June 16.
Dear Diary,
Kasalanan ba ang mag-wish na sana hindi na lang siya naging matalino? O sana hindi na lang siya naging Professor? Watching him today felt like looking at a star—beautiful to look at, but lightyears away. Sa bahay, he’s just Luke. The guy who knows I hate pickles. But in the classroom? He is Professor Arisgado. And he looks at me like I’m just another name on a seat plan.
P.S. He wore his navy blue suit today. I think I forgot how to spell my own name for a solid five minutes.
The air-conditioning in the Literature Hall was always set to a temperature that felt like the Arctic, but as I sat in the third row, I felt a feverish heat rising to my cheeks.
Professor Arisgado—I had to keep reminding myself to call him that—was currently pacing the front of the room. He wasn't holding a book. He didn't need one. He recited lines of Keats and Shelley as if they were etched into his soul.
"Poetry is not just about rhyming words, class," he said, his voice resonant and deep, carrying a weight that made everyone lean in. "It is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. It is the language of the unspoken."
He stopped right in front of my desk. My breath hitched. I could smell his scent—mint and that distinct "new book" aroma.
"Ms. Cruz?"
I jumped slightly, my pen clattering onto the floor. "P-po? I mean, yes, Sir?"
The class giggled softly. I felt like a complete amateur. Here I was, 22 years old, and I was reacting like a freshman with a crush.
Luke—no, Professor Arisgado—leaned down slightly to pick up my pen. As he handed it back, our fingers brushed for a fraction of a second. It was a cold day, but his skin was warm, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my heart.
"You seem... distracted," he said softly, loud enough only for me to hear. Then, in his normal 'Professor voice,' he asked, "What do you think Byron meant when he said, 'There is no instinct like that of the heart'?"
I swallowed hard. I could feel the eyes of forty other students on me. But more importantly, I felt his eyes—observant, analytical, and completely unreadable.
"I think..." I started, my voice trembling before I found my footing. "I think he meant that the heart doesn't need logic. Instinct is something you're born with, something you can't control. Even if your mind tells you a situation is impossible... your heart already knows its path."
The room was silent. Luke held my gaze, his expression softening for a fleeting moment. It wasn't the look of a professor; it was a look of recognition.
"Interesting," he murmured. "A very... romanticized perspective, Ms. Cruz. Let's see if that instinct holds up under the weight of a 1,000-word analysis."
He turned back to the board, and I finally exhaled.
After class, I lingered, pretending to fix my bag. I wanted to see him. I wanted to ask if we were still okay for the ride home later, or if the "Professor" version of him had forgotten the "Kuya" version of him.
"Caroline."
He was sitting at his desk, packing away his laptop. The classroom was empty now, the sun casting long, orange shadows through the tall windows.
"Sir?" I teased, testing the boundaries.
He looked up, a small, tired smile on his face. He looked human again. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to call me 'Sir' when the room is empty, you know."
"Professionalism, 'di ba?" I stepped closer, leaning against the front row desk. "You were quite intimidating earlier. Akala ko tuloy maling room ang napasukan ko."
He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated in the quiet hall. "It’s a role I have to play. Teaching 20-somethings isn't easy. If I'm too soft, they'll walk all over me."
"And am I one of those students? Yung 'wa-walk over' sa'yo?"
He paused, his hand frozen on his briefcase handle. He looked at me—really looked at me—and for a second, the slow-burn tension was so thick I could almost taste it.
"No, Caroline," he said quietly. "You're... different."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Different how?"
"You're Marcus's sister," he said, the mask sliding back into place. "And you're a talented writer. Don't let your 'instincts' get in the way of your grades. I’m a strict grader, even for family friends."
The "family friend" comment felt like a bucket of ice water. Ouch. "Right. Noted, Professor," I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "Are we... are we still going home together? Marcus texted he's still stuck in a meeting."
Luke checked his watch. "I have a Faculty meeting in ten minutes. It might take an hour. Do you mind waiting in the library? Or I can book you a Grab."
"I'll wait," I said immediately. Too fast. Gosh, CC, be cool. "I mean, I have research to do anyway."
"Okay. Wait for me at the lobby at 6 PM. Don't go wandering off."
I spent the next hour in the library, but I didn't do any research. Instead, I sat in the corner of the silent room, staring at the empty pages of my diary.
Why did he have to be so perfect? And why did he have to be so unreachable?
As 6:00 PM approached, I headed to the lobby. The campus was quieter now, the evening breeze picking up. I saw Luke walking toward the exit, talking to someone on his phone.
He looked intense. Worried, even.
"I know, I know," he was saying into the phone, his voice hushed. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Just... tell her to stay calm. I’m coming, Sofia."
I froze.
Sofia. The name felt like a thorn. Sofia was my brother’s girlfriend—a beautiful, sophisticated architect who had been with Marcus for three years. Why was Luke's voice so full of concern for her? Why did his face soften in a way it never did when he was talking to me?
He spotted me and quickly ended the call, his face returning to its stoic, neutral state.
"Ready?" he asked, though he seemed miles away.
"Is everything okay?" I asked as we walked to the car.
"Yeah," he lied. I knew it was a lie because his grip on his car keys was so tight his knuckles were white. "Just some drama with your brother and Sofia. The usual."
He opened the passenger door for me, but the "kilig" was gone. As I sat down, I realized that the "difficult book" Luke was reading might not be a book at all. It was a person. And that person wasn't me.
Dear Diary, I
thought as we drove into the darkening evening. I think I just found out why he knows so much about unrequited love.