It was meant to be a joke. A harmless prank in the middle of a boring org period.
“Nominate natin si Hirotaka, bro,” one classmate smirked, whispering behind his hand. “Para lang ma-gulat.”
And gulat nga.
Because when the final tally was announced during a sleepy Thursday class, and the homeroom teacher called out in full confidence, “The new P.R.O. is... Nifuji Hirotaka,” the room erupted in gasps and snorts.
He didn’t even look up from his phone.
You, on the other hand, blinked slowly from your seat beside him. “Love… that’s you.”
He finally looked up—expression blank, earbuds half-in. “Po?”
“Nanalo ka.”
“Where?”
You leaned in and whispered, half-laughing, “Student council. You just got voted P.R.O.”
He blinked at you. Then at the teacher. Then back at you.
“…Oh.”
(Skip)
“I literally just wanted to play Apex,” Hirotaka muttered under his breath, slouched across the long table at the org room, clutching a half-empty iced latte. He wore his student council ID like it personally offended him.
“Love,” you said, flipping through your notes beside him, “this is character development.”
“No, this is academic imprisonment.”
But you could tell—he didn’t hate it as much as he claimed.
Sure, he grumbled about announcements, scheduling meetings, and how he was forced to sit through 90 minutes of a planning session that could’ve been an email.
But you also saw how he started using his planner.
How he greeted the officers in Tagalog—awkward at first, but endearing.
How he helped the secretary edit captions for school events and even stayed late once to finish printing tarps for a mental health awareness week.
He’d never say it out loud, but he was changing. Growing.
And somehow, you were falling even harder for him.
(Skip)
One Friday afternoon, you were stuck in traffic on your way to campus when you received a message from him:
“Wanna eat after your class? May window ako till 2. Kita tayo sa Yuch.”
P.S. I bought you the choco taho u like. Naiwan sa org room fridge. Di ko nalasahan, promise.”
Your heart softened.
When you arrived, you found him sitting under the covered walk, hair slightly messy from the heat, his lanyard lazily looped around his fingers, your favorite taho resting beside him.
“You’re early,” you said.
He gave you a rare, lopsided smile.
“I wanted to see you before I got pulled into another meeting. Sobrang daming ganap, pero—” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Pero?”
“I’m managing. Kasi…” he glanced at you, voice softer now, “di ko gusto isipin ng parents mo na I’m making you lose focus sa studies mo. Or that I’m just wasting time.”
You blinked, surprised. “You talked to my mom last week, didn't you?”
He nodded slowly. “She said you’ve been tired. Stressed. Falling behind in one subject.”
You looked down, guilty.
“I don’t want them to think this—us—is distracting you,” he added. “So starting today... kahit loaded ako, I’m making time. Let’s study together, okay? Para hindi ka na mag-isa sa paghahabol.”
Then—very gently—he took your hand.
No words. Just the quiet warmth of his palm against yours.
“’Di mo na kailangang i-carry lahat mag-isa,” he murmured. “I got you.”
(Skip)
He still complained. Still cursed under his breath when meetings ran late.
But now he messaged you his schedule every Sunday, just so you could plan study dates.
He still forgot his umbrella, but remembered to bring an extra pad for you in his bag—“Just in case you forget again,” he’d say, voice flat, but ears red.
And most of all, he learned.
Not just how to lead. Not just how to write official memos in semi-decent Filipino.
He learned how to care—loudly, quietly, in his own way.
Through taho and shared planners.
Through study nights and forehead kisses after org events.
And you? You learned that sometimes, the most unexpected responsibilities are the ones that turn a gamer boyfriend into the man you didn’t know you needed.