Sheryl didn't sleep much that night. The image from the YouTube clip burned behind her eyelids—Rafi in a suit, standing among officials, the caption under his face clear as sunlight: Prince Rafiq Al-Malik.
She tried to laugh at herself. Maybe it's someone else. Maybe "Rafiq" is a common name in Indonesia. Maybe the camera angle is lying.
But no amount of excuses erased the certainty in her bones: it was him.
The next afternoon, he was waiting outside the school again, scooter humming. He waved, helmet in hand, casual as always. She slid onto the back, her arms automatically wrapping around his waist, and hated how natural it felt.
The ride home was ordinary. He told her about the new boy at the mosque who mispronounced Arabic prayers in funny ways; she laughed in the right places, though her mind wasn't in it.
At dinner, Sharon teased again, Susan said little, Mama quizzed him about vegetables. Rafi answered each question with calm politeness, slipping into her family like a long-missing piece.
Sheryl watched him and thought: Is this all a performance?
The First Probe
After dinner, when they stepped outside to let the evening air cool them, she asked, "So… have you ever traveled outside the Philippines? Like for work at the mosque?"
It was casual, light.
He hesitated only a breath before smiling faintly. "Yes. A few times. Jakarta. Kuala Lumpur. Mostly for conferences. Nothing exciting."
Sheryl nodded, heart drumming. He didn't look nervous. He didn't look like someone caught. He looked like a man telling the truth.
But she had seen the video.
The Second Probe
Two nights later, as they walked to 7/11 for ice cream, she asked again, her tone playful: "If you could be anyone for a day, who would you be?"
He thought about it. "Someone without responsibility," he said finally. "A fisherman. Just the sea, and silence."
It was such a modest answer. Almost too modest.
Sheryl licked her cone and forced a laugh. "I'd be a millionaire. With no bills."
He smiled, but his eyes searched hers as though trying to read what lay beneath.
Sheryl's Monologue
At night, she scolded herself. What am I doing? Interrogating him like some spy?
But the truth gnawed at her. She wanted to believe him, the simple Rafi who fetched her on a scooter and ate tapsilog with her mother. She wanted to lock away the Rafi in the YouTube video, the prince in a suit with a name that didn't belong to a janitor of a mosque.
Maybe it's better to keep quiet, she told herself. To enjoy this while it lasts. He's a beautiful distraction. That's all he ever was meant to be. When it ends, we'll be polite, we'll part, and I'll carry only sweet memories.
And yet—when her phone lit up with his name, when his voice reached across the night to say good evening, she answered without hesitation.
Rafi's Quietness
Rafi, for his part, felt the shift. He noticed the way her questions probed at edges she didn't dare name. He sensed her eyes on him longer, sharper. He smiled through it all, steady, calm.
Inside, though, his chest tightened. She knows something, he thought. Or suspects. I cannot hide forever.
But for now, he let her lean against his shoulder on the scooter ride home, and he let himself pretend—just for tonight—that the crown and its weight didn't exist.
Storm at BF
It was late August, thunder season, the kind of day when the sky looked heavy long before the rain fell.
"Before we head home," Rafi said as Sheryl climbed onto the scooter after class, "can we go to BF? I promised one of the mosque boys I'd bring him a Qur'an. He needs it for his homework."
Sheryl adjusted her helmet, nodding. "Sure. Homework comes first."
They reached the mosque compound just as the clouds opened. Rafi ducked inside and came back with a slim Qur'an wrapped carefully in plastic. "For Ahmad," he explained with a small smile. "He's only twelve. Read like he's seventy." He dropped it off on the next street near the mosque and Ahmad was so happy to see him. She cannot help but be proud of her boyfriend. So reliable, someone a little kid can always depend on. He would be a great dad someday. "Shhhh…stop your train of thought before you hurt yourself", she told herself.
But as they rode back toward Sto. Niño, the drizzle became a downpour. Rain slapped their faces, lightning forked in the sky, and the scooter wobbled on slick pavement.
"This is dangerous," Sheryl shouted over the storm.
Rafi slowed, pulled under an awning, water streaming from his hair. He made a quick decision. "My place is nearby. We'll dry off there and wait it out. "
Sheryl hesitated but saw the seriousness in his eyes, the rain already soaking through her blouse. She nodded.
The Caretaker's Condo
When they stopped outside an SMDC tower in Parañaque, she blinked at him. "Rafi… this place?"
He gave a half-shrug. "It isn't mine. I'm the caretaker for a family who lives abroad. They trust me to keep it in order. Nothing glamorous, I promise."
The story was simple, believable. Sheryl followed him in, dripping wet, clutching the Qur'an in its plastic wrap.
Inside, the condo was modestly furnished: a small couch, a neat table, curtains drawn against the storm. More comfort than she expected, but not outlandish.
Rafi handed her a towel. "Here. Dry off before you catch a cold."
She dabbed at her face and arms, laughing shakily. "We look like drowned cats."
"You," he said, eyes soft, "look perfect."
The First Kiss of the Night
Silence pressed in, punctuated only by thunder. Her wet hair clung to her neck. He reached out, gently brushed a strand away, his fingers lingering at her cheek.
The kiss that followed was not tentative this time. It was deep, urgent, the storm answering them with each flash of lightning. She clutched his shirt, pulling him closer; his arms wrapped around her, steady and unyielding.
They stumbled toward the couch, laughing between kisses, the sound breaking against the walls like waves. His hands moved slowly, reverently, asking at every touch. She answered without words, her body leaning into his, her heart racing faster than the storm.
The night unfolded with a rhythm of restraint and surrender. They shed the rain, the noise, the doubts, until nothing remained but warmth. The storm raged outside, but inside there was only tenderness—two people searching for solace and finding it in each other.
When at last they lay side by side, tangled in silence, she rested her head on his shoulder and whispered, half to herself, "This isn't real life."
He kissed her hair softly. "It is, tonight."
Aftermath
Long after his breathing evened into sleep, Sheryl stared at the ceiling. This is just a fling, she told herself. A distraction. A beautiful memory to carry when it ends.
But deep down, under the rationalizations, she knew: tonight had changed everything.
And in the quiet of his chest, Rafi thought the one thing he could never say aloud: I could give up the crown for this.