Work Text:
Statistically Speaking
Shuvee Chrisna Etrata did not believe in "meet-cutes."
Hindi siya naniniwala sa mga kwento ng pagkikita sa jeep, biglang connection sa tambayan, o yung tipong pareho kayong humihila ng libro sa library at sabay napatitig sa isa't isa. She always thought those were overrated. Romanticized. A product of too many rom-com movies and Wattpad stories. In real life, people were busy, sweaty, tired, and always in a rush. There was no time to fall in love in the middle of Katipunan traffic or while running late to class.
At least, that was what she told herself.
Because right now, at this very moment, may malaking problema siya. Nakaipit siya sa gitna ng isang punong-punong jeep sa ikot, bag full of thesis printouts, at kaharap niya ay isang lalaking masyadong relaxed para sa isang taong muntik nang malaglag sa jeep dahil sa biglang brake.
"Excuse me," Shuvee muttered, adjusting her seat. But instead of moving, the guy smirked, like he found the whole situation entertaining.
"Careful," he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. "Baka mahulog ka sa statistics ng jeep-related accidents."
Shuvee blinked. "Wow. Ang witty mo. What do you want, a medal?"
He chuckled. "Pwede. Pero okay na rin kahit simple thank you. Ralph De Leon, by the way."
Of course. Ralph August De Leon. The name every Engineering major threw around like he was some legend. She didn't need to be reminded—everyone in UP Diliman knew him. Crush ng bayan, perpetual latecomer, the type who'd get away with anything because of that easy smile.
"I didn't ask for your name."
"And yet here I am, giving it to you," he replied smoothly.
Shuvee gritted her teeth and looked away, pretending to focus on the blur of acacia trees outside the jeep window. The audacity of this guy. People like him annoyed her—the ones who walked through life as if the world bent in their favor. People like her had to claw, fight, and burn just to earn a passing grade, just to prove they belonged. People like him? They just had to show up.
"Shuvee," she finally said, almost begrudgingly.
His smile widened, like he just won something. "Nice. So technically, we just had our meet-cute."
She turned to him, eyes narrowing. "No. This is not a meet-cute. This is a statistical error."
Ralph laughed, the kind of laugh that was too unbothered, too sure of himself. "We'll see about that."
And for some reason, Shuvee hated that a small, stupid part of her wondered if maybe—just maybe—he was right.
The jeep lurched again, and this time Shuvee's knee accidentally bumped against Ralph's. She pulled away instantly, like his skin carried some kind of virus. He noticed, of course. Guys like him always noticed.
"Relax," Ralph said, leaning back like he owned the entire row of seats. "Hindi ako nakakahawa. Unless allergic ka sa pogi."
Shuvee scoffed. "Allergic ako sa mayabang."
"Hindi pa ako mayabang. Confident lang."
"Same thing."
Ralph tilted his head, studying her like she was some kind of puzzle. Shuvee hated that look. She hated being observed, dissected, like she was someone interesting. She wasn't. She was just tired. Tired from thesis meetings, tired from professors who acted like they owned her weekends, tired from a family who thought "cum laude or nothing."
The last thing she needed was some boy with a stupidly nice jawline reminding her of everything she was not.
"So, Communication Research?" Ralph asked suddenly.
Her head snapped to him. "What—how did you—"
"Notebook mo," he said, pointing casually to the thesis binder half-peeking from her tote bag. "ComRes 199. Campus Dating Trends. Interesting topic."
Shuvee felt heat rise in her face. Great, now Mr. Crush ng Bayan was not only invading her personal space but also her academic life.
"Don't get any ideas," she warned. "We're studying patterns, not auditioning for one."
His lips curled into that irritating smirk again. "Sayang. Ang ganda ng chemistry natin, oh."
"You mean friction," she deadpanned.
"Chemistry, friction... physics, statistics. Pareho lang. Ang point, may energy."
Shuvee stared at him, caught between annoyance and reluctant amusement. God, she hated that he was kind of funny. Not ha-ha funny, but the type of funny that sneaks past your defenses before you can shut the door.
She shook her head, "You know what? This jeep ride never happened."
Ralph leaned closer, voice dropping into something softer. Less playful, more sincere. "Too late. It already did."
For a brief, dangerous moment, Shuvee felt her chest tighten. She looked away, gripping her thesis binder like it could anchor her. This wasn't supposed to happen. Her world was supposed to be neat, scheduled, predictable. No distractions. No strangers with lazy smiles and unearned confidence.
And definitely no meet-cutes.
The jeep slowed to a stop in front of Vinzons Hall. Half the passengers squeezed their way out, but Shuvee stayed glued to her seat, silently praying Ralph would get off and disappear into the crowd like every other forgettable stranger.
Of course, life wasn't that merciful.
He leaned forward instead, voice low but clear, as if he wanted her to remember every word.
"Don't worry," Ralph said, eyes glinting with mischief. "Statistically, we're bound to see each other again."
Shuvee let out a sharp laugh. "Statistically, you're wrong. UP has twenty-five thousand students. The odds are against you."
He grinned, already standing as the jeep jerked forward again. "Then I guess I'll just have to beat the odds."
And before she could fire back, he hopped off, blending into the late afternoon bustle of students crossing the Oval.
Shuvee stared at the empty space he left behind, annoyed at how his words still lingered in the air, like a challenge she never agreed to play. She tightened her grip on her thesis binder and muttered under her breath, half a curse, half a prayer.
"God forbid the statistics are on his side."
If there was one thing Shuvee hated more than groupmates who ghosted meetings, it was fate's sick sense of humor.
Out of all the people in UP Diliman, out of all the possible respondents for their thesis on campus dating trends, guess who showed up on the top of their randomly selected list?
Yes, Ralph August freaking De Leon.
Shuvee stared at his name on the spreadsheet, her pen tapping against the table like a gavel about to declare war.
"Uy, Shuv," her groupmate Mara chirped. "Ang swerte natin, oh! Siya 'yung crush ng buong Eng'g. Magandang case study 'yan. Very high-value respondent."
"High-value headache, you mean," Shuvee muttered.
But of course, her groupmates didn't care about her internal suffering. Within minutes, Mara had already messaged Ralph on Facebook, complete with emojis and way too many exclamation points. And because the universe loved watching her suffer, Ralph replied almost instantly.
"Game daw siya for an interview," Mara announced, grinning like they just won a raffle. "Pero sabi niya ikaw na raw mag-interview."
Shuvee nearly choked. "Excuse me? Why me?"
"Kasi ikaw daw yung ComRes major. Plus..." Mara gave her a knowing look. "You're good with questions."
Shuvee wanted to slam her head against the table. Or Mara's. Or Ralph's. Preferably Ralph's.
That was how she found herself sitting across from him at a coffee shop near the Math building, thesis questionnaire spread between them like a battlefield.
Ralph looked exactly as she remembered him from the jeep—too relaxed, too smug, sipping his iced latte like he had all the time in the world. He leaned back, watching her struggle to arrange her papers, and had the audacity to smile.
"So... dating trends, huh?" he said. "You mean love life?"
Shuvee glared, "Don't flatter yourself. You're just a data point."
"Ouch," Ralph said, clutching his chest in mock pain. "Akala ko ba importante ako? Randomly selected pa, oh."
"Statistically speaking, irrelevant ka pa rin."
He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "But personally speaking, mukhang naaalala mo pa rin ako."
Shuvee rolled her eyes, refusing to take the bait. She clicked her pen open and got straight to the point. "Okay, question one: How many relationships have you had during your stay in UP?"
Ralph raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. "Define... relationships?"
"Serious, exclusive, mutual commitment."
He pretended to think, twirling his straw. "Ah. Wala."
Shuvee blinked. "Wala? As in zero?"
"As in zero."
She squinted at him. "So ano lahat ng chismis sa Eng'g? Mythical creature ka lang pala?"
He leaned forward, his tone softer this time. "Chismis is chismis. I date, sure. I meet people. Pero relationships? Hindi pa."
There was a weight in his voice, just subtle enough for her to notice. And Shuvee hated that her pen hesitated midair, like her brain wanted to dig deeper instead of just ticking the box.
"Noted," she said briskly, scribbling down his answer. "Question two: What do you look for in a potential partner?"
