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It’s 6 o’clock on a Monday morning, the first day of school in the school year of 202*. A youth of sixteen or seventeen stood prim on the sidewalk, patiently—almost patiently waiting for a jeepney to arrive. Her name is Ruby. She is short and thin, wearing a complete school uniform, plastering a soft shy curve on her lips. On her shoulders hung her backpack, in the pocket of her palda is the ten peso coin she had prepared for the fare from her daily allowance of 50 pesos.
The clock continues ticking. Her wet hair, fresh from the bath , is now dried. Still the jeep hasn’t arrived. She swings her foot onto the little stones and kicks them for lone amusement, or for irritation. She doesn’t really know. She stopped, looked at the sole on her shoe, and her toes petrified. She sighed to herself, “I should probably get a new pair.” But then she takes the thought back. “Saka nalang. Kaya pa naman madikitan ng rugby.”
The sun’s rays have now pointed on where she stands. She squints her eyes and tilted her head to the side, followed by a honking of a jeepney then she brought her palm in front so she could ride. The seats are already occupied, she squeezed herself, mixing with different embroidery of uniforms. She reached for her readied ten peso and handed it to the girl beside her. They have a similar figure, and she goes to the same school as her too. She probably is the new girl on campus since the face isn’t familiar to her.
“Makikiabot po ng pamasahe,” she politely said to the girl.
The girl took the coin without looking at her fully, only a brief glance that did not linger long enough to be remembered properly, and yet it would remain, though she would not know why. The coin passed from one hand to another until it was lost somewhere in front, and Ruby drew her hand back, folding it quietly on her lap as if it had done something more than simply give.
Her name is Cecilia.
She will learn this not now, not in this cramped morning ride, but later—when she sees it printed on a plastic ID that swings lightly against a white blouse. It will happen in a classroom that smells faintly of chalk and dusty electric fans, in the narrow space of Grade 11 – HUMSS where chairs scrape against tiled floors and voices echo too easily. Ruby will already be seated, second row from the window, and Cecilia will sit beside the empty seat next to her.
Unsure, Cecilia asks, “Pwede dito?” to which Ruby would nod, because there had been no reason not to, and perhaps no understanding yet that such small permissions sometimes carry a length of time within them. Cecilia would sit there all throughout the rest of the school year. And Ruby, who had been used to the quiet consistency of her own space, would begin to notice how easily another presence could alter the shape of her mornings.
“Ano yung sagot sa number three?”
Ruby would tilt her paper, not fully, just enough, her hand steady though she would feel that slight hesitation she always had when giving something of herself, even something as simple as an answer. Cecilia would lean closer, her shoulder nearly touching Ruby’s, and say, “Huh? Bakit 671 ang sa akin?,” with a kind of ease that Ruby could not quite replicate, only receive.
There would be afternoons when Cecilia would nudge her arm lightly, not looking at her when she said, “CR tayo,” and Ruby would stand with her without question, already aware that they would not stop at the restroom but continue walking, past it, past the hallway, toward the cafeteria where the air was thicker and sweeter, where the noise of other students gathered in a way that made it easier not to be noticed too closely.
They would buy juice in ice wrappers, the coldness pressing against their fingers, and banana cue glazed in sugar that stuck briefly to their teeth. Cecilia would talk more, her words moving quickly from one thought to another, and Ruby would listen, nodding at the right moments, adding something when she could, her voice softer but present. Sometimes she would laugh, and though it would not be as loud, it would be enough to feel included in the sound.
It would feel, in those afternoons, that something had been formed, though neither of them would name it, and perhaps because of that it would seem safer, as if unnamed things were less likely to be broken.
But there would come a time when Cecilia would not sit immediately beside her. She would pause somewhere else, speaking to someone, laughing at something that did not include Ruby, and then, sometimes, she would not come at all. Ruby would look down at her notebook, pretending to read, telling herself there was nothing unusual in this, that people move, that seats are not assigned by anything more than convenience.
Still, she would leave the space beside her unoccupied.
Just in case.
“Okay lang,” Ruby thought to herself, because it had always been okay, or at least it had always been said that way, and Cecilia would go.
From then on, it would not be sudden, but a series of small adjustments that accumulated. Cecilia sitting elsewhere more often than not. Cecilia speaking across the room instead of beside her. Cecilia’s attention belonging to a circle that did not open in Ruby’s direction. It won’t help how Cecilia becomes hostile, smiling at everybody just not to her. She would not talk to Ruby nor even glance at her, as if she was a contagious disease she was trying desperately to avoid.
