Fall For You

"Zephyrine!"

I heard my sister, Ate Zaf, call out from outside my bedroom door. Her voice was soft but firm — the kind of tone she used when she was already dressed up and halfway out the main door, probably with her bag over one shoulder and her car keys dangling between two perfectly manicured fingers.

“What?” I answered, lazily, not even bothering to lift my head from my sketchpad.

“I’m going out with my friends today.”

I pouted. My pencil paused mid-stroke, hovering over the shoulder of a half-finished outfit. I didn’t respond — that was my signature move. Silent treatment, paired with passive-aggressive sketching. And Ate Zaf, of course, knew exactly what I was doing.

A beat passed. Then, her voice again, sweeter this time. The kind of tone she used when she knew I was sulking but still wanted to escape the house guilt-free.

“Erin, alam kong naririnig mo 'ko. Huwag ka na'ng magtampo. I’ll buy you your favorite drink pag-uwi ko.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the smile, but it came anyway. She knows my favorite drink. It was from Starbucks. That was low, kind of. Effective, but low. But I'll take it.

"Okay po!" I called out, unable to help the grin spreading across my face.

Outside the door, I heard her groan — probably half-annoyed, half-amused — which only made me laugh harder.

Once the house went quiet again, I stayed holed up in my room, fully leaning into my pabebe recluse era. I didn’t even bother going downstairs. Our helper brought my meals up on a tray, and I guilt-tripped Ate into ordering me my favorite burger and a peach mango pie from Jollibee. She even threw in extra fries. Bless her enabling soul.

With fries in one hand and my phone in the other, I scrolled through P*******t, searching for outfit pegs and makeup looks. School was starting again soon, and there was absolutely no way I was returning as the same version of myself from last year. Back then, I was all hot-chic energy — bold lipsticks, crop tops, and power walks down the hallway. But this year? I was entering my classy era. Hailey Bieber elegance meets Jennie Kim edge. Sophisticated but lethal.

I stumbled across the perfect photo set — silk skirts, muted earth tones, sharp eyeliner wings — and instantly, I felt the familiar thrill crawl up my spine. I opened my mood board app and started pinning like my life depended on it. Each image felt like a piece of the version of me I was building, the one who wore perfume before breakfast and raised an eyebrow instead of raising her voice.

Then came the best part which is shopping.

First stop was Zalora — I added a pleated beige skirt, two Mango heels (nude and black, obviously), and a new Charles & Keith tote that screamed clean girl, but rich vibes. Sephora was next. I restocked my usual skincare lineup: toner, cleanser, and a sunscreen I barely used but loved owning anyway.

But when it came to makeup, there was only one answer. Everything had to be from Rhode! That was non-negotiable. No dupes, no drugstore stand-ins.

I added another Peptide Lip Treatment in Salted Caramel (my third, but who’s counting?), the Pineapple Refresh cleanser, and the Glazing Milk. Did I need them? Absolutely not. But watching those sleek white boxes arrive felt like opening gifts from an alternate version of myself — the one who always had her life together.

By the time I checked my carts, I was grinning.

I was so ready for my upgraded era. I hadn’t even told Mom yet that I needed a new closet — my current walk-in was a battlefield of heels and handbags, a chaotic warzone that no longer suited the woman I was becoming.

Scrolling through each item, I felt light. Giddy, even. I knew some people would call it shallow — the shopping, the planning, the obsession with aesthetics — but they didn’t get it. I wasn’t just buying clothes. I was crafting an identity. A version of myself that I could control.

Besides, I could afford to indulge.

I wasn’t earning anything yet — I was sixteen — but my parents always provided. It was only fair. They brought me into this world; the least they could do was fund the version of me I wanted to be. That’s what rich parents were for, wasn’t it?

I mean, if we were struggling, maybe I’d understand. But we weren’t. I grew up thinking silver spoons weren’t metaphors — they were just regular flatware on our table.

Lucky me, I guess.

Not that everything was perfect. We weren’t some P*******t-perfect family with Sunday brunches and matching sweaters. There were silences, eye rolls, cold wars across long dining tables. But if money couldn’t fix emotional distance, it could at least buy me things to make the silence more bearable.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Jake — my boy best friend, partner-in-banter, sometimes therapist, sometimes headache.

From: Jake

Don’t buy a lot of stuff 😑

I laughed, already picturing his face. He probably saw the ten I*******m stories I posted on my dump account — screenshots of my carts, a mirror selfie captioned “Adding to cart for mental health reasons.”