Ralph's smile returned, slower this time, as if he was enjoying some private joke. "Madali lang."
"Go on."
"Someone who pretends she doesn't care," he said, eyes locking onto hers. "Pero deep down, she does."
Shuvee froze, heat crawling up her neck. For a second, she wasn't sure if he was still answering her survey... or describing her.
She cleared her throat, forcing her pen to move. "Statistically, that sounds like projection."
"And statistically," Ralph countered, grin widening, "maybe you're in denial."
Shuvee gripped her pen tighter, telling herself this was just data. Just work. Just another box to tick. But deep inside, she knew this wasn't going to be just another interview.
Shuvee took a deep breath. Focus. This was an interview, not a duel. She flipped to the next question, her tone clipped, professional.
"Question three: Where do you usually meet potential partners?"
Ralph didn't even blink, "Jeep."
Her eyes narrowed. "Jeep?"
"Yeah. Public transportation is the real Tinder," he said with a straight face. "Low-key, high-chance encounters. Romantic pa minsan kasi life-threatening."
Shuvee pressed her lips together, refusing to smile. "So your idea of romance is holding onto the handrail together before you crash into each other?"
"Exactly. That's chemistry right there."
She wrote "delusional" in the margins before moving on.
"Question four: On a scale of one to ten, how important is physical attraction in starting a relationship?"
"Eleven," Ralph answered immediately.
Shuvee gave him a sharp look. "Eleven?"
He shrugged, grin widening. "What? Don't look at me like that. It's the truth. Pero..." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Kung long-term, attitude pa rin panalo."
She raised a brow. "And what kind of attitude?"
"The kind that doesn't put up with my bullshit," Ralph said casually, eyes still on hers.
Shuvee froze again, pen hovering. She hated that her chest betrayed her with a sudden, traitorous flutter. God, why was he so good at slipping between sarcasm and sincerity like it was second nature?
"Noted," she muttered, quickly moving on.
"Question five: Do you believe in love at first sight?"
"No."
"Finally, something sensible," she said, scribbling it down.
"I believe in attraction at first sight," he clarified. "Love takes time. Effort. A lot of bad coffee dates. Pero attraction? That one's instant. Parang—" His eyes flicked at her, just for a beat too long. "—yung tipong alam mong worth it i-pursue."
Shuvee gripped her pen harder. "Projection ulit. That's two strikes."
Ralph laughed softly. "Ikaw na ang magtally."
She sighed, flipping to the last page. "Okay, final question: What's your definition of a successful relationship?"
For the first time, Ralph didn't answer right away. He sat back, gaze drifting to the window where students passed by, chattering, carrying books and iced coffees. His smirk softened into something else.
"Successful relationship?" he echoed. "Simple lang. Yung hindi ka pagod. Yung kahit toxic na lahat ng nasa paligid mo—acad load, profs, pamilya—pero pag kasama mo siya, tahimik ka. Peaceful. Parang hindi mo kailangang magpanggap."
Shuvee stilled. It was the kind of answer that hit too close, the kind she'd never admit she longed for. For a moment, she forgot her rehearsed neutrality. She just stared at him, pen motionless, heart annoyingly loud in her ears.
Then she snapped back, scribbling down the words with more force than necessary. "Okay. Interview done. Thank you for your cooperation."
Ralph smiled knowingly. "You're welcome. Anytime. Same jeep route, same time?"
She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "In your dreams, De Leon."
But he only chuckled, leaning back like he'd already won something.
Back at their group meeting in the library, Shuvee slapped the survey sheets onto the table with unnecessary force. Mara and the others looked up, startled.
"Well?" Mara asked eagerly. "Kamusta si Ralph? Gwapo, no?"
"Gwapo my ass," Shuvee muttered, collapsing onto her chair. "He thinks he's God's gift to UP."
"But you got the answers, right?"
"Oh, I got answers," she said, rubbing her temples. "Answers dripping with arrogance, confidence, and unsolicited flirting."
Mara squealed. "So smooth siya? Ayieee—"
"Smooth? More like slippery. Para siyang thesis defense na puro segway. One minute he's joking about jeep accidents, the next he's waxing poetic about peaceful relationships. Hindi ko alam kung papatayin ko siya o i-coconduct tracing ko 'yung sarili kong feelings."
Her groupmates exchanged looks, barely suppressing their smiles.
"What?" Shuvee snapped.
"Nothing," Mara said, grinning. "Just... mukhang he left an impression."
Shuvee groaned, burying her face in her hands. An impression? Try a migraine. Try a statistical anomaly she didn't sign up for. Because if there was one thing she was sure of, it was this: Ralph August De Leon was the kind of variable she did not want in her equation.
And yet, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was going to keep showing up in her dataset.
Shuvee had a rule: once was chance, twice was coincidence, thrice was fate. And she did not believe in fate.
Which was why she was extra annoyed when Ralph August De Leon appeared in her life again barely twenty-four hours after the interview.
This time, it was at Mang Larry's isawan. Shuvee had just survived three hours of mind-numbing thesis revisions and all she wanted was peace, solitude, and a stick of isaw. But as soon as she lined up, a familiar voice rang out behind her.
"Statistically, ang dami ring pumipila dito, pero bakit lagi kitang nakikita?"
She closed her eyes, muttering a silent prayer for strength. "God, if this is a joke, I'm not laughing."
When she turned, there he was. Same easy grin, same careless charm, one hand casually stuffed in his pocket while the other held a Gatorade. He looked like he belonged anywhere—library steps, protests, jeepneys, and now, in her personal hell.
"You're stalking me," she accused.
Ralph raised an eyebrow. "Hindi ba ako yung dapat magtampo? Ako yung tinanong ng limang pages worth of questions about love life."
"That was research. This is harassment."
"Harassment? For buying isaw?"
"Harassment of my peace," she muttered, turning back to the line.
He chuckled, moving beside her. "Relax. Hindi naman ako makikipag-share sa isaw mo."
The worst part? He was funny. Infuriatingly funny. And the way his presence loomed beside her made her too aware of the space between them.
When her order was ready, Shuvee grabbed her sticks and made a beeline for the nearest bench. She thought she was free. She thought she'd finally have a quiet meal. But then the bench dipped beside her, and there he was again, sipping Gatorade like it was destiny.
"Seriously?" she said, glaring at him.
"Seriously," Ralph echoed, biting into an isaw like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or maybe both.
The next day, it happened again.
She was hurrying to her elective class at CAL when a sudden downpour forced her to run under the nearest shed. And who else was there, dripping slightly from the rain but still wearing that damn smile?
"Statistically..." he began.
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," she snapped.
He laughed, shaking the rain from his hair. "Fine. But admit it, the odds are suspicious."
"The odds are rigged," she muttered, hugging her books tighter.
They stood in awkward silence, rain pounding the pavement around them. Then, because Ralph was Ralph, he had to speak again.
"You know... maybe we're just in the same orbit."
Shuvee glanced at him, unimpressed. "Or maybe UP is too small."
"Same thing."
Her jaw clenched, but her chest betrayed her with a stupid, fluttery warmth she didn't ask for.
By the end of the week, Shuvee was convinced the universe was playing some elaborate prank. Jeep rides. Library corners. Even the damned Sunken Garden during a late-night jog. Wherever she went, Ralph seemed to materialize like a glitch in the system.
And worse—every encounter left her a little more unsettled, a little more aware, like he was slowly rewriting her equations.
Shuvee didn't believe in fate.
But Ralph August De Leon was starting to look a lot like one.
Shuvee prided herself on being efficient. Meetings were supposed to be meetings—short, productive, professional. Hindi oras para sa chika, hindi oras para sa cute-cutean.
So when her groupmates told her they'd meet at Chocolate Kiss to discuss revisions, she arrived ten minutes early, laptop ready, outline printed, highlighter armed like a weapon.
What she did not expect was to sit there alone for thirty minutes... across from Ralph August De Leon.
"Where's the rest of the team?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
Ralph leaned back in his chair, sipping iced tea like he had all the answers. "Cancelled daw. Bigla raw may lakad. Sabi nila, tayo na lang muna."
"Tayo?" Her voice cracked like an offended cat.
