Chapter 2 - The Hopeless Romantic Girl

“Hand me some buwad, Olly.” 

“Why are you always the one giving orders around here? Can’t you just get it yourself?” 

“Come again? Remember the Penshoppe bag I bought you?” 

“Okay, okay. I know what’s coming. You’re always playing that trump card. It’s not even special anymore.” 

“Still flapping those lips?” 

“Nope. Here’s your buwad, ate.”

It was a sunny afternoon, flabbergastingly serene for the two of us. Christmas had just passed. Firecracker debris and party poppers littered the streets and canals—remnants of Piccolo, Sinturon ni Hudas, and other trash scattered across the whole sitio. The extended season of family love and merrymaking lingered, yet for me, it was just another season of looking after my silly sister. I didn’t want to be a babysitter.

My name was Jelly. I was a twenty-two-year-old science teacher at Arullina National High School, advising tenth graders. Molly, my sister, was a twenty-year-old call center agent, and she was the complete opposite of me. She loved shopping and dating her popular-but-not-so-gentleman boyfriend. What I hated was how she always had a new boyfriend every three months. Christian was her fifteenth, and she already had her eyes on someone new, ready to take over once their unresolved arguments reached a breaking point. I scolded her often, not wanting her to seem promiscuous, but the truth I couldn’t admit was that I was jealous.

Teaching was demanding with unreasonably high expectations. It consumed so much time that personal life, including romance, was practically impossible.

“Don’t find love. If it comes, it comes. Let love find you,” they said. I believed that.

I carried a lucky charm in my purse. It was supposed to “attract” love wherever I went. Sometimes, I even had it blessed by a priest at churches I visited or during a weekly Christian gathering called The Feast.

I had crushes before. My first was in high school, back when I hadn’t set high standards. Not until my Korean “bebe” boys happened. It was during my fourth year at Mandaue Middle High School when I was the student council president. I was planning activities for the school fair when a freshman named Rico came in to submit a booth proposal for his class. I was the only officer available, the others tied up with class tasks.

Rico was tall, dark, and clearly trying to act cool. Handsome? No. He was visibly anxious and had crooked teeth, severe breath issues, and acne. Yet when he handed me the documents with an awkward smile and left a cringe-worthy pickup line, something stirred in me. Most girls would have found him embarrassing.

But not me.

I felt the suspension bridge effect—my heart raced. I kept it to myself and never spoke casually to him, even after he joined the council. I graduated without confessing. Later, I found out he joined to get closer to me. He liked me, too.

It was too late.

My second crush came during my first year at Cebu Education University. A classmate named Joshua used to give me rides on his motorbike. It started when he first spotted me walking near P-mall and started offering rides, which made me giddy. But it turned out his kindness had strings—he wanted my notes when he skipped class, which was often. Eventually, he transferred after being involved in issues with alcohol and drugs.

I was blind.

In my fourth year at the university, I developed feelings for Troy, a public speaker and performer. For three years, I hadn’t noticed him despite being classmates. But the more I saw him on stage, the more he stood out. Eventually, I fell for him but never confessed. He ended up with Sasha, another classmate. They were still together, their relationship flaunted on social media.

It had been years since then. I was still single, which gave my colleagues endless teasing material as most of them had already figured out their love lives—some even happily married. My best friends at work, though, were single like me, and they supported my quiet search for love. With them, I felt a sense of belonging.

After our meal, I collected the plates and dumped them in the kitchen sink. The scent of Smart dishwashing soap mingled with the lingering smell of food waste. We were used to it. 

The room was chaotic—crumpled papers, junk food wrappers, chocolate packages (I liked chocolates), used tissues, razors, and all sorts of clutter. We hadn’t always lived this way, especially back when our parents were alive. We lived in Tabogon. Now, we rented a cramped room in a small boarding house in Lapu-Lapu after Molly landed her first job. Commuting daily from Tabogon had been costly and exhausting, and we both hated crowded bus stops.

