Collision Course
1380 Words
Three Years Later…
Ray adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket as he stepped into the elevator of Altierra & Lozada. The firm had grown—new partners, bigger clients, sharper suits—but this morning, none of that mattered.
He couldn’t stop thinking about a name.
Isabelle Salazar.
It had stared back at him from a manila folder late last night. Case: People of the Philippines vs. De Vera. Pro bono counsel for the complainant: Atty. Isabelle Salazar. Counsel for the defense: Altierra & Lozada.
He’d blinked. Read it again. Then walked into his associate’s office.
“Swap with me,” he said, holding out the file.
Anton looked up from his laptop. “Seriously? This is a small case—probable labor violation, borderline criminal negligence. You usually don’t touch these.”
“I’m serious,” Ray said. “I want this one.”
Anton shrugged. “Your call. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The opposing counsel’s some hotshot fresh from the Central Bank—bar topnotcher, I think. She’s got teeth.”
Ray’s lips curved into something almost like a smile. “Yeah. She does.”
The courtroom smelled like polished wood, ink, and old arguments. Isabelle stood near the front bench, calm on the outside, but her pulse thudded beneath the fabric of her blouse. Her client—a woman in her early fifties who’d been dismissed unfairly from her job as a janitress—sat beside her, clutching a worn bag like it was a life vest.
“You’re doing great,” Isabelle whispered. “Just stay honest. We’ll be fine.”
She straightened as the courtroom doors opened and footsteps echoed across the marble floor.
Her eyes lifted instinctively—and stopped.
Ray.
Walking with quiet confidence, charcoal-gray suit, expression unreadable. Time had hardened him—there was more definition to his face, more steel in his posture—but she would’ve known him anywhere.
He met her gaze mid-stride.
No words. Just a flicker of recognition. And something else—an ache carefully buried behind professional courtesy.
He took the seat opposite her, setting down his briefcase with precise, practiced ease.
So, this is how it would be, she thought. After all the silences, after everything left unsaid—they would face each other here. In court. On record.
The judge entered. Everyone stood. Formalities began. But Isabelle’s mind buzzed with the same thought, over and over.
He’s really here.
He barely heard the opening statements. His focus kept drifting back to her.
She was composed. Focused. Brilliant.
The Isabelle he remembered had always worn stress like a second skin—constantly juggling deadlines, readings, dreams too big for her own good. But the woman standing across from him now? She was in control. She radiated clarity. Strength.
She had grown into everything he once saw in her.
And he wondered if she’d see the same in him.
The hearing was postponed—technical delays, opposing counsel requests. Standard court tedium. But Ray lingered outside the hall, his phone in hand, pretending to scroll through emails.
He waited until she passed by.
She noticed. Of course, she did.
Their eyes met again.
“Isabelle,” he said, low and cautious.
She stopped.
There was a pause. Then: “Attorney Lozada.”
A beat passed. Neither of them moved.
“You look well,” he said.
“I am,” she replied evenly. “You?”
“Trying,” he said.
A muscle in her jaw ticked, but she gave nothing else away.
Ray hesitated. “Can we talk?”
Isabelle’s eyes flickered, then settled into something unreadable. “We just did. See you at the next hearing.”
“Please.”
“If this is about the case, send me an email,” she said, neutral but firm.
“It’s not.” He gestures toward a bench nearby. She doesn’t move.
“You shouldn’t be trying to talk to me outside of court. That’s unprofessional."
“So is ghosting someone three years ago.”
Isabelle's eyes flinched, almost imperceptibly. Her jaw tightened.
“Good day, Attorney Lozada.”
And just like that, she turned and walked away.
Ray watched her go, hands in his pockets, throat dry with words he still hadn’t said.
Isabelle kicked off her heels and dropped her briefcase by the door. She peeled off her blazer, draped it over the back of a chair, and headed to the kitchen. Tea—that was what she needed. Something calming, something grounding.
The kettle hissed on the stove as she leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.
Ray.
Of all the courtrooms in the city… she hadn’t expected him to be across the aisle.
And certainly not like that—older, quieter, still wearing that slight furrow between his brows like a permanent mark. His voice had nearly unraveled her, and it had taken everything in her not to flinch when he said her name.
She poured the hot water into her mug, watching it swirl over the tea bag, darkening.
She had rehearsed this version of herself—poised, unfazed, every inch the professional: Atty. Isabelle Salazar. The one who didn’t get distracted. The one who didn’t look back.
But in that hallway, when he said, “So is ghosting someone three years ago.”—she almost answered.
Almost.
She walked to her desk and opened her laptop. The Central Bank had sent over a memo about a new compliance audit. She stared at it for a few minutes, trying to read the first line.
Her mind kept going back to his voice. To the way his eyes followed her like he still had something to say.
She picked up her phone. Opened a draft message. Typed:
“You don’t get to look at me like that. Not after all this time.”
She stared at the words. Then slowly deleted them.
Instead, she opened a new note and wrote:
“He’s not part of my life anymore. He doesn't get to change that just by showing up. I have work. I have peace. I have enough.”
She saved the note. Closed her laptop.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number:
I hope we get to talk again. Soon.
No name. But she knew.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She said nothing. Then, without a word, she locked her phone. And turned off the light.
Ray sat on the edge of his bed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and nothing but the soft hum of the city pressing against his windows. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, untouched. In the other, his phone. Screen dark. No replies.
He leaned back, resting his head against the wall, the glass sweating in his palm.
Three years. He’d convinced himself he was over her. That time and distance had done their job. He had buried her under court cases, business deals, long hours, longer silences. He had stopped searching after the last time he drove to her law school and realized even her absence had a kind of finality to it.
But seeing her again—he was right back at the edge.
Not because she looked the same. She didn’t. She looked stronger now. Grounded. She carried herself like she had nothing to prove to anyone, least of all to him. But that quiet confidence just made it worse.
Because now, he didn’t know if he still belonged anywhere near her.
He took a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle behind his ribs.
You shouldn’t be trying to talk to me outside of court. That’s unprofessional.
He almost laughed. That was so… her. Ice in the voice, fire underneath. And when she turned away, he’d felt the punch of it in his chest like a door closing just an inch from his fingertips.
He turned the phone over in his hand. The message was still there.
I hope we get to talk again. Soon.
No reply. No “seen.”
Maybe she blocked the number. Maybe she read it and just didn’t care.
Or maybe, just maybe, she was wondering if he meant it.
He did.
He stared out the window, the city a blur of movement and light.
- Writer