He shrugged. "Group work, diba? Group of two."
Shuvee gripped her pen tightly. Betrayal. Absolute betrayal. Mara and the others had clearly set her up. And now here she was, trapped in Chocolate Kiss with the last person she wanted to share table space with.
She opened her laptop with a loud click. "Fine. Let's just get this over with."
"Wow, ang saya ng energy mo," Ralph said, smirking. "Parang date na date."
"Date? Excuse me, this is academic labor."
"Academic labor can be romantic, too. Tingnan mo—" he gestured around them. "Dim lights, acoustic music, chocolate cake. All that's missing is—"
"Don't you dare say candlelight."
He laughed, leaning closer. "Candlelight."
Shuvee rolled her eyes so hard she was certain they saw the ceiling. She tried to drown him out by typing furiously, but of course Ralph was incapable of silence.
"Okay, fine," he said. "Serious mode. Ano ba gagawin natin?"
She slid a draft across the table, voice sharp. "You're answering the questions for the male respondent profile. Again. But this time, more detail. Less comedy."
Ralph skimmed the draft, lips quirking. "Less comedy? Ang boring naman nun."
"It's called honesty."
"Eh what if comedy is honesty?"
Shuvee glared at him. "Then maybe you should stop being funny for five minutes."
Ralph tapped the paper, then looked up, grin softening into something almost earnest. "Okay. Fine. Serious answer. Ask me."
She sighed, flipping to the first question. "Describe your idea of an ideal first date."
Without missing a beat, he said, "Ito."
Shuvee blinked. "Ano?"
"This. Right now." He gestured at their table—the laptops, the messy papers, the noise of clinking plates and the faint strum of an acoustic guitar. "Not planned. Not fancy. Just two people stuck together, pretending ayaw nila pero secretly enjoying it."
Her throat went dry. For a split second, she forgot this was all banter. Because his tone wasn't teasing. His tone was quiet, steady, like he meant every word.
She forced a laugh, breaking the moment. "Wow. That's either the corniest thing I've ever heard... or the laziest attempt at flirting."
"Both can be true," he said, smiling softly.
Shuvee looked down at her notes, pretending to write, but her hand shook just a little.
Silence settled between them, only broken by the clatter of dishes from other tables. Ralph reached for his iced tea again, studying her with that maddening patience, like he was in no rush, like he had all the time in the world to wait her out.
She hated how aware she was of that gaze. Hated that a part of her brain whispered, "What if he's not joking?"
"Next question," she blurted out, desperate to change the subject. "What's your dealbreaker in a relationship?"
Ralph tilted his head, thinking. Then he answered, low and simple: "Dishonesty."
Shuvee blinked. She'd been expecting another joke, another half-witted quip about exes or clinginess. But no, he said it so plainly it almost sounded like confession.
She cleared her throat. "That's... surprisingly normal of you."
Ralph smiled faintly. "Not everything about me is a punchline, Shuvee."
That shut her up more effectively than any joke ever could.
For the rest of the session, she kept her eyes glued to the papers, determined not to look at him again. Because she knew—if she did—she might start to believe he wasn't just answering survey questions. He was telling her things meant only for her.
And that terrified her more than any thesis deadline ever could.
"Hindi siya date," Shuvee said for the tenth time, stabbing her fork into her tapsilog like it had personally betrayed her.
Across the cafeteria table, Mara and two other groupmates exchanged looks that screamed we don't believe you.
"Chocolate Kiss. Acoustic background music. Candlelight." Mara raised an eyebrow, smug. "Kung hindi 'yon date, ano 'yon?"
"Academic torture," Shuvee shot back. "Besides, sino namang matinong babae magvo-volunteer ng date kasama si Ralph August De Leon?"
"Uh, half the female population of UP?" one of the groupmates said, snickering.
Shuvee glared at them. "Well, congratulations to them. Pero hindi ako kasama sa survey sample."
Mara leaned forward, grinning like the devil. "You're not in the sample, girl. Ikaw yung case study."
That earned a chorus of laughter, all at her expense. Shuvee groaned and buried her face in her hands. She knew this would happen. The moment her groupmates decided to play matchmaker, she lost all control of the narrative.
And worse—she hated how her brain kept replaying Ralph's words from Chocolate Kiss, the way his tone had dropped when he said not everything about him was a punchline.
She shook it off. No. Out of the question. He's a distraction, not data.
Later that week, distraction found her again.
It was late afternoon, and Shuvee was rushing across the Sunken Garden, trying not to be late for her last class. The grass was wet from an earlier drizzle, the sky bruised with sunset colors. She was balancing her laptop bag, iced coffee, and a binder when someone jogged past, startling her.
"Careful," a familiar voice called, teasing. "Baka mahulog ka na naman sa statistics ng accidents."
Her heart sank and spiked all at once. Of course. Of course it had to be him.
Ralph slowed his jog until he matched her pace, annoyingly unbothered even as sweat clung to his shirt. He looked irritatingly alive, like running around the Oval was just a casual warm-up instead of cardio from hell.
"Why are you everywhere?" Shuvee demanded.
Ralph grinned. "Maybe ikaw yung laging sumusulpot."
"I have a class. You're the one running aimlessly in circles."
"Not aimless," he corrected. "May direction. Ikot lang."
"That's literally the definition of aimless."
He laughed, jogging backward for a few steps just to annoy her further. "Baka kasi... kahit saan ako tumakbo, lagi kang nando'n."
Shuvee rolled her eyes, clutching her binder tighter. "Congratulations. You've officially graduated from flirting to stalking."
"Stalking?" Ralph panted, still grinning. "Kung stalking 'to, sana may restraining order na ako. Pero wala, eh. So maybe—just maybe—you don't mind."
Her steps faltered. For a moment, her chest betrayed her with a too-fast rhythm, louder than his sneakers on the damp ground.
She scoffed, quickening her pace. "Keep dreaming, De Leon."
But she hated the way the corners of her lips threatened to curve, like his persistence was some inside joke between the universe and her heart.
And if she was honest—brutally honest—Shuvee wasn't sure how much longer she could keep pretending she didn't mind.
Shuvee had mastered the art of pretending. Pretending to listen in boring lectures. Pretending to laugh at groupmates' corny jokes. Pretending she wasn't slowly losing her mind every time Ralph August De Leon showed up like a recurring pop-up ad she couldn't block.
And today was no different.
She was in line at Rodic's, craving tapsilog more than oxygen, when someone suddenly slid into line beside her.
"Statistically, Rodic's tapsilog is best enjoyed with company."
Her head snapped sideways. "Oh my God. Are you really my stalker now?"
Ralph placed his hands over his chest, mock-offended. "Wow. Ang harsh. Hindi ba pwedeng sabay lang tayo mag-crave ng tapsilog?"
"Out of all the food stalls in UP, you just happened to crave the exact same one as me?"
He grinned, "Pareho tayong may good taste."
Shuvee turned away, biting back the smile threatening to betray her. The line moved forward, and Ralph stayed right beside her like he had every right to exist in her personal orbit.
When they finally got their food, she darted to an empty table by the window, hoping he'd take the hint. But no. Of course not. A shadow fell across her tray and there he was again, plopping his plate down across from her.
"You're unbelievable," she muttered.
"I know," Ralph said cheerfully, digging into his tapsilog.
They ate in silence for a moment—well, at least she tried. He was far too busy watching her with that irritating half-smile.
"What?" she snapped, stabbing her tapa.
"Nothing. Ang intense mo lang kumain. Parang may exam."
"There is an exam," she deadpanned. "An exam of patience. And you're failing it."
Ralph laughed, shaking his head. "Grabe. Kung lahat ng respondents ganito, mag-eenjoy ako sa survey interviews."
"This isn't supposed to be enjoyable," Shuvee said. "It's work. Data. Research."
"Research can be fun," he countered, leaning forward. "Depende sa kasama."
She rolled her eyes, shoving another bite of tapa into her mouth just so she wouldn't have to answer. Because honestly? He was getting dangerously close to making sense.
When they finished, Ralph insisted on paying for her iced tea "dahil gentleman daw siya." Shuvee fought him on it until the cashier gave them both weird looks, and she stomped off in defeat, muttering curses under her breath.
