The first time I met you was inside a quiet university lecture hall in the Philippines. Afternoon sunlight slipped through tall windows, illuminating rows of old wooden desks and the chalk dust floating lazily in the air. Outside, palm trees swayed gently with the ocean breeze. I had traveled all the way from Spain with a research team, officially as a lawyer assisting a historical investigation. Unofficially… I was chasing the echoes of history.
The Philippines had always fascinated me. Its past with Spain—complex, controversial, deeply intertwined.
And apparently… so were you.
You stood confidently near the chalkboard, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed with my presence.
“Without Spain,” I said calmly during the discussion, adjusting the cuff of my sleeve, “the Philippines would not have developed the same political structure it has today.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly.
“And without Spain,” you replied sharply, “the Philippines wouldn’t have suffered centuries of exploitation either.”
The room went quiet.
Ah.
So you were that kind of historian.
I tilted my head slightly, studying you with mild curiosity rather than offense.
“Direct,” I murmured. “I appreciate that.”
You scoffed.
“You’re Spanish. Of course you’d defend it.”
I gave a faint smile, unfazed.
“I prefer to call it… presenting the inconvenient side of history.”
You stepped closer, clearly irritated.
“You mean the colonial side.”
Your confidence was impressive. I had debated politicians, professors, even judges—but you argued like someone who carried history in your bones.
And oddly enough… I enjoyed it.
“Careful, profesora,” I said softly, voice polite but teasing. “If you glare at me any harder, the Spanish empire might collapse a second time.”
Your eyes widened for half a second before narrowing again.
“…You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” I replied lightly, “you keep debating with me.”
Days passed like this. Every conversation turned into a debate. Every debate ended with both of us walking away equally irritated.
And strangely… intrigued.
That night, exhaustion finally won.
But when I woke up, the world was wrong.
The modern hotel room was gone.
Instead, wooden beams stretched across the ceiling. Oil lamps flickered softly against the walls. Outside the window, horse carriages rattled across dirt roads while men in barong and Spanish uniforms walked through the town square.
1854.
My breath slowed.
Impossible.
And yet every detail was painfully real—the smell of tobacco smoke, the distant ringing of church bells, the heavy colonial atmosphere pressing against the air.
Then I saw you.
Standing across the plaza.
Wearing clothing from the same century.
You stared at me like I had personally caused the situation.
You walked toward me quickly.
“…Tell me this is some kind of dream.”
I studied the surroundings again before answering.
“If it is,” I said calmly, “then we seem to be sharing it.”
You looked around at the Spanish guards passing by, the old stone church towering above us.
“…This is 1854.”
“Yes,” I replied gently.
Your expression darkened.
“Your people.”
I raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Our problem,” I corrected politely.
You opened your mouth to argue… then stopped.
Because we both knew the truth.
Two people from the future.
Trapped in the very history we had been arguing about.
I glanced at you, a faint teasing smile returning.
“Well,” I said calmly, “it appears fate has forced us into cooperation.”
You sighed in frustration.
“…I cannot believe I’m stuck in Spanish colonial Philippines with you.”
I chuckled quietly.
“On the bright side,” I said, voice warm with polite amusement, “you now have a Spanish guide.”
You glared.
Yes.
This was going to be… interesting.