It was a Monday, the kind that dragged its feet through gray skies and the sour smell of overpriced toner in our 21st floor conference room. Manila’s skyline looked like a PowerPoint background, muted in fog, glass towers blinking half-heartedly in the morning light. I sat at the head of the oval table, suit pressed, jaw clenched, one finger tapping mindlessly against my Montblanc pen. A storm was coming—and it was wearing MAC Ruby Woo.

“You’re all forgetting the core message of our synergy pillar,” she said, flipping a laminated chart like it was gospel. My ex, Roxanne. Still pretending she wasn’t five PowerPoint slides away from a public meltdown. Still clinging to her role like it wasn’t a favor from HR. Still calling me Nick like she ever earned the right.

I could’ve corrected her. I could’ve called security. But instead, I opened my phone under the table and texted you.

Me: "Hey, love. Have you had lunch yet?"

You replied fast. You always do.

You: "Hi, love. No, I’m on a diet."

Cute. Dangerous. Unacceptable.

I tilted my phone, smirking, thumb hovering over my banking app. One click. Screenshot. Sent.

₱1000.

You: "LOVE, I SAID I’M ON A DIET!! 😤"

Another click. Another screenshot.

₱3000.

You: "LOVE—HELLO?! THIS IS NOT HOW DIETS WORK!! 😤💢"

The boardroom went still for a moment. I think someone just finished asking about ad spend. Doesn’t matter. I was too busy looking at your contact photo—head tilted, lips pouty, the shirt I bought you slightly falling off your shoulder.

I grinned, probably too wide for a Monday, definitely too wide for someone sitting across from a woman who once screamed at me for using her conditioner.

My thumbs moved again.

Me: “Okay but you can still diet… after sushi. I’m ordering. You want tamago too right?”