Outside, as they walked toward AS, Ralph glanced sideways at her. "So... this is, what, our third accidental hangout?"
Shuvee snorted. "Accidental lang for me. Calculated on your part."
"Calculated?" He grinned. "Finally, a math term."
She groaned, quickening her pace. "You're insufferable."
"Statistically speaking," he called after her, "you'll see me again tomorrow."
And the most infuriating part? Shuvee almost believed him.
Shuvee told herself she wasn't angry, but the truth was—she was seething. Her groupmates had bailed again, leaving her stuck with Ralph August De Leon in the library annex at ten p.m. with nothing but cold coffee, dying laptops, and a thesis draft that looked more like a suicide note.
Of course it had to be him.
"Relax," Ralph said without even glancing at her, his fingers flying over his keyboard like this was just another casual Tuesday. "We've got this."
Shuvee scoffed. "You say that like I trust you."
"You don't?" he asked, finally looking up, eyes gleaming under the sickly white fluorescent light.
"No."
"Good," he said simply, smirking. "Keeps things interesting."
She wanted to throw her highlighter at him. Instead, she forced her attention back to her notes, scribbling revisions until the words started to blur. It didn't help that Ralph was too close, the scrape of his chair, the low hum of his voice when he muttered formulas under his breath—everything about him felt intrusive, like he was bleeding into her focus.
By midnight, the annex was empty. Just the two of them, the buzz of the aircon, and their silence—except it wasn't silence. Not really.
"You type too loud," Shuvee muttered.
"You overthink your words," Ralph shot back without hesitation.
Her head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"
"You edit while you write. That's why you're slow. Just write, Shuvee. Stop pretending you're not scared to sound stupid."
The words landed sharper than she expected. She opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Ralph leaned back, stretching. "Don't look at me like that. Hindi insult 'yon. Observation lang."
"You're still insufferable."
"And yet here you are, 12:07 a.m., stuck with me."
Shuvee rolled her eyes, pretending she wasn't rattled. She gathered their notes and shoved them into some kind of order, as if paper could shield her from the fact that he saw right through her.
By 1 a.m., they had migrated to a café near Maginhawa, the kind that smelled of burnt espresso and desperation. Shuvee sat hunched over her binder, exhausted, her head buzzing. She caught Ralph watching her again—too quiet, too steady.
"What?" she snapped.
"Nothing," he said, smirk tugging at his lips. "You just look... softer when you're tired."
Her pulse jumped, betrayal burning up her throat. She laughed, sharp and defensive. "Wow. That's your line? That's pathetic."
Ralph shrugged, sipping his coffee. "Pathetic works sometimes."
Shuvee shook her head, muttering curses under her breath, but the worst part was the way his words lingered—long after they both turned back to their screens, long after the night stretched thin around them.
Because she hated to admit it, but Ralph August De Leon was right about one thing.
Pathetic worked. And it was working on her.
The trick to survival, Shuvee decided, was selective memory.
Meaning: erase anything that happened after midnight in the library annex. Forget the café. Forget the way Ralph's voice dropped when he called her softer when she was tired. Forget the way her pulse betrayed her like an amateur.
It meant nothing. She was just exhausted, vulnerable, caffeine-drunk. He was just bored, playing his usual game. Case closed.
At least, that's what she told herself. Over and over.
Until the next group meeting, when Ralph blew her cover in less than five minutes.
"Uy," Mara whispered across the table at the library. "So? Kamusta 'yung overnight with Ralph?"
Shuvee gave her the iciest glare she could summon. "It wasn't an overnight. It was thesis work. Nothing else."
"Nothing else?" Ralph's voice cut in smoothly, loud enough for the whole table.
Shuvee's head snapped toward him. He leaned casually against his chair, arms crossed, grin too sharp.
"Excuse me?" she hissed.
He shrugged innocently. "Sabi mo nothing else, pero didn't we close down two places together? Library and café? That's... something else."
The group burst into oohs and knowing laughter. Mara covered her mouth dramatically. "Grabe, Shuv! Two locations? That's basically a date."
Shuvee's ears burned. "It wasn't a date," she snapped. "It was research. Groupwork. Academia."
"Academia with candlelight vibes," Ralph added smoothly.
The table erupted again. Shuvee buried her face in her hands. God, take me now.
When the noise finally died down, she forced herself to speak, voice flat, controlled. "Listen, De Leon. Whatever happened that night—"
Ralph leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Something happened?"
Her blood pressure spiked. "Nothing happened!"
The group laughed harder. Ralph just sat back, smirk fixed like a weapon. And Shuvee knew—this was the real danger. Not the teasing, not the groupmates, not even the heat in her cheeks.
The danger was that Ralph was treating this like a game.
And worse—somewhere deep, despite herself, she was starting to play along.
Shuvee had a plan. And the plan was simple: enjoy UP Fair with her friends, eat overpriced kwek-kwek, scream-sing to bands she barely knew, and forget—for just one night—that Ralph August De Leon existed.
Easy.
Except fate was a vindictive bitch.
Because not even an hour into Fair grounds, while Shuvee was bargaining for dirty ice cream near the stalls, she heard it—his voice.
"Strawberry's overrated. Mango's the superior flavor."
Her spine stiffened. Slowly, she turned her head, and there he was: Ralph, hair a little messier than usual, white shirt already creased, holding a skewer of barbecue like he owned the place.
"Oh, for f—" she muttered. "Are you serious?"
Ralph grinned, biting into his barbecue. "See? Statistically speaking, our encounters are getting suspicious."
"This is harassment."
"This is destiny."
Her glare could have burned the whole stall down. "Destiny doesn't smell like barbecue sauce."
"Depends on the destiny," he shot back.
Her friends, traitors that they were, immediately picked up on the tension. Mara elbowed her, whispering, "Uy, Shuv. Dito na kayo mag-date."
Shuvee hissed, "Shut up, or I will drown you in isaw sauce."
But of course, it was too late—Ralph had already sidled closer, casually inserting himself into their circle like he belonged. And the worst part? Nobody seemed to mind. Not her friends, not the random strangers in line, not even the universe that seemed determined to keep pushing them together.
Later that night, when the crowd thickened near the stage, Shuvee tried to lose herself in the music. The band was loud, the lights dizzying, and for a moment, she managed to forget about thesis deadlines and irritatingly persistent men.
Until someone bumped into her shoulder—hard.
"Sorry!" Ralph's voice shouted over the music, as if on cue. "Crowd's wild."
Shuvee glared at him, but the crowd pushed again, forcing them closer, their shoulders brushing. Heat shot through her like static.
She tried to step away, but Ralph's hand caught her wrist, steadying her. Not tight, not possessive—just grounding, like he knew she'd fall if he didn't.
"You okay?" he asked, voice surprisingly low, cutting through the noise.
She hated the way her chest stuttered. She yanked her hand back. "I was. Until you showed up."
Ralph chuckled, unbothered, eyes still on the stage. "You keep saying that, pero hindi ka naman umaalis."
Because leaving would've meant losing. And if there was one thing Shuvee refused to do, it was let him win.
When the band slowed down with an acoustic set, the crowd swayed, softer now. Around her, people leaned on each other, couples linking arms. Mara had disappeared with someone she met near the food stalls, leaving Shuvee stranded in the sea of bodies.
And right beside her, Ralph stood steady, humming along to the music, annoyingly close, annoyingly warm.
"This is awkward," she muttered.
"Only if you admit it," Ralph replied.
She scoffed, "You're insufferable."
"And you're still here," he said, echoing words he'd thrown at her before—but this time, softer. Almost tender.
She looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. The music swelled, voices rising around them, and for a dangerous moment, it almost felt like they were caught in something bigger than just banter, something she wasn't ready to name.
When the song ended and the crowd roared, Shuvee clapped louder than necessary, shaking herself free. She turned to Ralph, forcing her smirk back into place.
"Statistically speaking, I'll forget this ever happened."
"Statistically speaking," Ralph said, leaning closer so only she could hear, "you won't."
Her breath caught—just for a second, before she shoved him away with an eye roll. "Dream on, De Leon."
But even as the next band came on and the crowd screamed, Shuvee knew he was right.
