The next week moved in two speeds: fast when Sheryl was in class, slow when she was at home counting bills. Every morning she stood before teenagers who reported the news—storms in Mindoro, a Senate hearing that went nowhere, a basketball trade that mattered too much—and she coached them to separate fact from spin. They yawned through it, but she pressed on. Social Studies was about attention, and attention was the first debt she asked them to pay.
At home, Sharon's Carl's Jr. shifts became louder than her scholarship failure. She practiced her birthday-host voice in front of the mirror, a sing-song "Happy birthday to youuuu!" that made Savier laugh and Sheryl tighten her jaw. Mom's Practical Nursing modules grew heavier, highlighted into stripes of neon. Sometimes Sheryl came home to find her mother practicing blood-pressure checks on pillows, murmuring pulse rates to herself.
Sheryl tried to keep the house stitched together with rice, patience, and the occasional halo-halo bribe. Some nights it worked. Other nights, the seams showed.
The Buzz That Cut Through
Her phone would buzz between classes, between laundry rinses, between correcting essays. A small light in her pocket, steady as a lamp.
Rafi:
Good morning. Did your students behave today?
Sheryl:
Define behave.
Rafi:
Not throwing chairs.
Sheryl:
That's a low bar. Then yes.
He told her about his work at the mosque in BF Homes—organizing supplies, helping with community paperwork, sometimes just sweeping after Friday prayers. She told him about her students' "news of the day" and how one girl reported the weather as if auditioning for TV Patrol.
The rhythm built quietly: short messages that didn't ask for more than the day could give.
Language Lessons
One evening, after grading essays about the Philippine Revolution that all forgot a date or two, she typed:
Sheryl:
Practice sentence. Say: "Nag-aaral ako ng Tagalog."
A pause, then:
Rafi:
Nag-aral ako ng Tagalog? Past tense?
She smiled.
Sheryl:
Close. Nag-aaral. Progressive. Present tense.
Rafi:
Okay. Nag-aaral ako ng Tagalog.
And you: Nagtuon ko og Bisaya.
Sheryl:
What does that mean?
Rafi:
You're studying Bisaya. See? Trade is fair.
Fair. The word landed gently but stuck.
The First Glimpse
On Friday, between class prep and homeroom chaos, she passed by the BF Homes jeep terminal on her way to a seminar at Manresa School. She had squeezed into the back of a tricycle, folder balanced on her lap, bouquet of test papers cradled in her arm. Out of habit, her gaze drifted to the street beyond the terminal. And there he was — tall, sleeves rolled, carrying a box of supplies across the mosque's small courtyard. For a heartbeat, she thought of calling out. Instead, she let the tricycle rattle forward, the moment slipping behind her like the exhaust in the morning air.
That night, she texted without mentioning it.
Sheryl:
Long day?
Rafi:
Always. But good tired. And you?
Sheryl:
Same. Chalk dust and teenagers.
Rafi:
Mosque dust and uncles. Almost the same.
She laughed aloud, drawing a curious look from her mother.
Closing Beat
By Saturday, she had marked half her students' essays and her mother had perfected a blood-pressure reading. Sharon was off to another shift, Savier was asleep, Susan in her room as usual, and the house was quiet except for the fan.
Her phone buzzed once more.
Rafi:
Do you teach history or stories?
She thought carefully before answering.
Sheryl:
Both. History is what happened. Stories are why we care.
There was no reply for a while. She imagined him somewhere in BF, prayer mat folded, thinking about the difference.
When his message came, it was simple:
Rafi:
Then tell me stories.
And for the first time, she wanted to.