The Morning in Parañaque
The storm had passed by morning, leaving Parañaque washed and gray. Sheryl sat at the small condo table with a cup of instant coffee warming her palms, her hair tied up in a messy clip. She expected awkward silence after the night they had shared, but Rafi was calm, steady as ever. His presence didn't feel like escape — it felt like a vow.
On the counter rested the borrowed scooter helmet, streaked with rain. Humble, noisy, chipped with paint, it had become the symbol of reliability.
After breakfast, he drove her back to Sto. Niño. The scooter buzzed down the narrow streets, her papers hugged to her chest as the wind pulled strands of hair from her clip. At her gate, with neighbors sweeping their yards and sari-sari stores opening, he didn't kiss her, but his hand lingered on hers before he let go.
That evening, he was at the school gate again. Students whispered and teased, but Rafi only smiled, waiting with the scooter idling. He dropped her home, joined her family for dinner, bowed his head politely during grace, and helped stack the dishes before excusing himself.
Later, in her family's small sala, he finally told her the truth — or part of it.
"Sheryl… I need to go home for a while. To Davao. My father is really ill, and there are legal matters I need to help with."
She studied him quietly. "How long?"
He sighed. "I don't know. Maybe a month, maybe longer. I'm sorry — the timing couldn't be worse. We were supposed to plan that Baguio trip, remember? It has to wait."
Sheryl leaned back, folding her arms. "Take your time, Rafi. Your father needs you. We can wait on Baguio."
"I promise, I'll come back as soon as possible," he said.
She smirked, eyes glinting. "Naw, take your time. While you're gone, maybe I can meet a prince who'll sweep me off my feet. Hahaha…"
Rafi chuckled softly, though something flickered in his gaze. "Just don't let him beat me to you."
She laughed at her own remark, never guessing how close it struck to the truth.
Mid-August — The Departure
The morning he left, he reminded her again: "I'll text you every morning and evening. I'll call you each night. I'll be back by September 15, insha'Allah."
And true to his word, the messages came like clockwork:
Good morning, Sheryl.
Don't forget lunch.
I'll call later.
Each evening, no matter how late in Jakarta, his voice found her through the crackling line. It steadied her, even as she counted the days.
Jakarta — The Dinner Table
The Al-Malik residence glowed with polished teakwood and the faint scent of jasmine. Lanterns lit the long dining hall, casting soft light on carved walls and silver platters.
Rafi took his seat at the far end of the table, the clatter of utensils and the murmur of voices surrounding him. His father sat at the head, pale but composed, while his mother presided beside him, her silk shawl draped elegantly across her shoulders. His elder brother and cousins filled the remaining seats, their eyes sharp with unspoken judgment.
The meal unfolded with measured grace — roasted lamb seasoned with saffron, rice perfumed with cardamom, and bowls of dates passed down the line. Conversation touched on politics, trade, and the recovery of his father's health. No one asked about Manila, though Rafi felt the weight of his mother's gaze linger too long.
He spoke little, offering polite answers, until finally, when the last of the tea was poured and the servants began clearing the table, he rose and bowed to his parents.
"Baba, may I speak with you privately?"
Jakarta — The Father's Chamber
The old man sat propped against pillows in his private chamber, a shawl across his shoulders. His color had returned since the heart scare months ago, though his breathing was still shallow. At the sight of his son, his eyes softened.
"You came," his father said. "Alhamdulillah."
"I had to, Baba." Rafi knelt beside him, lowering his head respectfully. "I could not stay away."
They spoke quietly of his health, the courts, the duties waiting. At last, when silence settled, Rafi said:
"There is something else I must ask you. Something personal."
His father's gaze sharpened. "Go on."
"I wish to marry, Baba. Not to the woman chosen for me. But to someone I met in Manila. She is kind. Steadfast. She carries herself with dignity though she has little. She makes me better."
The old man studied him long and hard. Then, with a faint smile tugging at his lips, he whispered: "You speak of her as a man in love, not as a prince."
"I am both," Rafi said firmly. "But before I take another step, I need your blessing."
For a moment, the air hung heavy. Finally, his father's hand reached out, trembling, resting on his son's. "Bring her to me. If she is as you say… I will give you my blessing."
Relief filled Rafi's chest. "Thank you, Baba."
The Garden — The Mother's Doubt
The next day at lunch, over dates and tea, his father mentioned Rafi's words. His mother froze, her cup striking the saucer with a sharp crack.
Later, she summoned him to the courtyard. The koi pond rippled behind her, the frangipani tree heavy with blossoms.
"Your father tells me you are in love," she began.
"Yes, Mama," Rafi answered.
"With a Catholic Filipina schoolteacher?" Her voice trembled, but her eyes were hard.
Rafi did not waver. "Yes, Mama. Her name is Sheryl."
"Ya Allah, Rafiq…" She closed her eyes briefly, then fixed him with a piercing look. "Do you not see what you ask of us? She cannot enter this family unless she converts. Without Islam, there is no place for her here."
"I will speak to her," Rafi said quietly. "I will ask her. But Mama… I love her."
Her voice broke with anger and fear. "Love is not enough. If she refuses, you will be torn in two. Think carefully."
Rafi bowed his head, the weight of her words pressing heavy on his chest. But he knew where his heart already belonged.
At that very moment in Jakarta, Rafi stood alone by the wide windows of his chamber, the city skyline glowing in the late afternoon haze. His reflection stared back at him, caught between two worlds.
He thought of Sheryl's laughter, her stubborn grace, the way she carried responsibility like armor. He thought of his mother's warning, sharp as glass: She cannot enter this family unless she converts.
His heart ached with the distance, the words he hadn't yet spoken, the truth he still had to tell. Pressing his palm flat against the glass, he whispered her name into the silence.
Sheryl… wait for me. I'll come back to you. Insha'Allah, soon.
The city moved beneath him, restless and alive, but he stood still — a prince in Jakarta, a man in love in Manila, and a bridge yet unbuilt between the two.
Across Oceans
That same afternoon, Sheryl sat at her desk in Parañaque, sipping water between classes. A sudden choke caught her throat, making her cough until her students giggled.
"Ma'am! Nabulunan ka? Someone's thinking about you!" they teased.
Sheryl waved them off, blushing, but as she caught her breath she whispered under her breath, "I hope it's Rafi."