CHAPTER THREE

Three days had bled into one another, marked by the repetitive scent of yeast and the frustrating silence of an empty bakery. I was a man on a mission I didn't know how to complete: finding a second apprentice for Mr. Baker. My own schedule was becoming a labyrinth of lectures and late-night kneading, and I could see the fatigue in the old man’s eyes, even when he tried to hide it behind a joke.

​"Harris."

​The voice broke through my reverie. I looked up from my bench on the university rooftop to see Kelly walking toward me. She moved with a certain grace that always made me feel like I was wearing clothes made of rough burlap, even though my uniform was pressed and clean.

​"I thought I’d find you sleeping up here again," she said, sliding onto the concrete beside me.

​I was midway through the lunch Mr. Baker had packed—a hearty serving of adobo that smelled of home and hard work. He had started doing this every day, a quiet rebellion against my insistence that I could take care of myself.

​"No, not today," I said, setting the container aside. "I’m just stuck. I need to hire someone for the shop, but I have no idea how to find the right person."

​Kelly tilted her head, her eyes scanning the horizon of the city. "You’re thinking about your business again? You really are a workaholic, Harris. Why don't you just do what everyone else does? Post a 'Hiring' notice on the company website or hit up on job hiring site. It’s very easy."

​I let out a long, slow sigh. To her, "business" meant corporate structures and HR departments. She saw my silence, my sharp uniform, and my top-tier grades, and she filled in the blanks with a story of a young heir working a summer job for "experience." She didn't see the calluses on my palms from the oven peels.

​"It’s not exactly that kind of business," I murmured, deciding it was better to let her believe the lie than to explain the reality of a small bakery in a neighborhood her driver would likely avoid.

​"Anyway," she continued, her voice dropping to a softer, more sincere register. "I’m sorry for the trouble the other night. Being locked in... it was embarrassing. I feel shy every time I see you now."

​I looked at her, but she refused to meet my gaze, her fingers tracing the edge of her skirt.

​"It was my fault, Kelly. Not yours."

​"Maybe," she said, finally looking up. A faint blush crept across her cheeks. "My Nanny Petty... she wanted to thank you for looking after me. And, well, she asked for your number."

​"For what?" I asked, genuinely confused.

​"I don't know! Maybe in case of another emergency? Or if she needs to coordinate something? She’s very protective." She started biting her lower lip, a nervous habit that I found distractingly cute. "So? What is it?"

​"I don't have a cellphone," I said. It was a flat, honest statement.

​Kelly burst out laughing, a bright, melodic sound that stung more than it should have. "Haha! Very funny, Harris. You’re playing the 'minimalist' card now? You’re rich, but you can’t afford a phone? Is this some kind of social experiment?"

​"I'm not—" I started, the truth bubbling up in my throat, but the school bell cut me off. The heavy, metallic clang signaled the end of the lunch hour.

​"Our next subject is starting," she said, standing up and waving a cheerful goodbye. "Don't be a stranger, Mr. Mystery!"

​I watched her walk away, feeling the distance between us grow with every step she took. Why would I even need a phone? There was no one to call. No mother to check in on me, no father to ask about my day. My only contact was a man who lived at a bakery and spoke to me in person at 4:00 AM every morning. A phone was just a glass rectangle full of people I didn't know how to talk to.

​Dismissal came with a heavy gray sky. I walked toward the bakery, my mind still churning. I had posted a handwritten note on the shop’s window, but so far, the only people who had inquired were looking for free samples, not a job.

​As I rounded a corner near the market, the sound of shouting drew my attention. A crowd had gathered near a small electronics shop. An elderly man, his face flushed with a dangerous shade of red, was hovering over a younger guy who looked like he had stepped out of a street brawl—though his eyes were more tired than angry.

​"You’ll pay for what you did to my shop, you little punk!" the old man screamed.

​"I told you, I don't have it," the guy replied, his voice strained but surprisingly calm.

​"You broke my display mirror! That’s essential for my business! If you can't pay, you'll work it off. Seven days, twelve hours a day. No salary. You’re my slave until the debt is clear."

​The crowd murmured. The guy shook his head. "I’m not being your slave. I’ll find a job elsewhere and pay you back, but I’m not working for free while I starve."

​The old man raised a hand to strike him. It was a scene of pure, unadulterated greed. Without thinking, my feet moved. Before the blow could land, I stepped into the circle and caught the old man’s wrist. I didn't squeeze, but I made sure my grip was firm enough to stop the momentum.

​"Calm down, sir," I said, keeping my voice low and polite. "There’s no need for violence over a piece of glass."

​"Who are you? His lawyer?" the man spat, trying to wrench his arm away.

​"I'm just someone who doesn't like seeing an old man ruin his reputation in public. How much was the mirror?"

​"Two thousand pesos!" the man barked, his eyes narrowing.

​"He told me it was seven hundred before you got here!" the guy behind me shouted. A lady in the crowd nodded in agreement, pointing at the shopkeeper.

​I sighed, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my wallet. It was nearly empty. I had exactly seven hundred pesos—the result of two grueling days of work and a bit of savings. I handed it to the man.

​"Here. Seven hundred. The debt is settled. Walk away."

​The man grumbled, snatching the money and glaring at the younger guy. "Don't think you're off the hook. I'll still find a way to make you pay."

​"I have the right to say that now, sir," I countered, my voice hardening. "Since I’m the one who paid. If you harass him again, I’ll call the police. I’m sure they’d love to hear about your 'slavery' contract."

​The man turned tail and vanished into his shop. I turned to walk away, my heart heavy. That was my grocery money. My rent buffer. Gone in a single moment of impulsive "heroism."