Some encounters were impossible to forget. And this night was one of them.
The morning after UP Fair, Shuvee woke up with a sore throat, aching feet, and one terrifying realization: She hadn't dreamt it.
Ralph had been there. Again. Ralph had touched her wrist, steadying her like he had any right. Ralph had leaned close enough for her to feel his breath against her ear when he said she wouldn't forget.
And the worst part? She hadn't.
Shuvee buried her face into her pillow, groaning like the universe was personally mocking her. It was supposed to be one night. Music, lights, overpriced kwek-kwek, friends. Fun. Not whatever that... thing was. Not whatever Ralph had turned it into.
By noon, she convinced herself it was just her brain being dramatic. Overthinking. The product of too much noise, too little sleep, and the way crowds mess with your senses. It was atmospheric manipulation, not attraction. She was above this. Immune. Rational.
Except her brain wouldn't shut up.
She replayed the way his hand had wrapped around her wrist—not tight, not careless, but deliberate. The way his voice cut through the noise, calm in chaos. The way he didn't look away when everyone else swayed to the music—like she was the song.
"Pathetic," she muttered to herself, slamming her notes open on her desk. "You're being pathetic, Shuvee."
She tried to drown it out with work, typing survey summaries with mechanical focus. But then her playlist shuffled and an acoustic track came on—soft strumming, low vocals—and suddenly she was back in the crowd, the lights flashing, Ralph's voice in her ear.
She ripped her earphones out like they burned.
Her phone buzzed on the desk. Mara's message lit the screen: "Sooo... how was the night with Ralph 😏"
Shuvee threw her phone across the bed.
This was ridiculous. She didn't even like him. He was arrogant, insufferable, a distraction in human form. The kind of boy who thought persistence was a love language.
And yet, somewhere deep in her chest, something traitorous whispered that maybe—just maybe—he was more than that.
Shuvee slammed her notebook shut, as if she could close the thought with it.
"God forbid," she muttered, glaring at the ceiling. "God forbid I actually fall for him."
But the thought lingered anyway, stubborn as smoke.
Shuvee told herself she wasn't avoiding Ralph.
She was simply... optimizing her routes. Taking detours around AS steps. Sitting in the back row instead of the aisle. Pretending to scroll her phone when the tambayan crowd thickened, just in case he appeared.
Not avoidance, just strategy.
"Girl, ang defensive mo," Mara said, popping a fry into her mouth during lunch at CASAA. "We didn't even say his name yet."
Shuvee froze mid-bite. "I'm not defensive."
"Exactly what a defensive person would say," another groupmate chimed in, grinning.
"I swear, if you people don't shut up, I'll—"
"—what? Run into him again?" Mara teased, leaning forward. "Kasi parang universe is shipping you. Everywhere we go, boom, Ralph. Parang may GPS siya sa'yo."
"Don't flatter him," Shuvee snapped, stabbing her spoon into her rice. "Hindi siya ganon ka-interesting."
But later, walking back to class, her brain betrayed her.
Every tall guy in a white shirt made her heart stutter. Every laugh from across the hallway made her turn her head too fast. Every jeepney ride, she half-expected him to slide in beside her with that stupid smirk.
It was paranoia, pure paranoia. The problem with thinking about someone too much was that the world started offering shadows of them everywhere.
She hated it. She hated how the ghost of Ralph August De Leon haunted her even when the real one wasn't around.
At night, scrolling her phone, she caught herself hovering over his name on Messenger—just to prove to herself she didn't care. Her thumb hesitated, then swiped away so fast she nearly dropped her phone.
Pathetic.
She slammed her pillow over her face, muffling a groan.
The next morning, her reflection in the mirror looked tired, eyes rimmed with proof that she'd thought too much and slept too little.
"Not defensive," she whispered to herself. "Strategic."
But even she didn't believe it anymore.
By midweek, Shuvee was convinced she had officially lost it. Because how else do you explain the way one person kept slipping into her head like a virus she couldn't uninstall?
She'd be listening to a lecture on probability, and her brain would go: Statistically speaking, you'll see him again tomorrow. She'd be buying fishballs outside Vinzons, and the sizzle of the oil would remind her of barbecue sauce on his lips at UP Fair. She'd be walking past the Sunken Garden, and suddenly her wrist would feel phantom heat, like someone had steadied her in a crowd that no longer existed.
Ridiculous. Irrational. Pathetic.
She told herself it was just nerves, just paranoia. A side effect of seeing him too often in too little time. Familiarity breeding hallucination.
But the thing about paranoia was—it bled. It stained everything.
Mara joked that Shuvee was "on Ralph watch," which was unfair because Shuvee wasn't watching for him. She was watching against him. There's a difference.
Except the line blurred when she started catching herself scanning tambayans, lecture halls, jeepney stops—not to avoid, but to... check.
As if the disappointment of not finding him was somehow worse than the chaos of running into him.
She hated herself for it.
By Friday, she was tired. Not just physically, but tired of herself, tired of the way her brain kept looping the same reel of scenes she swore meant nothing.
So when Mara dragged her to SC for a late org meeting, Shuvee didn't fight. She sat in the back, hair messy, mood worse, tapping her pen like it owed her money.
She didn't notice she was chewing her lip raw until the meeting ended and people spilled out. She stayed behind, shoving her papers back into her bag, muttering under her breath.
"You look like hell."
The voice was too close, too familiar, too unfair.
Her head snapped up. And there he was.
Ralph August De Leon, leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, smirk sharpened into something dangerously close to concern.
Of all the times. Of all the places. Of all the moods he could've walked in on—he had to pick this one.
Shuvee cursed under her breath, slamming her bag shut. "Perfect. Exactly what I needed tonight."
Ralph tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Funny. I was just about to say the same thing."
Her chest stuttered, and for the first time all week, Shuvee realized—paranoia hadn't been paranoia at all.
The universe really was out to get her.
Shuvee refused to let him see it—the way her stomach flipped, the way her throat went dry.
So she squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and delivered her first blow.
"You know what your problem is, De Leon?" she said, shoving her bag onto her shoulder with a little too much force. "You think the world is your playground. That you can just... show up wherever, whenever, and people will tolerate it."
Ralph leaned on the doorframe, unbothered. "Bold of you to assume people just tolerate me."
"Correction," she snapped. "I tolerate you."
His grin widened. "And yet... you keep doing it."
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Don't flatter yourself. You're just—" she waved a hand, searching for the right word "—persistent background noise. Like traffic on Katipunan. Annoying, unavoidable, not worth thinking about."
Ralph tilted his head, studying her in a way that made her skin prickle. "If I'm just background noise, bakit defensive ka?"
Her breath caught, just for a beat, before she recovered with a laugh sharp enough to cut glass. "Defensive? Please. I don't even think about you."
"Sure." His voice was low, too steady, too knowing. "That's why you looked disappointed before you saw me tonight."
Her pulse spiked. She hated him for saying it. Hated him more because it wasn't entirely untrue.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said again, but softer this time, the venom laced with something she couldn't quite kill.
Ralph pushed off the frame, closing the distance by a step. Not enough to touch, but enough for the air to shift. "Don't worry. I won't. I don't need to."
Shuvee's throat tightened. This was supposed to be her shield—banter, sarcasm, sharp words to keep him out. But Ralph had a way of twisting them, making every jab sound like a confession she never meant to give.
So she did the only thing she could: she scoffed, shoved past him, and muttered, "You're insufferable."
But as she walked down the hall, pulse still racing, she swore she could hear his chuckle echoing behind her.
And worse—she almost liked the sound of it.
Shuvee had one rule outside campus: keep her worlds separate.
School was school. Home was home. Friends were friends. No crossovers, no complications.
So of course, the universe broke her rule on a Saturday afternoon at Maginhawa.
She was standing outside a café, waiting for Mara and a couple of orgmates, when her mom called—asking for pasalubong. Shuvee was mid-phone, balancing a paper bag of brownies, when she heard her name.
"Shuvee?"
Her blood ran cold. She turned—and there he was.
Ralph August De Leon, in a plain black shirt, hair damp like he'd just come from a game, holding a grocery tote bag in one hand. He wasn't supposed to exist here, in her non-UP life. He wasn't supposed to look so... normal.