I sent him a quick reply.

To: Jake

mind your business

but also should I get this pleated skirt in navy too???

I tossed my phone onto the bed. I needed a break from screens anyway.

After a long, steamy shower — one that included a vanilla-scented body wash, hair mask, and full skincare routine — I threw on a black sports bra and matching leggings. Slipped into my Balenciaga trainers. Tied my hair into a messy bun, applied sunscreen (even though the sun was halfway gone), and grabbed my pink Aquaflask from the bedside table.

Before heading out, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Sporty, glowing, borderline intimidating. I snapped a quick photo and posted it to my story with the caption:

be right back, running away from responsibilities

I didn’t even tell Mom I was heading out. She called out as I passed the living room, but I kept walking. What did she think I was wearing activewear for — zumba in the garden?

The park wasn’t far — just a few blocks away, part of our subdivision’s curated lifestyle perks. By the time I got there, the sky was dipped in orange and lilac. Kids played with their yayas, old couples held hands during slow laps, and teenage boys biked in lazy circles like they had nowhere else to be.

I put in my wireless earbuds, queued up my playlist, and started jogging. Ten laps. That was the goal.

By the seventh, I was panting. On the ninth, I paused by a tree and took a long sip from my flask, letting the wind cool my sticky skin. I pulled out my phone and snapped a few golden-hour selfies. Adjusted the light. Tilted my head just right. Posted it on I* with the tag:

#goldenhour #blessedlife

Sometimes I wondered if people envied my posts. I kind of hoped they did. I wanted them to. My life looked so perfect in tiny square boxes, like a movie still — and I was the main character.

My phone buzzed again. As usual, it was my Mom, calling — pretending she cares about me. I declined the call without even thinking.

I started walking home slowly, my breath evening out, my thoughts somewhere else entirely.

But as I entered the gate, I paused. My sister’s friends were still in the receiving area. That was odd. Usually, they dropped her off and left. Why were they still lounging around like they owned the house?

They all turned toward me when I walked in, their eyes scanning, assessing. I raised an eyebrow. What now? Haven’t they seen a well-dressed sixteen-year-old before?

"Zephyrine, sa’n ka galing?" Mom asked from near the stairs, arms crossed.

“Outside,” I answered, already over the conversation.

"Anong oras na?"

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. “It’s just past six. Stop being dramatic.”

"Watch your words, Zephyrine," came Dad’s voice from the other room.

Ah. The full-name treatment. Classic.

I rolled my eyes for the ninth time and headed straight to the kitchen. I was done pretending to be the sweet, agreeable daughter.

I passed the living room again.

"Saan ka?" Ate asked casually from the couch.

“Kitchen,” I muttered.

She blinked at my one-word reply, but I didn’t stop walking.

My mood flipped the moment I saw the spread waiting on the kitchen island. There were donuts and cookies, and imported chocolates! A large strawberry shake from Starbucks sat on the counter. Something about sugar always felt like a peace offering — like the universe saying, sorry for the drama, here’s something sweet.

I grabbed a choco butternut donut, took a massive bite, and sighed. Finally. Something that made sense.

Then I saw him.

A new face. One I hadn’t seen before, seated among Ate Zaf’s usual crew.

He looked older. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Fair skin. Chinito eyes. A sharp nose. Clean haircut. His entire vibe screamed: this boy uses toner.

He was laughing with the guys, casual, confident, like he belonged.

I stared without meaning to.

He looked... delicious.

Every box? Definitely checked. Quiet but observant. Acts of service guy. Probably the type who remembers your order without asking. But also... there was a glint of mischief in his smile. Trouble. The kind that ruins girls like me, and somehow makes it worth it.

Then he looked up. Straight at me!

I froze. Because I was caught staring! But I didn't let it affect me. Instead, I flipped my ponytail, gave a casual strut, and walked off like I hadn’t just imagined our entire wedding.

I mean, I get it that he looks nice. But he's just a guy! Duh.

“Hoy, Ethan, ano na? Ba’t biglang natulala?” someone teased.

Ethan...

So that was his name.

I bit my lip, barely containing the smile that crept onto my face.

He hadn’t said a word, and I was already crushing. If they came over every day, I wouldn’t complain. Especially if Ethan kept coming with them. I might even offer to serve the snacks next time — purely out of hospitality, of course.

Halfway up the stairs, I paused and shook my head.

God, I was ridiculous.

And yet, something told me Ethan wasn’t just another cute boy in my sister’s circle.

Something told me... things were about to get interesting.