Ten Years of Autumn

The faded polaroid tucked under the glass of my vanity was taken when I was ten. We were sitting on the edge of a bamboo bench under a sprawling mango tree in Batangas, our knees covered in dry dirt and our slippers worn down to the soles. Anton had his arm unceremoniously hooked around my neck, holding a melted ice candy in his other hand, laughing so hard his eyes crinkled into dark crescents. Back then, "Olly and Anton" was a single, indivisible contract signed in childhood promises. We swore we’d build houses side-by-side along the provincial highway, share an old jeepney, and never leave the barangay. Then the summer we turned sixteen wrecked everything. His mother’s illness forced his family to move to Manila overnight. The morning they left, the typhoon rain pounded relentlessly against our tin roof, blurring the tail lights of their van as it vanished down the muddy road. The texts came daily at first, then weekly, then dissolved into generic "Happy New Year" greeting until even those faded into complete silence. By twenty, the boy who used to patch up my scraped knees was just a memory buried under years of unspoken goodbyes. Now, at twenty-six, I straightened the collar of my beige blazer and stared up at the gleaming glass tower of Ayala Corporation along Makati Avenue. The humid Manila air clung to my skin, heavy with the scent of exhaust and rain. It was my first day as an associate brand manager—a fresh start I’d spent sleepless nights working toward. I stepped into the high-speed elevator, clutching my laptop bag. When the doors whistled open on the 22nd floor, the HR associate guided me past bustling glass cubicles toward a sleek corner office. "Olly, this is our senior brand director," she said, tapping lightly on the open glass door. "He’ll be overseeing the entire Luzon launch." The man at the desk didn't look up immediately. He was signing a stack of documents, a silver watch gleaming on his wrist under the cold track lights. His dark hair was combed back with polished precision, his broad shoulders filling out a bespoke charcoal suit. Gone was the boy in oversized graphic tees and dusty slippers. "Give me a minute," he murmured. His voice was a deep, velvety baritone that hit my chest like a physical weight. When he finally raised his eyes, the air vanished from my lungs. The sharp jawline, the faint scar just above his right eyebrow from the time he fell off my bicycle, and those dark, guarded eyes. Anton stopped mid-signature. The pen in his hand went completely still. For ten agonizing seconds, the silence stretched so taut I felt it in my ribs. A decade of unread messages, late-night tears, and forgotten summers crashed against the sterile white walls of the office. He looked at me—not as the girl who used to steal his merienda, but as a total stranger holding a fresh employee ID. "Anton," the associate urged, entirely oblivious to the quiet earthquake shattering the room. "This is Olivia Martinez, our new team lead." Anton stood up slowly, rounding the heavy mahogany desk. His expression was a wall of smooth, unbroken ice. Professional. Distant. Unreadable. "Welcome to the team, Ms. Martinez," he said softly, extending his hand. When my fingers brushed against his palm, a sharp, electric ache flared straight to my core. He didn't ask about Batangas. He didn't mention the old mango tree. He just held my hand for a heartbeat too long, his gaze searing into mine with a quiet, agonizing intensity before letting go.