"Oh, for f—" she muttered, clutching the brownies like a weapon. "Why?"
He raised a brow. "Why what?"
"Why the fuck are you everywhere?"
"I live here," he said, as if that explained anything. "Maginhawa isn't your exclusive property, Etrata."
Before she could snap back, a voice called from behind him.
"Kuya Ralph! Hurry up!"
A younger girl, maybe fourteen, came bounding up, carrying milk tea and a plastic bag of takoyaki. She shot Shuvee a curious glance before tugging Ralph's arm.
Shuvee blinked. Kuya Ralph?
"You have a sister?" she blurted out.
Ralph smirked, clearly amused at her surprise. "Why? Thought I was raised by wolves?"
"Would explain a lot," she muttered.
The sister giggled, clearly entertained. "Ate, ikaw ba si Shuvee?"
Shuvee froze. "Excuse me?"
Ralph's grin widened. "So you've heard about her."
Her jaw dropped. "You talk about me to your family?"
The sister's eyes sparkled with mischief. "All the time."
Shuvee's brain short-circuited. She opened her mouth, ready to deny everything, when Mara and the others finally arrived.
And just like that, worlds collided—Ralph standing there with his kid sister, Shuvee with her friends, all of them staring at each other like the punchline of a joke she didn't agree to.
"Well," Mara said slowly, a smirk tugging at her lips. "This is... interesting."
Shuvee groaned, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.
Ralph, of course, looked delighted. "See, Etrata? Even fate ships us."
"Fate can choke," she snapped.
But as his sister laughed and her friends exchanged knowing looks, Shuvee felt something shift—like the game wasn't just theirs anymore.
And that terrified her more than anything.
If there was a hell tailor-made for Shuvee, this was it.
Not fire, not brimstone—just Mara, three orgmates, and Ralph's kid sister all sitting at the same café table, tag-teaming their way into her slow, painful death.
"So, Ate Shuvee," Ralph's sister began, eyes twinkling like a cat that had cornered a mouse, "kuya says you're super matalino. And scary. And masungit."
Shuvee choked on her iced coffee. "I—he—WHAT?"
Across the table, Ralph bit into his takoyaki, smirk smug as sin. "What? Accurate naman."
"Accurate my ass," she snapped. "Don't talk about me to your family."
"Too late," his sister sing-songed. "He already did."
Mara leaned forward, chin in her hands, grinning like she was watching the best teleserye plot twist of her life. "Grabe, Shuvs. Imagine being the topic of Ralph's family dinner. That's basically official."
"It's not official," Shuvee shot back, glaring at Ralph. "And you—stop smiling like that!"
"I'm not smiling," Ralph said innocently, though the curve of his lips betrayed him.
"You look like the Joker," she hissed.
His sister burst out laughing, nearly spilling her milk tea. "Ate, you're so funny. No wonder Kuya likes you."
The table erupted in chaos. Mara gasped so dramatically it was practically an Oscar reel. The orgmates ooooh'd in unison.
Shuvee wanted to crawl under the table and never return. "WHAT did you just say?"
The girl grinned, unbothered. "I said Kuya likes you. Obvious naman, di ba?"
Shuvee's jaw fell open. Her brain scrambled for a retort, but all she could manage was a strangled, "I hate all of you."
Mara fanned herself with a napkin, smirking. "Honestly? Same. But also—ship."
The laughter and teasing blurred around her, but Shuvee's eyes locked on Ralph. He wasn't laughing, not fully. Just sitting there, watching her reaction with that maddening calm, lips curved but eyes steady.
And for one dangerous second, Shuvee wondered if maybe—just maybe—his sister wasn't wrong. She shoved the thought down so fast it gave her whiplash.
"Statistically speaking," she muttered, stabbing her straw into her drink like it owed her money, "I'll murder all of you before this day ends."
But nobody believed her. Least of all Ralph.
By the time they left the café, Shuvee was running on equal parts caffeine and humiliation.
Mara and the orgmates flanked her like bodyguards, except instead of protecting her, they were narrating her downfall in real-time.
"Ang cute nila kanina, no?" one whispered loudly enough for the entire barangay to hear.
"Grabe, parang romcom scene!" another chimed in.
Shuvee gritted her teeth. "Keep talking and I'll throw you all into Katipunan traffic."
Meanwhile, Ralph and his sister strolled behind them like the picture of domestic peace. The sister occasionally darted forward to tug at Shuvee's arm, chirping things like, "Ate, you should come over sometime!" and "Kuya never brings anyone home!"
Every time, Shuvee wanted to evaporate.
"Mara," she hissed, dragging her friend aside. "Control your mouth before I sew it shut."
But Mara only smirked. "You realize the more defensive you get, the guiltier you look, right?"
"Defensive? I'm not defensive."
"Exactly what a defensive person would say."
Shuvee groaned, ready to commit murder, when Ralph suddenly appeared at her side—close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne.
"You okay?" he asked casually, as if he wasn't the root of her suffering.
"No," she snapped. "Because apparently you've infected my life and my social circle."
He chuckled, unbothered. "Could be worse."
"How?"
"You could actually like me."
Her heart tripped, heat rushing up her neck. She snapped her head toward him, eyes narrowing. "Dream on, De Leon."
"Statistically speaking..." He let the words hang, that infuriating grin tugging at his lips.
Shuvee shoved past him, muttering curses under her breath, but her friends caught the exchange and immediately burst into squeals and knowing looks.
It was official. There was no escape.
The walk down Maginhawa turned into a parade of chaos: Mara and the orgmates taking turns "accidentally" pushing her closer to Ralph, his sister peppering her with questions about her favorite food, movies, color, while Ralph just trailed beside her, hands in his pockets, quiet but watchful.
And somewhere between the forced proximity, the teasing, and the warm glow of late-afternoon streetlights, Shuvee realized something terrifying.
She wasn't annoyed anymore. She was... almost enjoying it.
Almost.
"Pathetic," she muttered to herself. "Absolutely pathetic."
But the small, traitorous smile tugging at her lips gave her away.
By the time Mara and the others peeled off toward the jeepney stop, Shuvee felt like her soul had been wrung dry.
She waved them off with fake enthusiasm, ignoring Mara's exaggerated winks and Ralph's sister's not-so-subtle "Bye, Ate Shuvee!" that echoed down the street like a curse.
When the noise finally thinned, it was just her and Ralph, walking side by side under the dim glow of streetlights.
Shuvee adjusted the strap of her bag, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "You don't have to walk me home."
"I know," Ralph said easily. "But I want to."
She hated how casually he said it. No smirk, no teasing. Just steady.
"Statistically speaking," she muttered, "you're a stalker."
"Statistically speaking," he countered, "you'd notice if I was."
She shot him a look. "What makes you think I haven't?"
Ralph smiled faintly, eyes on the pavement. "Because if you did, you wouldn't be smiling right now."
Her face heated. She immediately wiped the expression off, forcing a scowl. "Delusional."
But the silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was... unsettling in another way—too soft, too intimate. Their footsteps fell into rhythm. A stray dog barked in the distance. The air smelled faintly of fried food and jeep exhaust, familiar and grounding.
For the first time in days, Shuvee realized she wasn't annoyed. She wasn't even tense.
She was... comfortable. And that was far more dangerous.
"So," Ralph said after a beat, voice quieter now. "My sister likes you."
"She doesn't even know me."
"She knows enough," he said simply.
Shuvee snorted, trying to shake it off. "Great. Another De Leon to haunt me."
But her chest betrayed her—tight, conflicted, strangely warm.
When they reached her street, she stopped, turning to face him with forced bravado. "This is me. You can go."
Ralph met her gaze, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes unreadable. "Got it."
He didn't move.
"What?" she snapped.
"Nothing." His lips curved, softer this time. "Just... you look less scary under streetlights."
Her pulse stuttered.
Shuvee scoffed, desperate for armor. "Goodnight, De Leon."
She turned quickly, heading toward her gate before he could see the way her mouth almost curved—traitorous, unstoppable—into a smile.
By Monday, Shuvee had convinced herself the walk home meant nothing.