Ruby would begin to wonder, quietly, carefully, as if even the question might disturb something further.
Had she done something wrong?
Had she failed to say something she should have said?
Had she been too quiet, or too slow, or too much in ways she could not measure?
She would replay conversations in her mind, trying to locate the exact moment where something might have gone wrong, but there would be none.
And still, she would respond.
When Cecilia messaged, she would reply quickly, afraid that the delay might create more distance than there already was. When Cecilia greeted her, she would smile, the same soft shy curve she wore on that first morning, though now it would feel slightly heavier, as if held in place by effort rather than ease.
On her birthday, Cecilia would greet her late in the evening, the message brief but punctuated with apology, and Ruby would read it more than once before replying, “It’s okay. Thank you,” because it was easier to say that than to ask why it had come so late, or why it had felt like something remembered rather than something felt.
By the time Grade 12 settled into its final months, the distance would have arranged itself into something familiar. Ruby would no longer expect Cecilia to sit beside her. She would no longer look up each time the door opened. She would sit through classes with her hands folded neatly, her attention fixed where it needed to be, learning how to occupy her space without leaving room for someone who no longer reached for it.
There would be a tiredness to it, from holding something in place for too long until the hands learn to let go not by decision.
College would come, and with it the clean separation of different schools, different schedules, different lives that no longer required the small intersections they once had. Cecilia would gradually forget to greet her in any events, if Ruby doesn’t reach out first. Ruby would notice, though she would tell herself she had not been waiting.
And Ruby will understand, that life moves forward, that some things do not end with a clear moment, but simply continue until they are no longer there.
“Ilan ‘to?” the driver asks when the fare reached his hands.
“Dalawang studyante po!” the girl beside her replied.
The driver nodded, his hands already moving, counting coins with ease. Then the jeepney slowed down near the school gate. The passengers began to step down one by one. Ruby followed, careful as her shoes met the ground, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. The girl stepped down after her, fixing her skirt slightly before walking ahead.
They entered the same gate. Ruby will step inside the room and choose a seat near the window, second row, placing her bag down beside her before sitting. And the girl in the jeep will follow, and will sit beside her. For a moment, they do not speak, but she will learn her name from her ID. The electric fan turns overhead, slow and steady. Outside the window, the morning continues.
And the space between them remains simply a seat shared, on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the school year.
Written by Michaela Emanuele Sinto
Art by Joelle Jia Roa
The clock continues ticking. Her wet hair, fresh from the bath , is now dried. Still the jeep hasn’t arrived. She swings her foot onto the little stones and kicks them for lone amusement, or for irritation. She doesn’t really know. She stopped, looked at the sole on her shoe, and her toes petrified. She sighed to herself, “I should probably get a new pair.” But then she takes the thought back. “Saka nalang. Kaya pa naman madikitan ng rugby.”
The sun’s rays have now pointed on where she stands. She squints her eyes and tilted her head to the side, followed by a honking of a jeepney then she brought her palm in front so she could ride. The seats are already occupied, she squeezed herself, mixing with different embroidery of uniforms. She reached for her readied ten peso and handed it to the girl beside her. They have a similar figure, and she goes to the same school as her too. She probably is the new girl on campus since the face isn’t familiar to her.
“Makikiabot po ng pamasahe,” she politely said to the girl.
The girl took the coin without looking at her fully, only a brief glance that did not linger long enough to be remembered properly, and yet it would remain, though she would not know why. The coin passed from one hand to another until it was lost somewhere in front, and Ruby drew her hand back, folding it quietly on her lap as if it had done something more than simply give.
Her name is Cecilia.
She will learn this not now, not in this cramped morning ride, but later—when she sees it printed on a plastic ID that swings lightly against a white blouse. It will happen in a classroom that smells faintly of chalk and dusty electric fans, in the narrow space of Grade 11 – HUMSS where chairs scrape against tiled floors and voices echo too easily. Ruby will already be seated, second row from the window, and Cecilia will sit beside the empty seat next to her.
Unsure, Cecilia asks, “Pwede dito?” to which Ruby would nod, because there had been no reason not to, and perhaps no understanding yet that such small permissions sometimes carry a length of time within them. Cecilia would sit there all throughout the rest of the school year. And Ruby, who had been used to the quiet consistency of her own space, would begin to notice how easily another presence could alter the shape of her mornings.
“Ano yung sagot sa number three?”