​

​"Hey! Bro! Wait up!"

​I didn't have to look back to know who it was. The guy from the street was jogging to catch up with me.

​"Thanks for saving my life back there," he said, falling into step beside me.

​"You’re a grown man," I said, not looking at him. "You should be able to handle your own messes."

​"Hard to handle a mess when you're broke, man. Money is power, and right now, I’m the most powerless guy in the city." He let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "Did you see that guy? Seven hundred became two thousand the second he saw your school uniform. He thought you were a walking ATM."

​"Everyone makes that mistake," I muttered.

​"You go to Lavern Academy, don't you?" He pointed at the crest on my blazer. "That place is for the elite. The one-percenters."

​"I'm a scholar," I corrected him. "I pay a fraction of the tuition because I study until my eyes bleed. It doesn't mean I have seven hundred pesos to throw away. That was my food for the week."

​The guy stopped smiling for a second. "Damn. Now I feel like a piece of sh*t."

​"You are," I said, though there was no heat in it. "Where are your parents? Why are you out here breaking mirrors and getting into fights?"

​His expression shifted—a flicker of something raw and cold. "Car accident. When I was six. My relatives took me in for a while, but 'family' is just a word people use to justify treating you like a burden. They used me as a punching bag and a maid until I walked out last year. I’m not smart like you, Harris. I don't have a scholarship. I just have two hands and a lot of bad luck."

​He told me he’d been kicked out of his last job at a cafeteria for asking for too many cash advances. He was homeless, sleeping in parks, and hiding his hunger behind a loud mouth. We were the same, I realized. Two orphans in a city that didn't care if we lived or died. The only difference was that I had Mr. Baker, and I had a roof.

​"Do you really need a job?" I asked, stopping at the gate of my apartment complex.

​"More than I need air," he said.

​"Fine. Come to the bakery tomorrow. I’m looking for an apprentice for Mr. Baker. It’s hard work, and the pay starts small, but he’s a good man. He’ll feed you."

​The guy’s face lit up. "Seriously? Man, you're a lifesaver. I'm Sam, by the way. Sam Perez."

​"I'm Harris. Now, go find a place to sleep and meet me at four in the morning."

​I turned to enter the gate, but Sam didn't move. He stood there, looking at the ground. "About that... the sleeping part. My landlady kicked me out this morning. I’ve got nowhere to go, Harris. Just for tonight? I won't steal anything. I’ll sleep on the floor."

​I wanted to say no. Every instinct told me that letting a stranger into my sanctuary was a mistake. But then I remembered the way I felt when I left my father’s house—the cold, crushing weight of being alone.

​"Fine," I snapped, rolling my eyes. "But you’re sleeping on the floor. And if you snore, you’re out."

​

​My apartment was a single room that smelled of old paper and cheap noodles. It was my Fortress of Solitude. Within ten minutes, Sam had managed to occupy half the bed, read three of my comics, and critique my pantry.

​"Noodles and canned sardines? Seriously, Harris? How do you maintain that 'rich kid' look on a diet of sodium and tin?" Sam asked, hovering over my small stove.

​"I’m poor, Sam. Remember?" I said, stripping off my school shirt.

​"Whoa!" Sam shouted, dropping a packet of noodles. "Where did you get the six-pack? Do you spend your lunch breaks at the gym? Is that how you attract the 'chicks' at Lavern?"

​"I work in a bakery, you idiot. I carry fifty-pound sacks of flour every morning. It’s not a gym; it’s manual labor. And shut up about the neighbors—they’ll think I’ve moved in with a lunatic."

​"I'm not a lunatic, I'm a chef," Sam said, waving a fork. "Since you paid for my life today, I’ll cook. Sit down, Mr. Brainy. Enjoy the best instant ramen of your life."

​As I sat there, watching this stranger bustle around my tiny kitchen, a strange feeling washed over me. For years, I had guarded my loneliness like a treasure. I thought that being alone was the only way to stay safe—that if I didn't let anyone in, no one could hurt me. But as Sam placed a steaming bowl of noodles in front of me, the room felt... warmer.

​"I have nothing," I whispered to myself, looking into the mirror in the small bathroom later that night.

​I looked at my reflection—the sharp jawline, the intelligent eyes, the body built by hard work. To the world, I was a success story. To Kelly, I was a mysterious prince. But standing in a cramped bathroom with a homeless guy sleeping in my bed, I felt like a fraud. I was a stone trying to pass as a diamond.

​The next morning, the alarm went off at 4:00 AM. I woke up to the sound of Sam snoring like a chainsaw. I threw a pillow at his face.

​"Get up, Chef. It’s time to earn that seven hundred pesos."

​As we walked to the bakery in the pre-dawn chill, I felt a heavy silence settle between us. For the first time, Sam wasn't joking.

​"You see yourself as nothing, don't you?" he asked suddenly.

​I stopped. "What?"

​"I saw your face last night. You look at yourself and you see a zero. But listen to me, Harris. A 'nothing' person wouldn't have stepped in for me yesterday. A 'nothing' person wouldn't have shared his last bowl of noodles with a guy he met on the street. You think you're poor because your wallet is empty? Your brain and your heart are worth more than that CEO father of yours probably makes in a year."

​He clapped me on the shoulder and kept walking. I stood frozen for a moment, the words sinking into my skin like rain into dry earth.

​"Maybe," I whispered to the empty street.

​For the first time in my life, someone had seen the "stone" and told me it was actually a diamond. I didn't have a cellphone, a car, or a family name, but as I followed Sam toward the glowing lights of the bakery, I realized I was finally starting to build a world of my own.