It was just streetlights, tired feet, and the statistical probability of bumping into each other again. Not a moment. Definitely not the kind of thing you replay in your head when you're supposed to be reviewing for class.
Except her so-called friends weren't about to let it slide.
The second she dropped her bag at the tambayan, Mara pounced. "So, how was your date?"
Shuvee didn't even look up. "Die."
"Grabe naman, defensive agad," another orgmate chimed in. "We didn't even say who."
Mara gasped dramatically. "Which means it's true!"
Shuvee pinched the bridge of her nose. "I hate all of you."
"Uy, don't be shy," Mara sing-songed, elbowing her. "We saw him walk you home Friday. Streetlights, quiet road, parang K-drama!"
Her head snapped up. "You were spying on me?"
"Not spying," Mara corrected. "Just... observing. From a safe, judgmental distance."
The group burst out laughing. Shuvee groaned and buried her face in her hands.
"Don't worry, Shuv," someone added. "We won't tell anyone."
"Tell anyone what? Nothing happened!" she said, voice muffled through her palms.
"Exactly what someone hiding something would say," Mara shot back, grinning ear to ear.
Shuvee wanted to strangle her. Or herself. Or Ralph, ideally.
And as if the universe heard her—he appeared.
Casual as ever, slipping into the tambayan circle with a "What'd I miss?"
The laughter doubled. Mara clapped her hands like she'd just summoned a demon. "Perfect timing!"
Shuvee froze, then snapped her head toward Ralph, eyes blazing. "You. Out."
He raised a brow, fighting a smile. "Why? Scared?"
The group ooooh'd in unison.
Shuvee's blood pressure spiked. "Of what? Your bad jokes?"
"No," Ralph said easily, settling into the seat across from her. His gaze didn't waver. "Scared because you know you liked Friday night."
The tambayan went feral. Screams, laughter, chants of "confess! confess!" bouncing off the walls.
Shuvee's entire face burned. She stood up, grabbing her bag with violent determination. "I am leaving before I commit actual crimes."
"Statistically speaking," Ralph called after her, grinning like he'd already won, "you'll be back."
Her friends howled. Shuvee stormed out, muttering curses under her breath—louder than her heartbeat, but not nearly enough to drown it out.
Shuvee's footsteps echoed down the hallway, sharp and fast. She didn't care where she was going, as long as it was away from Mara's shrieking laughter and Ralph's smug face.
She'd barely made it past the bulletin boards when a voice called behind her.
"Shuvee."
Her shoulders tensed. Of course. Of course he followed.
She spun on her heel, scowl ready. "Don't you have better things to do?"
Ralph jogged the last few steps to catch up, still irritatingly calm. "Not really. You storming out was the most interesting part of my day."
"Congratulations," she snapped. "You've officially ruined mine."
He leaned against the wall, unbothered. "You're welcome."
She wanted to scream. Instead, she crossed her arms, anchoring herself. "Look, De Leon. I don't know what game you think you're playing, but I'm not—"
"It's not a game."
The words cut sharper than she expected. No smirk, no casual deflection—just steady.
Her arms faltered for a second before she tightened them again. "Then what is it, huh? What do you even want from me?"
Ralph studied her, eyes steady in a way that made her throat go dry. "I want you to stop pretending."
Shuvee blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You keep acting like I'm noise. Like I'm background. But you notice me, Shuv." His voice was low now, almost too soft for the empty hallway. "You've been noticing me."
Her chest stuttered. She hated the way her body betrayed her, heat rising to her face, words tangling in her mouth.
So she went for her shield. Sarcasm. "Wow. Congratulations. You've diagnosed me with... basic awareness."
But the laugh didn't land. Not when his gaze didn't waver, not when her own voice cracked just slightly at the edges.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Shuvee exhaled, breaking eye contact, muttering under her breath. "You're insufferable."
And Ralph—damn him—just smiled, not triumphant, not smug. Just quiet, as if her words only confirmed what he already knew.
When she turned away and walked faster this time, he didn't follow.
But his voice lingered anyway, echoing in her chest long after she left the building.
UP professors had a talent for cruelty, but this one deserved a medal.
"For your finals, you'll be grouped by department. Interdisciplinary collaboration — para mas realistic."
The words dropped into the classroom like a bomb. Communication students groaned. Engineering students barely looked up from their phones. And Shuvee... Shuvee felt her stomach twist.
Because interdisciplinary always meant random. And random, lately, always meant one person.
Sure enough, when the names flashed on the projector:
Group 5: Shuvee Chrisna Etrata (ComRes), Mara Villaflor (ComRes), Ralph August De Leon (Engineering), Miguel Salazar (Engineering).
Her pen froze mid-click.
Mara let out a squeal that had people turning. "Shuv! Groupmates!"
Shuvee wanted to disappear. Or bribe the prof. Or transfer colleges. Anything but this.
Because across the room, Ralph was already watching her, like he'd been expecting this all along. Arms crossed, relaxed, smirk half-formed.
She shot him her sharpest glare. He didn't even flinch.
By the time the class ended, Group 5 was herded together like sheep into the AS lobby, laptops open, outlines scattered. Miguel was already trying to sketch flowcharts. Mara was babbling about survey questions. And Ralph—of course Ralph—sat across from her, legs stretched under the table like he owned the entire lobby.
It was distracting. Infuriating. Dangerous.
"Okay," Miguel said, pushing his glasses up. "Engine side, we'll take charge of the technical prototype. ComRes can handle audience testing, comm strategy, all that."
"Sounds fair," Mara chirped. "Shuv, you can do the survey design—"
"I'll handle methodology," Ralph cut in smoothly, eyes still on Shuvee. "Since I'm good at building things."
Mara giggled. "Grabe, engineer na, researcher pa."
"Don't encourage him," Shuvee muttered.
Ralph tilted his head, voice steady. "I don't need encouragement."
Her pen nearly snapped in her hand.
The group moved on, deadlines and tasks scribbled down, but Shuvee's pulse wouldn't settle. Every time she tried to focus on the notes, her eyes flicked—against her will—to Ralph. He wasn't even talking most of the time, just listening, leaning back, looking entirely too comfortable being exactly where he shouldn't be: across from her.
And when their eyes met, just once, just briefly—she looked away first. That was the worst part.
By the time they wrapped up, the inevitability had sunk in. No amount of denial would change it: every meeting, every draft, every late-night message would mean him.
And Shuvee hated how a small, treacherous part of her wasn't entirely dreading it.
Groupwork in theory was collaboration. In practice, it was chaos.
The four of them camped out in the library basement, papers scattered, laptops humming. Miguel had three flowcharts open at once. Mara was halfway through making memes out of their data. And Shuvee—Shuvee was doing her best to focus, highlighter in hand, pretending the person across from her didn't exist.
Except he did.
Ralph sat opposite her, sleeves rolled up, scribbling formulas like it was second nature. Calm. Efficient. Infuriating.
"Shuv, your part's the survey design, right?" Mara asked, peeking over her laptop.
"Yeah," Shuvee muttered, highlighting aggressively.
"Cool," Ralph cut in. "Then I'll handle the testing environment. Easier if we sync the systems."
Her head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
He looked at her evenly, like he hadn't just committed blasphemy. "I said it's easier if we work together."
"No," she said flatly. "You stay in your lane."
He leaned back, unbothered. "Interdisciplinary collab, remember? Lanes don't exist."
Mara snorted. "Oh my God, you two sound married."
Shuvee nearly threw her highlighter at her. "Delete your mouth."
The table dissolved into laughter, but Ralph's gaze didn't waver. It was infuriating, the way he could sit there calm while she was unraveling, every word sharpening her pulse.
An hour later, Mara and Miguel excused themselves to "grab food" — but Shuvee knew a setup when she saw one. That left her and Ralph, silence stretching heavy in the basement.
She buried herself in the survey draft, determined not to acknowledge him. But then he spoke, voice low.
"You don't actually hate working with me."
She didn't look up. "Statistically speaking, I do."
"No." His voice was steady. "Statistically speaking, you hate that you don't."
Her hand froze on the keyboard.
For a second, she forgot how to breathe.
The air shifted—less noise, more weight. She could feel his eyes on her, waiting, patient, too close without moving at all.
So she did the only thing she could: scoffed, forced, brittle. "Delusional."