How ironic.

“Ate, I’m going out for a drink. Want anything?” Molly asked, lounging on a floor pillow in denim shorts and a white tank top with her eyes glued to the TV.

“Get me a can of Coke. And a pack of Whisper with wings. Keep the change.”

“Oh, thanks!” she said, already heading out.

Once alone, I grabbed my phone and called my best friend, Vhina. Calling her every two weeks had become a tradition. As the phone rang, a recurring dream flashed in my mind—a woman with long hair whispering, “I love you.” I thought it was our mother, but we didn’t even remember what she looked like. It felt like I’d skipped parts of my life.

A click sounded on the other end followed by coughing. “Hey, been waiting a century for your call.”

“You caught a cold?” I asked, concerned.

“Just a cold. How’s your paperwork?”

Hearing typing on her end reminded me of my unfinished lesson plans. I rushed to my bedroom, flipping open my laptop. The sight of BTS posters, figurines, and standees surrounding me was my private joy. Molly didn’t mind the decor, and no one else could judge my love for K-pop—not even my best friend.

My phone, cradled between my ear and shoulder, buzzed with another weak cough from Vhina.

“You sound worse. Get some rest. I’ll call you later.”

I hung up, opened my documents, and got back to work.

*****

I sat on a cushioned plastic chair and tried the number again. This was my tenth attempt to reach the contact written on the sticky note—the one I’d posted on my small mirror to block my reflection. The mirror no longer served its purpose, but that was fine. I didn’t want to look at myself because I felt unattractive—or as I sometimes called myself in moments of weakness, monstrous. In my mind, there was only one reason I remained single: No one could like my face. 

The moon was already up in the sky. The temperature gradually dropped as time passed by.

“Oh, hello... I’m sorry I wasn’t able to contact you earlier, cher,” I murmured, trying my best to sound polite. I couldn’t handle being screamed at or scolded, though I had no problem doing it myself—especially when it came to Molly’s misdoings.

“Cher, you know it’s almost seven p.m., right?” the person on the other end replied matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I know, but I’m having serious problems with my activities. The curriculum is quite difficult to understand, too.”

“That’s your problem, not mine. I’m having my kind of fun here, just so you know.”

“I’m really sorry, cher. I’ll submit it right now. It’s already compiled and proofread.”

“You better. I don’t want to go through it again during my leisure time.”

“Okay, cher, thank you ve—”

The line went dead.

Teacher Grumpy was on the other end—that was what everyone at our workplace called her. She had a large, round head crowned with curly black hair, gray strands beginning to show at the ends. Her eyes gave the perpetual impression that she was neither fully awake nor completely asleep. A plump, reddish nose sat above her thin, pale lips. She favored red clothing, which only served to intensify her already forceful personality. She rarely smiled as if joy had been completely drained from her. According to rumors, she spent so much time in the company of a Dementor that she had taken on its characteristics.

The call had left me briefly angry, but the feeling soon passed. On my laptop screen, the lesson plan—revised for the nth time—glowed back at me. Just as I was about to make notes about my revisions, a mild earthquake shook the room for five seconds, causing my ballpoint pen to roll off the desk. I sighed in annoyance. As I bent to retrieve the pen from the floor, my long black hair cascaded forward. My father and sister had always insisted my lovely, delicate hair complemented my small and pretty face. I had sparkling black eyes, gracefully arched eyebrows, and a petite nose above what they called angel’s lips.

Despite their flowery descriptions, I couldn’t believe them. After all, if I were truly that gorgeous, shouldn’t at least one or two men have shown interest by now? My sister had once asked me, “If ugly defines you, what is beauty then?” I missed the person she used to be. These days, Molly was interested only in dating any man who crossed her path.

I typed the email address and clicked send. This day was finally over. I brushed my teeth and washed my face. It’d be the last half of the school year tomorrow.

I went to bed right after.

