Chapter 3
The bell had rung ten minutes ago, signaling the start of my afternoon class, Philippine Literature in Context. Usually, by now, I would be halfway through my introduction on Nick Joaquin's Manila, my voice commanding the attention of every student. But today, I was standing behind the podium, gripping the edges so tightly my fingers ached, and staring blankly at the first page of my notes.
Manila... I thought bitterly. The city of our meeting, the witness to our downfall.
The encounter with Saintly—no, Professor Dela Cruz—in the hallway earlier had completely destabilized me. It wasn't just the shock; it was the sudden, violent jolt that threw me off the rails I had so painstakingly laid for myself over the last five years.
I looked out at the class. Twenty-two pairs of eyes stared back, waiting. They sensed the shift. My usual impenetrable composure had a slight tremor running beneath the surface.
"Professor Reyes, are you alright po?" asked Andrea, a bright, slightly anxious student in the front row.
I cleared my throat, the sound rough and unnatural. "I am perfectly fine, Ms. Ramos. Please refrain from unnecessary questions. Let's begin."
I tried to start, focusing all my energy on the text in front of me: the tragic irony in Joaquin's narrative. I picked up the chalk, intending to write a key term on the board—Nostalgia. But the word that flashed in my mind wasn't in my notes. It was "Last Smile Under the Rain."
The Internal Struggle
I forced myself to speak, injecting my usual tone of cold authority. "Today, we delve into the theme of colonial mentality and the search for national identity..."
As I spoke, the lecture hall dissolved, replaced by the image of Saintly's face when he recognized me. That brief, horrified flash of pain—the same pain that had haunted my nights.
He looked good. Too good. Successful. Naka-blazer pa siya, mukhang totoong propesor na.
The Saintly I knew used to wear his heart on his sleeve, his clothes perpetually rumpled from late-night gigs and even later-night study sessions. The man I met today was polished, contained, and dangerously confident.
Was he thinking about me all these years? Did he suffer even a fraction of what I went through?
My voice hitched mid-sentence. I skipped three entire paragraphs in my notes.
"Professor?" A student raised his hand tentatively. "The timeline, Ma'am... hindi po ba we should discuss the Spanish influence first before we jump to the American period's literary reaction?"
I blinked, momentarily disoriented. Ang tanga mo, Elaine. Nakalimutan mo ang chronological order.
My face flushed, a sensation I hadn't felt in years. I forced a stiff, professional adjustment. "Yes. A valid point, Mr. Cruz. Thank you for keeping track. Let us return to the works of Rizal... his commentary on the friars' abuse..."
But even as I tried to regain control, my mind stubbornly wandered back to the hallway, to the way he had stumbled over my name.
Elaine?
Did he come back for the opportunity, or did he come back for me?
The question was a poison infiltrating my carefully constructed peace.
I looked at the window. The afternoon sun was bright, yet I felt an internal chill. I remembered the first time he told me he loved me—on a roof deck, surrounded by the dizzying lights of Manila, with the sound of a distant buhos threatening rain.
Sabi niya, "Elaine, you are my calm in every storm."
Now, he was the storm, and I had no shelter left.
The Unfocused Lesson
I picked up the chalk again, determined to illustrate the complexity of the Noli Me Tángere characters. I wanted to draw a Venn diagram showing Ibarra and Simoun. Instead, I scrawled a meaningless, swirling pattern on the board—a chaotic scribble that perfectly represented my internal state.
The class stared at the chalk dust pattern, completely perplexed.
"Pro-Professor?" another student asked, confused.
I slammed the chalk down. It snapped in two. The sharp sound echoed in the sudden silence of the room.
"Enough!" I barked, startling everyone. My authority instantly returned, fueled by pure frustration and fear.
"What is wrong with all of you? You are barely engaging! You are waiting for me to spoon-feed you information instead of analyzing the text yourself!"
I knew I was being unfair. They were silent because they were terrified of me. They were confused because I was the one who couldn't focus.
But I couldn't admit weakness. I couldn't let them see the fragile woman underneath the Professor Reyes façade.
"Open your textbooks to page fifty-eight!" I commanded, my voice loud and vibrating with suppressed emotion. "You will spend the next forty minutes writing an on-the-spot critical analysis. Focus on the symbolism of the 'salvaging' scene. No talking. No sharing. Complete silence. Do not ask me any questions. Focus."
I sat heavily in my chair behind the podium, folding my arms tightly across my chest. The word "Focus" was a desperate plea to myself more than an instruction to them.
I watched the students nervously flip through their books, their pens scratching across the paper. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic, anxious scribbling and the pounding of my own heart.
I leaned back, closing my eyes for just a second, letting the weight of the last five years and the sudden, terrifying presence of Saintly crush me.
I built this life. I built this wall. Hindi pwedeng sirain niya lang 'yan dahil bumalik siya.
I opened my eyes, the cold determination settling back in. I needed to see him again, not accidentally, but on my own terms. I needed to gauge the threat. I needed to establish the boundaries, immediately and definitively.
I am Professor Reyes. He is Professor Dela Cruz. We are colleagues. That is all.
The next department meeting, I decided, would not be avoided. I needed to face the ghost of my past and banish him back to the archive where he belonged.