But her hands were shaking, and he noticed. She knew he noticed.
The library had closed hours ago, which left the group stranded in the only place that didn't kick students out past midnight: the Engineering building lounge.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, tables littered with half-finished drafts and empty coffee cups. Mara and Miguel had bailed at ten, swearing they'd "make up for it tomorrow." Which left Shuvee with Ralph. Alone. Again.
She told herself it didn't matter. She told herself she was here for the work, not for the way the silence between them pressed like a weight.
Ralph was hunched over his laptop, eyes flicking between code and schematics. His focus was infuriating. He didn't even look tired. Meanwhile, Shuvee felt every nerve in her body on fire, scribbling notes that blurred the longer she stared.
At some point, the silence broke.
"You work like you're trying to outrun something," Ralph said quietly, without looking up.
Her pen froze mid-stroke. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His tone was casual, but not careless. "You treat everything like it's a race. Even this project."
She scoffed, leaning back in her chair. "Says the engineer who's been typing like a robot for three hours."
"That's different," he said. "I build because I like it. You—" He finally looked at her, gaze sharp enough to cut through. "You work because you're scared to stop."
The words landed heavy. Too heavy.
For a second, she forgot to breathe.
Shuvee forced a laugh, brittle and defensive. "Wow. Congratulations. Engineer, researcher, now psychologist. What's next, fortune teller?"
But her hands betrayed her—clutching her pen tighter than necessary, knuckles pale.
Ralph didn't push. He just leaned back, studying her, steady and unbearable. "You don't have to prove anything right now. Not to me, not tonight."
The quiet that followed was suffocating.
Because for all her sharpness, all her practiced denial, she knew he was right. She was running. From him, from herself, from the way her chest tightened every time his voice dropped softer like that.
She dropped her gaze, staring at the notes she could no longer read.
"Statistically speaking," she whispered, voice smaller than she wanted, "you're full of shit."
But she didn't leave.
And he didn't either.
They sat there, side by side under the harsh lights, work long forgotten—caught in the kind of silence that wasn't empty at all, but brimming with everything unsaid.
Deadlines had a way of stripping people down.
The group was crammed into the AS lobby at dusk, everyone surrounded by papers, open laptops, cold coffee. Miguel was ranting about graphs. Mara was half-asleep on her keyboard. Shuvee was knee-deep in edits, her patience thinning to a thread.
And Ralph—Ralph was across from her, calm as ever, tapping on his laptop like he had the luxury of time.
"De Leon," she snapped, "your section doesn't even make sense. This draft is due tomorrow."
He didn't even flinch. "It makes sense. You just don't get it."
Her pen slammed onto the table. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Ralph said, finally looking up. "Not everything needs your approval, Etrata."
The tension snapped like a live wire.
Mara jolted awake. Miguel glanced nervously between them. "Uh... guys—"
"No, let him talk," Shuvee cut in, voice sharp enough to draw stares from the next table. "Because apparently, Engineer Boy thinks his numbers magically translate without context."
"And apparently, Comm Girl thinks she owns context."
Her pulse was a drumbeat, fast and furious. "God, you're insufferable."
"And you're terrified."
The words dropped, heavy and unflinching. The air shifted. Mara and Miguel froze.
Shuvee's mouth went dry. "Terrified of what?"
"Of this," Ralph said, low but steady, eyes locked on hers. "Of me. Of what it means that you can't stop noticing me."
Silence. Thick, unbearable silence.
Shuvee's chest tightened, words clawing their way out before she could stop them. "You're so full of yourself."
"Am I?" He leaned forward, voice sharper now. "Then why are you shaking?"
Her whole body stilled.
Because she was. Hand trembling around her pen, breath uneven. She hated it, hated how exposed she felt.
And then it spilled—messy, raw, unplanned.
"Fine! You want the truth? Yes, I notice you! Every stupid time. On the jeep, in class, here—everywhere. You're annoying and smug and I hate that you make me feel like—"
Her voice cracked. She stopped, horrified, heart pounding.
The table was dead silent. Mara's eyes were wide. Miguel looked like he wanted to disappear.
But Ralph—Ralph didn't gloat. He didn't smirk. He just held her gaze, steady, voice quiet.
"Like what?"
The words sat heavy between them, waiting.
Shuvee opened her mouth, closed it, fists curling at her sides. "Like something I can't control."
Her voice broke on the last word.
And that was it. The room, the noise, the project—all of it blurred into nothing but him, watching her like she'd just handed him the key he'd been waiting for.
The group had scattered fast after the blow-up. Mara dragged Miguel away with the excuse of "printing something," her eyes wide with the kind of grin that promised relentless teasing later. That left Shuvee and Ralph at the same table, surrounded by the debris of their project and the wreckage of her own words.
She couldn't look at him. Not yet. Her pen rolled uselessly on the surface of the table, the only sound in the echoing lobby.
She replayed it in her head — every slip, every crack, the way her voice had betrayed her. She should've felt humiliated. Maybe she did. But beneath the shame was something else. Relief. A strange, terrifying relief.
Finally, she looked up.
Ralph wasn't smirking. He wasn't teasing. He just sat there, quiet, watching her with the kind of gaze that made her chest ache. Not sharp, not amused — just steady.
"You didn't have to say it like that," he said softly, breaking the silence.
Shuvee blinked. "Like what?"
"Like it's a crime." His voice was calm, but not careless. "Noticing me. Feeling something. It doesn't make you weak."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to deflect, but the words wouldn't come.
Instead, she whispered, "It makes me lose control."
Ralph leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Then maybe stop fighting it."
The sentence hung between them, heavy but not suffocating. Shuvee's pulse slowed, her shoulders sinking as if she'd been holding herself upright for too long.
For once, she didn't try to run.
They packed in silence after that. Her notes into her folder, his laptop into his bag. The lobby had emptied, the last light of dusk bleeding through the tall windows, painting everything in a muted gold. It felt suspended, like the world had decided to give them a moment untouched.
When they finally stepped outside, the air was cool, the Oval quiet except for the sound of a lone jeep rattling past. They fell into step without thinking.
Halfway to her dorm, Shuvee stopped. Not because she wanted to end it, but because she didn't know how to keep going without saying something real.
She turned, eyes on the pavement. "I don't know what this is. I don't know if I can... be the person you think I am."
Ralph didn't answer right away. He just stepped closer, close enough that the space between them no longer felt like a wall.
"You don't have to be anything," he said finally. "Just... don't push me away."
Her chest ached. The words were simple, but they felt like a door she'd been pressing against for months — finally opening, finally letting the air in.
And for once, Shuvee didn't hide.
She nodded, barely, but enough. "Okay."
They kept walking after that, side by side under the fading light, no jokes, no statistics, no masks. Just quiet. Just them.
For the first time, it felt like she wasn't running.
The project wrapped on a humid April afternoon, applause echoing in the lecture hall as their group bowed and shuffled off stage. Mara was radiant, Miguel relieved, Ralph steady as ever. And Shuvee—Shuvee exhaled for the first time in weeks.
It was done.
They spilled into the hallway, buzzing with post-presentation adrenaline. Mara linked arms with her, babbling about celebratory milk tea. Miguel high-fived Ralph, muttering something about "engineers carrying the team."
And then, just as Shuvee was slipping her notes back into her bag, Ralph leaned close, low enough that only she could hear.
"So what now?"
Her chest tightened. She looked up, caught in his gaze—open, unguarded, terrifying in its simplicity. She wanted to laugh it off, to deflect, but the weight of the question pressed against her ribs. What now?
Before she could answer, Mara called out, "Shuv, tara na!"
She hesitated, torn, her silence stretching too long. Ralph only gave her that infuriating almost-smile, as if he'd already decided she wouldn't escape the question forever.
By the time she found her voice, he was already walking away with Miguel, hand shoved into his pocket, head tilted just enough to make it clear he knew she was still watching.
Shuvee stood rooted in the hallway, Mara tugging at her arm, her own pulse loud in her ears.
Because she knew it wasn't over. The project was finished. The semester nearly done. But Ralph's question—simple, sharp, impossible—was still waiting.
So what now?
And she didn't have an answer. Not yet.
FIN.