Chapter 4
The next day, I found myself in the one place I actively avoided: the large, open-plan faculty office assigned to the Humanities department. It was a space designed for collaboration, which, to me, meant noise, distraction, and forced small talk. I usually preferred the isolation of my smaller, private research room near the archives. But today, I needed to be here. I needed to establish dominance over the space—and over my own reeling emotions—before the intruder could claim it.
I arrived exactly at 7:30 AM, half an hour before the first class. The office was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning. I walked straight to my designated cubicle—a neat, Spartan area with minimal personal effects—and began organizing a new stack of readings. My movements were precise, deliberate, a ritual of control.
I was mid-sentence in marking a thesis proposal ("The thesis statement lacks demonstrable clarity...") when the door opened, and the air suddenly thickened with an uninvited presence.
Saintly Dela Cruz walked in. He stopped just past the entrance, holding a leather messenger bag and a large, branded coffee cup. He scanned the rows of desks, and his emerald eyes landed immediately on me. The brief, tense silence that followed was louder than any conversation.
He recovered first, plastering on a professional, polite smile—the same charming, controlled smile he’d worn yesterday before he saw my face.
"Professor Reyes. Good morning," he said, his voice measured, perfectly modulated. He sounded like he was greeting a department head he barely knew.
I didn't stop marking the paper. I didn't even lift my head, keeping my focus locked on the red pen in my hand.
"Professor Dela Cruz. You're early."
"I am used to starting the day early in New York," he replied smoothly. "Old habits. Where is the faculty mailbox area, if you don't mind?"
"Third column, near the printer," I answered, my voice emotionless. "The labels are alphabetical. Yours is 'DELA CRUZ'."
He walked past my desk, and the scent of his cologne—something crisp, expensive, and utterly unfamiliar—hit me. It was a sharp, painful reminder that the man who now occupied this space was not the boy who smelled of cheap aftershave and sea salt.
He found his cubicle, which happened to be directly across the narrow aisle from mine. Fate, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor.
The Silent Duel
He began setting up his things, and the rhythmic thud of his laptop bag, the quiet click of his keyboard, and the rustle of his papers became a constant, agonizing soundtrack to my morning.
I tried to focus on the thesis. I read the student's ambitious title again: Sisa’s Madness: The Breakdown of Filipino Motherhood in the 19th Century.
Sisa's madness. I felt an uncanny affinity for the topic.
I picked up my pen, but my gaze kept drifting upward, catching his reflection in my computer screen. He was leaning back, checking his phone, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. He looked completely at ease, completely settled.
Parang hindi siya umalis. Parang hindi niya ako iniwan.
I forced myself to speak, needing to break the tension with a purely professional interaction.
"Professor Dela Cruz," I said, finally lifting my head, my face a carefully constructed mask of indifference. "Are you prepared for the department orientation this afternoon? Dean Tiu expects all new faculty to have read the university handbook."
He put his phone down and turned to face me fully, leaning an arm on the partition separating our desks. His emerald eyes held mine, but the warmth was gone, replaced by a careful, almost pained professionalism.
"Yes, Professor Reyes. I’ve read it cover-to-cover," he replied, his voice calm. "I take my responsibilities seriously. You shouldn't worry about my professional conduct."
The subtle sharpness of his last phrase—worry about my professional conduct—was a direct dig. He knew I was questioning his entire presence here.
I didn't flinch. "Good. Because the standards in the A&S department are rigorous. We have high expectations for scholarship and dedication. This isn't just about teaching a class, it's about contributing to the academic mission."
"I understand the mission perfectly, Elaine," he said, and the use of my first name was a small, deliberate transgression of the boundary I had drawn.
"It’s Professor Reyes," I corrected immediately, my voice low and dangerous.
"Or perhaps you forgot how to respect professional titles during your tenure abroad?"
He sighed, a barely perceptible sound of weariness. "No, I haven't forgotten, Professor Reyes. But I thought since we're the only two here right now, we could skip the formality and acknowledge the elephant in the room. This—us being here—is awkward. It's unexpected."
I slammed the thesis paper down on my desk. The loud thwack made the pens rattle.
"There is no 'us', Saintly," I spat, using his first name with calculated malice. "There is Professor Reyes and Professor Dela Cruz. We are colleagues. That is the only relationship that exists, or will ever exist, between us. And as colleagues, I expect professional distance."
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a fierce whisper that only he could hear.
"You chose to walk away five years ago to chase your ambition. You got it. Congratulations. But don't you dare come back here and try to pollute the space I built for myself with your history. I am not the naive girl you left crying in the rain. That girl is dead."
His jaw tightened, and I saw a flicker of the old pain—the guilt—in his eyes. The successful facade wavered.
"I know you're not," he said quietly, his voice laced with regret. "I can see the wall you put up, Elaine. It's thick, and it’s beautiful in its own way. And I respect it."
He pushed himself off the partition, distancing himself physically and emotionally.
"I am here to teach, to work, and to fulfill my contract," he continued, his voice returning to that smooth, professional tone. "I will maintain every professional distance you require, Professor Reyes. But don't mistake my cooperation for apathy. Hindi ako babalik dito para guluhin ka. I'm here because this is where my career led me. Nothing more."
He turned back to his desk, picking up a stack of syllabus templates.
"Now," he said, without looking at me, "If you'll excuse me, I need to check the required readings for my 'Poetics of Diaspora' class."
The sheer audacity of his calmness infuriated me. He was acting like the past was a footnote, a minor detail in his triumphant return.
I stared at his back—the broad, strong back I used to cling to. Now, it was just the back of a colleague, an obstacle, a painful reminder.
I grabbed my bag.
"I'm heading to the archives," I announced, unnecessarily loud.
"And Professor Dela Cruz," I added, pausing at the aisle. "I hope your 'Poetics of Diaspora' class is purely theoretical. Because in real life, diaspora means separation. And once separated, some things can never be returned."
I didn't wait for his response. I walked out of the faculty office, the cold air hitting my face, realizing that despite all my efforts, I was shaking.
He was back. And he was right across the aisle.
The war for my composure had just begun.