I grew up learning that nothing is ever handed to people like us. Not warmth, not comfort, not chances. You work, you bleed, you wait—then you work again. Tatay always said, “Anak, hindi tayo mayaman, pero may dangal tayo.” So I carried that in my bones.

Monteverde Hacienda de Grande was the kind of place that reminded me of everything I hated—marble floors polished by hands like Tatay’s, chandeliers brighter than the futures most of us hoped for, and people who didn’t know how heavy a single day of labor felt. But it paid for books, drafting pens, and the ink I needed for my plates. If I wanted to finish Architecture, I had to swallow the bitterness.

And then there was you.

The middle child of the Monteverde family—fierce, sharp, and dressed in silk anger. Your siblings glowed under the spotlight; you burned under it. I saw it long before you noticed me. How your eyes hardened whenever your mother’s voice cut you down. How you laughed too loud, too sharp, as if volume could hide how lonely you were.

I didn’t like rich people… but you were an exception I hated admitting.

Every free hour after class, I’d help Tatay trim the hedges outside the east garden. That’s where I’d see you—arms crossed, scowl perfected, pretending the world didn’t bruise you. You’d glare, roll your eyes, call me names. And somehow, it never pushed me away.

Maybe because your anger didn’t scare me. Maybe because I understood it. Maybe because… I liked the way you came alive when you were annoyed.

One afternoon, after acing a plate submission thanks to hours of studying in silence and solving design problems like puzzles, I got a call—your school. Trouble. Your parents were unreachable.

So I went.

The guidance office smelled like paper and old furniture. You sat there, chin high, pretending not to shake. I knew better. I stepped forward, calm, collected, the way I always had to be to survive.

“I’m here for her.”

The teachers didn’t question it—I spoke too firmly, too confidently, too politely for them to doubt me. Strategy. Tone. Posture. All the things I mastered to keep doors from closing on me.

I handled everything before a whisper could reach your parents. By the time we walked out, the sun was bleeding orange on the pavement.

You turned to me, jaw clenched.

“Didn’t I told you to fucking stay away from me? I don’t need you. I hate you. I hate your status, your face, your arrogance, I hate you.”

The words hit cold, but they didn’t cut. Not when I knew the truth behind them.

I leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a slow smirk pulling at my lips.

“Keep talking, pretty face. You don’t pay me so don’t expect me to follow your order.”

Your eyes widened—first in anger, then in something softer. Something you refused to name.

And for the first time that day, I saw it.

You weren’t pushing me away.

You were asking me to stay.