Wet Confessions
For a moment, it occurred to me that he was writing about me or perhaps about himself.
I turned and left quietly, the rain now falling harder, drumming against my umbrella, as if marking the rhythm of things unspoken.
Back in my room, I opened my notebook to a fresh page:
“Some lessons are not meant to be taught, but felt. Some sins are not committed, but recognized.”
I closed the book and stared at the ceiling.
The line between teacher and student, between curiosity and temptation, had shifted. Neither of us had crossed it fully yet but we were both standing dangerously close.
Sikat na Kabanata