The library smelled faintly of dust and photocopy ink. Sheryl sat by the window, a stack of journals in front of her, pretending to read while her stomach twisted. When she agreed to meet him here, she had rehearsed the lines in her head: short, clean, practical. End this before it went any further.
Then he walked in—plain polo, jeans, sneakers—and still somehow looked like he belonged to a world beyond her reach. Even the students shelving books near the counter stopped and whispered, eyes following him.
"Sheryl," he said softly.
Her chest betrayed her with a skip. She gestured stiffly to the chair across from her.
They ate sandwiches from the canteen. Greasy egg salad on dry bread—ordinary, grounding. She picked at the wrapper, avoiding his gaze.
Finally, she set the sandwich down. "I need to say this." Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward.
"I like you. I like you more than I should. And that's the problem."
His brows lifted slightly, but he stayed silent, steady, waiting.
"You're—what? A mosque personnel? More or less a janitor?" The words came harsher than she meant. She winced, but couldn't stop. "And me—I'm drowning here. My salary vanishes the moment it touches my hands. Every centavo has a job: food, fare, tuition, debts. I can't even afford to treat myself without guilt, except for nails twice a month, and people think I'm frivolous for that."
Her hands flattened on the table, trembling. "Two poor people can't fall in love. That's not romance—that's hunger. That's overdue rent. That's kids you can't feed. That's resentment."
She laughed bitterly. "I can't afford a relationship that only makes life harder. And you—you can't afford me. Not with the life I'm stuck with. So whatever this is, whatever it could be, it can't be born. Abort mission."
Her throat burned, but she forced a brittle laugh. "You see how agitated I am? Over a man I've known weeks. I don't even recognize myself."
Silence stretched.
Then he stood and, without a word, pulled her into his arms.
The warmth of him undid her in an instant. And then—
"Wooooooohhhhhh!"
The windows shook with the shouts of students outside. "Ma'am Sheryl has a boyfriend!" someone screamed. Catcalls, whistles, laughter—the kind of sound that could drown an entire lesson plan.
"Rafi—!" she hissed, trying to push him back, but it was too late.
The principal's heels clicked sharply in the corridor. "What is going on here?!" She swung open the door, face stern—then faltered at the sight of him.
Rafi straightened, still calm, still holding Sheryl's arm as if anchoring her. "Good afternoon, Ma'am. I'm Rafi." His voice carried evenly across the library. "Sheryl's boyfriend. I'm sorry for the disruption. I came straight from the airport in Davao—I had to see her."
The students exploded, shrieks and cheers spilling like floodwater.
The principal's expression melted into delight. "From Davao? Ay sus, Bisaya diay ka!" (So you're Bisaya!)
Rafi smiled. "Oo, Ma'am. Davao. Naa koy pamilya didto, mosque community pud."
(Yes, Ma'am. Davao. I have family there, and also a mosque community.)
Her face lit up. "Aw, maayo gyud! Kabalo ka, taga-Davao pud ko. Kanus-a pa ka diri sa Manila?"
(That's wonderful! I'm from Davao too. When did you arrive in Manila?)
"Mga duha ka bulan na. Pero karon lang ko nakauli kay nagkasakit akong Papa," he answered gently.
(Around two months now. But I just went home recently because my father got sick.)
The principal softened, nodding. "Ay, kaluoy. Amping-a gyud siya. Makarecover ra na siya."
(Oh, poor thing. Take care of him. He'll recover soon.)
Sheryl sat frozen, half mortified, half disbelieving, as her principal turned back to her with a wide smile. "Sheryl, maayo gyud. Gwapo pa gyud kaayo imong uyab. Lucky ka kaayo."
(Sheryl, wonderful! Your boyfriend is so handsome. You're very lucky.)
Her students shrieked louder, the library shaking with joy at the gossip gift they'd been handed.
Rafi only inclined his head, composed, as if this chaos had been inevitable. Then he turned to Sheryl. "I'll be back," he said quietly. "Your principal wants to talk more about Davao. She hasn't gone home in years. I'd like to hear her stories."
And with that, he left, the noise following him down the hall.
That Night
Sheryl returned to her class and did her best to keep her face blank, as if nothing had happened. Her students failed at pretending. Their giggles filled the room, whispers darting like birds: Ma'am has a boyfriend. And he's gwapo.
She picked up the chalk, wrote the lesson, and taught with her back straighter than usual. But her pulse betrayed her.
When night fell, her phone lit up.
"Sheryl?" His voice was steady, but lower than before.
"Yes?"
"I need to ask you something. Am I really your boyfriend? Or did I just imagine it?"
Her breath caught. She could have laughed it off, denied it, saved herself. Instead, she whispered, "Yes."
There was silence—then the sound of his exhale, warm and certain.
Sheryl pressed the phone against her cheek, a shaky smile tugging at her lips. "Fine. It's no longer Mission: Abort, it's now Successful Mission..." And she laughed that laugh that he has missed so much.
He chuckled softly, and for the first time in weeks, the night felt like victory.