24/06/2025
𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫
𝘣𝘺 𝘎𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘩 𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘰
𝐼 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒪𝒸𝓉𝑜𝒷𝑒𝓇.
If you know how the song goes, you’d probably guess where this is going. This isn’t one of those stories.
The first week of September, the RCMA review commenced. Bic Runga’s Sway blasted through my earphones as I pretended to listen to the sixth hour of the ongoing lecture. When the professor asked if we understood the lesson, I nodded along, though my thoughts were already in my bed.
Then came the sound of your yawn behind my seat. Same. It was a draining lecture, as most of them were. But that was how it always went.
Handouts were passed around. As I handed the thick stack of paper to you, I was met with your sheepish smile, sleep lines still faint on the side of your temple. My chest pounded, as if seeing you was rare, when in fact, we had passed each other in the hallways a thousand times.
You took the handouts quietly. Normally, I wouldn’t have noticed. But lately, I would catch myself staring, waiting, hoping you might say something first.
In my head, this wasn’t the coping mechanism I needed to survive the gruelling hours of review. But somehow, your face would appear on the first page of the handout, and the next one, and the next.
I practised saying your name on the walk home, looking forward to the next day’s review. Like a high schooler, I searched for ways to ask you anything, even if it was just about class. I studied every possible topic we could talk about, from income-based approaches to AMLA. It was crazy.
And the idea that you might turn to someone else for answers when I didn’t know one terrified me.
Somehow, September slipped quickly into October.
October was… something else.
October was staying late at the library because you didn’t want to go home yet. It was grabbing quick dinners and sitting on the bench near ARC after review days and you laughing at how much rice I could eat after a stressful exam.
It was the look you gave me when you were too tired to smile but still tried anyway.
It was… hope. Foolish, maybe. But hope all the same.
I told myself after the results, after we both pass, after the final deadlines... maybe then, I could tell you.
The last week of October came faster than I thought. We crammed final mock exams in one week, pulling late nights at study hubs. I saw how hard you worked. How much you wanted it.
And how you laughed, exhausted but trying to stay positive.
"If we both pass all subjects, coffee’s on me," you’d say, eyes bright even through your tiredness.
That was the plan. Pass everything. Prepare for OJT. Celebrate. Maybe… something more.
Results came in mid-January. I checked mine first. Passed all. Relief. Then I waited. Hours. Your message came late that night: “Two subjects... didn’t make it. I have to retake them in summer."
I stared at the message, my heart sinking lower than I thought possible.
You had wanted this so badly. You deserved it.
I messaged you back: “I’m here if you need anything.” Your text bubble popped up. Then it disappeared.
And you drifted away after that. You stopped showing up to our group chats for a while. You weren’t at the small celebration we all tried to put together.
And I didn’t know how to reach you. I didn’t know how to say I’m proud of you without sounding insensitive.
But the timing wasn’t right. I couldn’t tell you when your heart was breaking. And now, I don’t know when or if I’ll get the chance.
I still sit on the bench at ARC where we used to study.
Sometimes I wait for hours. Just in case. Hoping maybe you’ll sit with me again, sleepy smile and coffee in hand.
And one day, in late June, you did.
I was half-asleep over my laptop for the gala preparation when I heard a familiar voice. Soft, hesitant.
Is this seat taken?”
I looked up. You were there. Your hair a little longer. Shadows under your eyes. But your smile was there. A little fragile, but real.
I shook my head quickly, heart caught in my throat. “No.”
You sat down beside me, setting your iced coffee on the bench. For a while, we just sat there, letting the weight of the past few months settle between us.
You exhaled. Smiled, that same smile I had memorized through every long night in October, and looked down at your coffee.
“I wanted to message you,” you said softly. “A hundred times. But I didn’t know what to say.”
I swallowed. My heart pounded the same way it did the first time I passed you those handouts.
“You didn’t have to say anything,” I replied. “I would have waited.”
Maybe it was the sunlight hitting the bench just so, or the way your hand rested close to mine, but finally, the words I had carried for months found their way out.
“Gimingaw ko nimo,” I said quietly. “Gimingaw ko nato.”
You looked at me then, eyes shining. You reached out, your fingers brushing against mine, hesitant at first, then sure.
“Ako sad,” you said. “More than you know.”
You looked down for a moment, fingers still laced with mine, the silence between us no longer heavy, just full.
“I was scared you wouldn’t want to wait,” you looked down.
I smiled. “I didn’t stop.”
Somewhere nearby, someone’s speaker was playing Bic Runga’s Sway, close enough to make my chest ache in the best way.
We stayed there a long while after, the bench that had once felt so empty now warm again between us.
I fell in love in October.
And somehow, by June, you finally knew.
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚, 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙖𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚.
Illustration by Christine Samson
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