worry that it made my heart ache more than all their insults ever did.

Later that evening, when everyone had gone home and everything was clean, I carried two heavy bags filled with leftover rice and bread to share with Mama. My arms felt like they would break, and I had to stop every few steps just to catch my breath. When I turned the corner toward our street, I saw someone standing by the lamppost. It was Francis.

I froze, tightening my hold on the bags, ready for another mean joke or another cruel word. But when he saw how exhausted I was and how the heavy bags pulled my arms down, he walked closer slowly, like he was afraid I would run away.

“Let me carry that for you,” he said gently, and took the bags from my hands before I could even say no. “It is far too heavy. You will hurt yourself carrying all this alone.”

We walked in silence for a long time. No one spoke, only the sound of our footsteps on the pavement filled the quiet night. He walked a little ahead, carrying the bags easily, while I followed behind him, still too confused to say anything. When we were almost at the street where we lived, he suddenly stopped and turned to face me.

“I know you hate me,” he said without looking me in the eye, his voice low and shaky. “And you have every right to. I have said and done so many terrible things to you. But… please do not ever think you are worth nothing. Because they are wrong. You are worth more than all of this.”

Before I could ask what he meant, before I could ask him why he acted this way, he handed me the bags and took a step back.

“Go inside now,” he said quickly. “Your mother is probably waiting for you. And please… take care of yourself.”

He turned around and walked away fast, disappearing into the dark before I could even find the words to speak. I stood there holding the bags against my chest, watching him go. For the first time, I realized there was so much more to Francis Jimenez than just a bully. He was hiding something deep inside his heart, and he was fighting a battle of his own that no one else knew about.