*****

It was still five in the morning when a loud banging on the door woke me. Drowsy, I rose and slipped on my bedroom slippers. I smiled at the standees and murmured a groggy good morning to them. A soundless yawn escaped my throat as I stretched my arms upward. I scratched absentmindedly at my nape, back, and thighs. Then, another bang—louder than the first—reverberated through the room, followed by a slurred, drunken voice: “Ate, open the goddamn door!”

Again? I went to the door and yanked it open, leaving Molly’s knuckled right hand suspended mid-air, poised to knock again. She gaped at me, and it was only then that I realized I wasn’t wearing a top—I was standing there in nothing but my underwear.

“Ate! Don’t just open the door to anyone, especially when you’re barely wearing anything!” Molly barked, her drunken voice spraying unwelcome droplets of saliva onto my sleepy face.

“I knew it was you. Come inside. Did you have another fight with Christian?” I replied, eyeing her crumpled spaghetti-strap dress, poorly covered by a maroon cardigan. Her fake blonde hair was a tangled mess, and the mixed scents of Emperador and Red Horse hit me the moment I stepped closer.

“How’d you know? Did he message you?”

“Oh, come on. What’s new? Find a seat inside. I’ll cook you some Lucky Me.”

“I’m not drunk. Just tipsy.”

“You reek of alcohol. Get in here before I drag you. I was having a fantastic dream until you came along, so don’t test my patience.”

“Sorry. Think of this as a blessing in disguise. I got intentionally drunk so I could bang on your door, wake you up early, and remind you to prepare for your class. It’s Monday, you know.”

I blinked hard, realization striking me like a bucket of cold water. Molly noticed the change in my expression, and a smug grin crossed her face. For a fleeting moment, she seemed proud of diverting the conversation from her drunkenness to something else. But the grin vanished when I reached for the light switch by the door. The sudden brightness made us both flinch as we stepped inside.

After cooking a quick bowl of noodles, I set it on the table and, without hesitation, asked, “Tell me what happened.”

She grabbed the bowl and took a couple of noisy slurps before responding, “We broke up.”

“Wow. Am I supposed to be surprised? Is there anything about you that’s unpredictable?”

“Don’t start. I caught him with another girl. I hate him,” she muttered, taking two more slurps.

“Didn’t I tell you this dating nonsense was unnecessary? Has it ever done you any good?”

“Don’t project your bitterness on me just because you’re still single.”

“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow and smirked at her. “What was that again?”

The silence that followed was thick and tense. Finally, she replied, “Sorry. It’s just… You’re supposed to comfort me, not lecture me!”

“This is how I comfort you, Olly! And next time you bring a man here, I swear to the heavens I’ll leave this place! Don’t think I don’t know about your kinky business with that jerk when I’m not around.”

“Ate, please. Let’s not go there. We’re adults! Of course, we’d have that kind of relationship.”

“What? Are you even listening to yourself? Do you have any sense of decency left? You’re doing that here. In our home!”

“Well, hotels are expensive. Might as well use what’s available.”

A loud smack echoed through the room as my hand struck her cheek. Her face turned aside, stunned by the crisp slap. I couldn’t hold back any longer.

Another heavy silence blanketed the space as I stood there, trembling with regret. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, my voice cracking as I reached toward her flushed cheek. But she slapped my hand away.

“Don’t touch me! From now on, I’ll try to live on my own!”

She rushed into the small bedroom, yanking the curtains closed behind her. I stood frozen, caught in a haze of shame and disbelief.

Minutes later, she emerged with a luggage bag stuffed with clothes and other belongings. Without sparing me a glance, she walked out of the room. It was nearly six, and the first rays of the sun reflected off the glass windows.

I forced myself to stand on unsteady legs and limped toward the bathroom. Standing under the shower, I replayed everything in my head, guilt washing over me alongside the water. Deep down, I believed she’d be back in a few days.

It wasn’t the first time.

Clearing my mind, I focused on the task ahead. This was the first day of class in 2020, and I needed to be in my best condition to face my students.