The Glow
Rafi made himself a fixture outside the school gate. At first, Sheryl tried to wave him off—"The students will see, Rafi!"—but he would only smile and hand her a helmet. Eventually she stopped protesting, climbing onto the back of his borrowed scooter, her skirt pressed down by one hand, the other clinging lightly to his shoulder.
They wove through Parañaque traffic at dusk, horns blaring, street vendors calling out the day's last bargains. The ride home took fifteen minutes, sometimes twenty, but for Sheryl it was a pocket of freedom. She closed her eyes once, just to feel the air rushing over her face, and thought, So this is what it's like not to walk alone.
He stayed for dinner sometimes. Their house was small, patched and worn, but Rafi sat at the table as if it were the most natural place on earth.
Mama fussed over him at first, serving extra rice. "So, you work at the mosque?" she asked in her careful Tagalog.
"Yes, Ma'am," he said with polite gravity. "Small duties. Maintenance. Helping where I can."
Sharon leaned over her plate, smirking. "Ma, don't you think he looks like an artista? Ate's lucky."
"Sharon," Sheryl snapped, glaring. But Rafi only chuckled, as if the teasing bounced off him.
Savier piped up next, showing off a crooked cardboard solar system he'd made for science. "Kuya Rafi, do you think the planets look right?"
Rafi bent low, studying the lopsided Saturn with its misshapen rings. "Perfect," he said. "Planets are not supposed to be exact. They dance differently each day."
Savier's grin could have lit the house.
Susan, as always, stayed mostly silent. But Sheryl noticed how Rafi glanced at her occasionally, not with curiosity but with a quiet respect, as if he sensed the ocean beneath her quiet surface.
After dinner, he insisted on helping wash dishes, rolling up his sleeves at the sink. Sheryl watched him with a lump in her throat. He fit too easily here—laughing with Savier, nodding along to Mama's stories of PLDT cables and long shifts, enduring Sharon's relentless chatter.
And the terrifying part was how he looked while doing it: content. As though this was the life he'd been chasing all along.
Rafi's Thoughts
Later, as he dried his hands on a thin towel, he let his gaze wander the small sala: cracked tiles, framed high school diplomas, a sagging sofa with hand-me-down upholstery. He thought of Jakarta's marble floors, the endless noise of protocol, the weight of a title pressed like a crown of thorns.
Here, there was noise too—Sharon teasing, Aling Aida fussing, Savier bouncing—but it was the kind of noise that felt alive. A family's mess, not a dynasty's burden.
I could give it all up, he thought suddenly, startling himself. For this table. For her.
The Monologue
But Sheryl would not let herself sink too far. At night, when the house finally went quiet, she laid flat on her bed and spoke to the dark like a confessor.
This is temporary. He is temporary. A beautiful distraction from the heaviness of my cross.
Her cross had many names: unpaid bills, tuition fees, Savier's school shoes, Sharon's recklessness, Susan's silence, Mama's unending hope.
When it ends, she whispered, we will be civil, polite humans. We'll part with sweet memories, no bitterness. I will tuck him into a quiet corner of my heart, like a photograph you don't throw away but never frame either.
She laughed once, bitter. Other women dream of forever. I only dream of surviving payday. This isn't a relationship—it's R&R before the next battle.
But her chest betrayed her, warm and restless, remembering the press of his hands steadying her on the scooter, the way his eyes lingered across the dinner table.
The Discovery
Saturday afternoon found her in the school library, hunched over a computer, working on her action research. The barangay captain in La Huerta had requested a livelihood project for women—something sustainable, something practical. Sheryl typed in keywords: community livelihood, women's cooperatives, microfinance projects.
YouTube links popped up: small-town sewing cooperatives, gardening initiatives, a sari-sari store collective. She clicked through them absently, jotting notes.
Then a thumbnail caught her eye: Youth Leadership Summit — Jakarta, hosted by the Royal Foundation.
She almost skipped it. But she clicked, and the video opened to a wide stage, dignitaries lined up behind polished podiums. Flags, floral arrangements, flashes of camera bulbs.
And then the camera panned.
Her stomach dropped.
A man stood among them, dressed in a suit, face solemn under bright lights. The jawline was familiar, the stance impossibly familiar. The caption at the bottom confirmed what her eyes already screamed:
Prince Rafiq Al-Malik.
"No…" she whispered to the empty library. She leaned closer to the screen, replayed the segment. Once, twice, three times.
It was him.
The same steady eyes that had looked at her across a dinner table. The same voice that told Savier planets danced. The same man who fetched her on a scooter outside the school gate.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, heart slamming against her ribs.
"Rafi," she breathed.