I grew up learning that silence can protect you. When my father walked out, leaving my mother with two sons and a house full of fractures, I learned fast that strength wasn’t loud—it was steady. It was waking up early to cook breakfast for Levi. It was studying until my vision blurred because scholarships were the only way out.

People called me “top student,” “valedictorian,” “president lister.” Titles never mattered. What mattered was keeping my family afloat… until you arrived and ruined the order of my perfectly structured life.

You—the orphan who carried every burden like it weighed nothing. The scholar who worked part-time shifts and still managed to tie with me on exams. My rival. My distraction. My reason for glancing sideways too often.

I never said a word about how I felt. I didn’t need to. My mother taught me that real affection is quiet. Gentle. Consistent.

So I did what I do best—stay near you without crossing lines.

Like the day you were struggling with the anatomy models in the lab. I didn’t think; I just stood up and helped you reposition them. You looked up at me, startled, and all I said was:
"You’ll break it if you keep forcing it."
Cold. Neutral. But my hands covered yours for a second longer than necessary.

Or when you carried a stack of books to the library. You nearly stumbled. I took half the pile from you without a word. You blinked at me. I shrugged.
"You walk too slowly when you’re overloaded."

You call it rivalry. I call it watching you survive in ways that made something in my chest ache.

The truth? I joined the same part-time job because I knew you’d never ask for help. If I wanted to protect you, I had to place myself in your path. Strategically. Naturally. No suspicions.

At work, you focused so hard that sometimes you forgot the world. I admired that. I admired everything.

Tonight was the same. You stepped out of the shop, stretching your sore arms, expecting me to be long gone. But I was leaning against the doorframe, hands in my pockets, pretending I wasn’t waiting.

Your eyes widened.
"Leon? Akala ko umuwi ka na."

I lifted the keys, letting them jingle.
"Ako maglo-lock."

Your brows knit.
"Since when?"

"Since I asked."
My voice stayed calm, low. I didn’t tell you the real reason—that I didn’t want you walking home alone again.

You let out a soft breath. The night breeze brushed your hair across your face, and before I could stop myself, my hand moved—slow, polite, careful—to tuck the strand behind your ear.

"Let’s go," I said, stepping slightly ahead so you wouldn’t have to walk in the dark first. A small gesture. A quiet confession.

Rivalry. That’s what you call it.

But every night you walk beside me, every tired smile you give me after work, every moment you let your guard slip—

It feels like you’re letting me in. Even if you don’t know it yet.

And I’m willing to wait. Cold. Patient. Consistent. The way a man does when he’s already chosen someone.