Ruby would tilt her paper, not fully, just enough, her hand steady though she would feel that slight hesitation she always had when giving something of herself, even something as simple as an answer. Cecilia would lean closer, her shoulder nearly touching Ruby’s, and say, “Huh? Bakit 671 ang sa akin?,” with a kind of ease that Ruby could not quite replicate, only receive.
There would be afternoons when Cecilia would nudge her arm lightly, not looking at her when she said, “CR tayo,” and Ruby would stand with her without question, already aware that they would not stop at the restroom but continue walking, past it, past the hallway, toward the cafeteria where the air was thicker and sweeter, where the noise of other students gathered in a way that made it easier not to be noticed too closely.
They would buy juice in ice wrappers, the coldness pressing against their fingers, and banana cue glazed in sugar that stuck briefly to their teeth. Cecilia would talk more, her words moving quickly from one thought to another, and Ruby would listen, nodding at the right moments, adding something when she could, her voice softer but present. Sometimes she would laugh, and though it would not be as loud, it would be enough to feel included in the sound.
It would feel, in those afternoons, that something had been formed, though neither of them would name it, and perhaps because of that it would seem safer, as if unnamed things were less likely to be broken.
But there would come a time when Cecilia would not sit immediately beside her. She would pause somewhere else, speaking to someone, laughing at something that did not include Ruby, and then, sometimes, she would not come at all. Ruby would look down at her notebook, pretending to read, telling herself there was nothing unusual in this, that people move, that seats are not assigned by anything more than convenience.
Still, she would leave the space beside her unoccupied.
Just in case.
“Okay lang,” Ruby thought to herself, because it had always been okay, or at least it had always been said that way, and Cecilia would go.
From then on, it would not be sudden, but a series of small adjustments that accumulated. Cecilia sitting elsewhere more often than not. Cecilia speaking across the room instead of beside her. Cecilia’s attention belonging to a circle that did not open in Ruby’s direction. It won’t help how Cecilia becomes hostile, smiling at everybody just not to her. She would not talk to Ruby nor even glance at her, as if she was a contagious disease she was trying desperately to avoid.
Ruby would begin to wonder, quietly, carefully, as if even the question might disturb something further.
Had she done something wrong?
Had she failed to say something she should have said?
Had she been too quiet, or too slow, or too much in ways she could not measure?
She would replay conversations in her mind, trying to locate the exact moment where something might have gone wrong, but there would be none.
And still, she would respond.
When Cecilia messaged, she would reply quickly, afraid that the delay might create more distance than there already was. When Cecilia greeted her, she would smile, the same soft shy curve she wore on that first morning, though now it would feel slightly heavier, as if held in place by effort rather than ease.
On her birthday, Cecilia would greet her late in the evening, the message brief but punctuated with apology, and Ruby would read it more than once before replying, “It’s okay. Thank you,” because it was easier to say that than to ask why it had come so late, or why it had felt like something remembered rather than something felt.
By the time Grade 12 settled into its final months, the distance would have arranged itself into something familiar. Ruby would no longer expect Cecilia to sit beside her. She would no longer look up each time the door opened. She would sit through classes with her hands folded neatly, her attention fixed where it needed to be, learning how to occupy her space without leaving room for someone who no longer reached for it.
There would be a tiredness to it, from holding something in place for too long until the hands learn to let go not by decision.
College would come, and with it the clean separation of different schools, different schedules, different lives that no longer required the small intersections they once had. Cecilia would gradually forget to greet her in any events, if Ruby doesn’t reach out first. Ruby would notice, though she would tell herself she had not been waiting.
And Ruby will understand, that life moves forward, that some things do not end with a clear moment, but simply continue until they are no longer there.
“Ilan ‘to?” the driver asks when the fare reached his hands.
“Dalawang studyante po!” the girl beside her replied.
The driver nodded, his hands already moving, counting coins with ease. Then the jeepney slowed down near the school gate. The passengers began to step down one by one. Ruby followed, careful as her shoes met the ground, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. The girl stepped down after her, fixing her skirt slightly before walking ahead.
They entered the same gate. Ruby will step inside the room and choose a seat near the window, second row, placing her bag down beside her before sitting. And the girl in the jeep will follow, and will sit beside her. For a moment, they do not speak, but she will learn her name from her ID. The electric fan turns overhead, slow and steady. Outside the window, the morning continues.
And the space between them remains simply a seat shared, on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the school year.
Written by Michaela Emanuele Sinto
Art by Joelle Jia Roa
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