September — Days of Distance
One month stretched into nearly two. Rafi had promised Sheryl he would return by mid-September, but obligations in Jakarta chained him there longer: his father's health, court matters, and his mother's watchful eyes.
Every day apart weighed on him, so he made good on his word.
The texts arrived like clockwork:
Good morning, Sheryl. Did you eat breakfast?
Don't forget lunch.
Are you too tired from teaching?
What did you dream last night? I dreamed of you.
At night, no matter how late in Jakarta, his call always came. Sometimes they spoke of lesson plans, sometimes of her siblings, sometimes they said nothing at all, letting the line hum with shared silence.
For Sheryl, the buzz of her phone became her heartbeat. Her students teased her mercilessly. "Si Sir Rafi na naman, Ma'am!" they crowed each time her screen lit up. She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself.
Still, there were nights she stared at the calendar, heavy-hearted. One month, he said. And yet, she waited, because his words — steady, gentle, unbroken — gave her no reason to doubt.
October 15 — The Roses
By the second week of October, she had almost stopped counting. Almost.
That Friday afternoon, the final bell rang, and students poured out of Parañaque National High with their usual noise. Sheryl was gathering test papers when the commotion started at the gate.
"Ma'am Sheryl! Si Sir Rafi!"
She looked up and froze.
There he was, standing tall with a bouquet of roses in his hands. The battered scooter was parked beside him, helmet slung over the handlebar, as if nothing had changed. But his smile — wide, relieved, overflowing after weeks of absence — made her breath catch.
Her students shrieked, pressed against the windows, clapping and chanting her name. Sheryl's cheeks burned as she crossed the yard, heart hammering.
When she reached him, he held out the roses with both hands. "I'm sorry it took longer," he said softly. "But I'm here now."
Her throat tightened, but she managed a grin. "You'd better be."
The students roared like they were watching a teleserye, and for a moment, the two months apart melted into nothing.
Let's Go Shopping
The next day, he texted: Be ready by 4. Wear something simple. I'm taking you out.
When he pulled up, it wasn't the scooter this time but a clean sedan. Sheryl raised an eyebrow. "Where's the scooter?"
"Resting," he said with a grin. "Tonight's different."
He drove her to Makati, where rows of boutiques glittered under soft lights. Sheryl stopped short. "Rafi… what are we doing here?"
"Shopping," he said easily. "I'm buying you a dress."
Her eyes widened. "What? No, no, I don't need—"
"Sheryl." His hand squeezed hers. "I've been away almost two months. Let me do this."
She sighed, muttering, "You're impossible," but let him lead her inside.
They laughed and bickered as he picked dresses — too long, too frilly, too short — until finally he handed her a simple midnight-blue dress. When she stepped out of the fitting room, smoothing the fabric, his breath caught.
"Perfect," he murmured.
She rolled her eyes. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe. But tonight, you're mine."
The Date
The rooftop restaurant overlooked the Manila skyline, fairy lights glowing above, candlelit tables dotting the terrace. Sheryl sat gingerly, scanning the menu, her eyes widening at the prices.
"Rafi…" she whispered. "Be honest with me. Did you win the lottery or something?"
He chuckled, pouring her water. "No lottery."
"Then what? You're a janitor at the mosque, remember?" She waved at the glittering scene around them. "This isn't jeepney fare."
For a moment, his smile flickered, then returned, softer. "Let's just say I've saved. Tonight is for us."
She gave him a long look, then huffed. "If you pawned your scooter for this, I'll never forgive you."
"The scooter is safe," he promised, and she finally laughed.
They dined on grilled salmon, saffron rice, and glasses of chilled wine that made her cheeks glow. She laughed freer than she had in months, while he watched as though he could memorize every curve of her smile.
At one point she caught him staring. "What is it?"
He shook his head, voice low. "I just don't want to forget this moment."
The Room
Later, he led her to a boutique hotel nearby. The room was simple but elegant: white sheets, warm lighting, the hum of the city outside.
For a moment, Sheryl hesitated, clutching her bag, but two months of waiting pressed against her heart. When his hands framed her face, when his forehead touched hers, all hesitation melted.
Their kiss was urgent, laughter breaking between them as they fumbled out of formality and back into each other. His jacket fell to the floor; her hair spilled free. Their whispers tangled with sighs, his voice rough when he said her name, her hands clutching as though she could anchor him there forever.
When at last they lay tangled together, her head on his chest, she murmured into the quiet, "Worth the wait."
His arm tightened around her, lips brushing her hair. "Always."
Sunday Morning — Siopao and Coffee
The morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. Sheryl stirred, her head still on his chest.
"Good morning," he murmured.
She smiled sleepily. "Good morning."
He kissed her forehead, reached for the phone. "Room service?"
She bolted upright. "Room service? Do you know how expensive that is? Triple the price for coffee and eggs!"
Rafi laughed softly. "Sheryl… it's just breakfast."
"Breakfast is pandesal and kape, not five-hundred peso toast." She pulled the sheet around her shoulders and grabbed her jeans. "Come on. Let's go to 7-Eleven."
And so they walked hand in hand under the morning sun, buying siopao and instant coffee from the fluorescent-lit shelves. Sheryl paid proudly at the counter.
"See? Less than a hundred pesos."
Rafi carried the bag, shaking his head. "Only you would trade luxury breakfast for siopao in styrofoam."
She grinned up at him. "If you love me, you'll eat siopao with me."
He leaned down, whispering, "Then I'll eat siopao every day."
Her cheeks warmed, but she shoved the bag at him, laughing. "Good. Because room service is banned."
Back in the room, they ate cross-legged on the bed, sipping instant coffee from paper cups. It wasn't extravagant, but to Sheryl it felt real. Something she could hold.
The Question
Later that morning, when the wrappers were crumpled and the city hummed outside, Rafi reached for her hand.
"Sheryl," he said quietly, "your sem break is at the end of the month, right? October 31 to November 5?"
She gave him a wary look. "Why? Are you finally taking me to Baguio?"
He smiled, but tension edged his voice. "Not Baguio. I want you to come with me. To Davao."
She frowned, then shrugged. "Davao instead of Baguio? Fine. But you owe me strawberries and pine trees one day."
"Deal," he said, kissing her knuckles.
The Night Before
October passed in a blur of schoolwork and scooter rides, but Rafi was quieter than usual, something always weighing on him.
On the night before their flight, she came to his condo in Sucat with her small backpack. She dropped it on the couch, laughing. "So this is it? Davao at last?"
But Rafi didn't laugh. He stood by the window, the city lights flickering across his face. When he turned, his eyes were serious.
"Sheryl… it's not Davao."
Her smile faltered. "What?"
"It's Jakarta," he said, each word steady. "That's where my family is. That's where I need to take you."
Her pulse quickened. "Jakarta? As in Indonesia? You told me—"
"I know." He stepped closer, took her hand. "I wasn't ready to tell you before. I was afraid. But if you come with me tomorrow, you'll see who I truly am. You'll see everything."
Silence stretched. Her heart pounded. Jakarta. A foreign country. His family. This was no side trip. This was stepping into a world she'd never imagined.
Finally, she whispered, "Jakarta."
His grip tightened, relief flickering in his eyes. "Yes. Jakarta."
And though fear curled in her chest, another truth rose above it: she wanted to be with him. No matter where.