My brows furrowed.
Miss?
It felt… wrong. Too formal. Too distant. Like we were strangers.
Like he hadn't seen me break down in that elevator. Like he didn't care.
That familiar tightness in my chest came back—but this time, it wasn't from nerves. This time, it felt like rejection.
I didn't say anything. I didn't look back. I just followed Yashina inside.
Each step felt heavier than the last, my heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm I couldn't escape. The laughter and chatter from the hall swelled around me, but it all sounded hollow, like a soundtrack that didn't quite match the scene.
I kept my chin up, pretending I was fine, pretending his words hadn't hit me harder than they should have. But the truth clawed at the edges of my chest—sharp, undeniable.
If Miss was all I was to him now, then maybe I'd been foolish to think I was ever anything more.
My friends were chatting away—laughing, whispering, cracking jokes since the program hadn't started yet—but I couldn't bring myself to join in. I was too embarrassed.
The whole event passed with my eyes locked straight ahead. I didn't absorb a single thing from the orientation. And yet, no matter where I looked, I could still see Syron.
The SSC officers were walking up and down the aisles, checking students and making sure everyone stayed in their proper seats. No one was allowed to leave during the event—unless you needed a bathroom break.
There were performers onstage, and one of them was Sharon. I couldn't watch her. I needed air.
As I stood, my eyes wandered—and there he was. My ex, sitting with the engineering department. He was staring at me.
I looked away immediately. I didn't want to see him. Because every time I did, I remembered that night. And it still played in my head like it had happened yesterday.
I exhaled sharply the moment I got outside. Chad was stationed at the door. He gave me a smile and even held it open for me.
I returned the smile, walked past him, and went straight to the restroom. I splashed cold water on my face, then stared at my reflection.
That scene earlier—Syron's hand on my waist, then the way he brushed it off like it meant nothing—flashed back in my head.
I sighed and shook my head. Why is it that no matter what I do... I can't stop thinking about him?
I washed my face again and reached for some tissue from the side.
My phone buzzed—Yash had messaged, asking where I was since the event was about to end. I quickly left the bathroom and made my way back inside.
First day, and we didn't even do anything. Typical. This would probably drag on all week while students were still fixing their add-and-drop forms.
Earlier, when we submitted ours for the retention policy, the CBAA office was packed. We could barely get inside, and the line was ridiculous. We waited what felt like forever.
Good thing Kenzo helped us out, or we would've been stuck there for hours.
Now I was on my way to the company. I couldn't reach Dad, so I decided to go straight to him. He still hadn't answered my question.
I'd been asking him since last night about moving out. And even though we didn't always see eye to eye, he was still my dad—so I wanted to ask for his permission properly.
I took public transport and got off near the building. I nodded to the guard at the entrance and stepped inside.
I spotted Kuya Ron in the lobby just as he was about to take a sip of his coffee. He froze when he saw me, then quickly stood up and walked over.
"Ms. Mace, what brings you here? Your dad's still in a meeting," he said.
I nodded and took a seat on the sofa across from him, pulling out my phone. He told me the meeting wouldn't end until five—and it was only four.
I opened Instagram. Then nearly cursed under my breath—a follow request.
From Syron.
@SyronDielle
30 posts • 3,739 followers • 1,207 following
His account was public, so yeah—I couldn't help but stalk a little. His profile picture was from last semester's university week, wearing their org shirt.
I started scrolling. Not many solo photos. Most were with friends—group shots at the beach, org events, casual hangouts. Just twelve pictures of him in total.
And yet... I stared. There was something about him. Something quiet. Collected. A kind of confidence that didn't try too hard.
He wasn't exactly the type to post thirst traps or carefully curated selfies—but that made him even more intriguing. Real. Untouchable, almost.
God, what am I doing?
I told myself it didn't mean anything. That I was just curious. That I was just bored, waiting for my dad.
But I knew that wasn't it. The way my chest tightened a little when I saw one photo of him smiling—genuinely, not that usual blank look he wore like armor—yeah, that wasn't just boredom.
Nope. Not going there. Not with Syron.
I bit the inside of my cheek and was just about to exit Instagram when a notification popped up at the top of my screen.
Syron Dielle liked your post.
I nearly dropped my phone.
Heart hammering, I opened my profile and checked. One by one, his name appeared under each photo. My eyes widened.
He went through them all. He didn't skip a single one. He really paid attention. Why?
I quickly closed the app, locking my phone as if that would somehow stop my thoughts from spiraling. What is with that guy?
Just earlier, he'd acted like he didn't even know me. Like we were strangers. And now he was liking all my photos like we were... what, friends? Acquaintances? Something else?
I stared at my phone, lips pursed in a pout, trying to make sense of it—when I suddenly felt a stare burning into the side of my face. I looked up.
Dad.
He was standing there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in obvious confusion. He didn't say anything right away, just studied me like he was trying to read my thoughts.
I cleared my throat, suddenly flustered. "How long have you been standing there?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Long enough to wonder what's going on in that head of yours." I swallowed hard.
Instead of answering, I stood up. "I came here to tell you something." His gaze didn't move.
"Go on."
"I'm moving out," I said, voice firm. "Whether you like it or not."
He scoffed. "Then what's the point of telling me?"
I rolled my eyes. "So you'll stop calling me every five minutes," I snapped, turning away from him.
The moment the words left my mouth, regret slammed into me. That's not how I meant to say it. That's not what I practiced.
I shut my eyes tightly. God, so frustrating.
"Mace." I stopped in my tracks.
"Whenever you need help," Dad said, his voice low but steady, "just call me. I'm still your dad."
I gave a small nod, not trusting myself to speak. I didn't look back.
I started walking again, heading straight for the exit. As the glass doors closed behind me, I exhaled—the kind of breath you don't know you've been holding.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw him stepping into the elevator. And for a second, I wondered—when did things start to shift between us?
It felt unfamiliar. Uncomfortable, even.
Because before, every conversation with him was a fight waiting to happen. One word out of my mouth, and he already had a counterargument locked and loaded.
He never let me win—not once. Everything had to make sense to him. Everything had to be logical.
I used to hate that about him. But now? Now he was quiet. Softer. Less of a wall and more of a person. And I didn't know how to feel about that.