Chapter 6
The post-lunch air in the campus felt warmer, but the cold knot in my stomach tightened the moment I saw Saintly retreat to his solitary corner in the cafeteria. My calculated move had worked, but the intensity of his reaction—that flash of desperate, possessive anger—was more unsettling than I had anticipated.
Kent, bless his oblivious heart, walked me back to the Humanities office, still enthusiastically detailing the merits of *kare-kare* versus global political stability.
"And besides, Professor Reyes," Kent said brightly as we reached the double doors of the faculty office, "It was really nice seeing you smile. You should do that more often. It really changes the atmosphere."
I gave him a brief, practiced nod. "Thank you for the lunch, Professor Santiago. I appreciate the company. I need to prepare for my 2 PM class now."
"Walang anuman, Ma'am! See you sa Friday lecture!" Kent gave a friendly wave and headed towards the hallway leading to the Political Science wing.
As I pushed the faculty office door open, I expected the usual quiet refuge—a place where my coldness could be maintained unchallenged.
But the moment the door clicked shut behind me, the air inside felt charged, heavy, and intensely hostile. The office was mostly empty; only two other professors were engrossed in their work in the far corner. And then there was **Saintly**.
He was no longer at his desk. He was standing right next to mine, leaning his weight on the cubicle partition, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His usually smooth, composed expression was utterly gone, replaced by the furious, untamed look I remembered from our most intense arguments five years ago. His emerald eyes were blazing with a barely suppressed anger.
"Bakit, Elaine?" he demanded, his voice low, controlled, and vibrating with suppressed fury. It wasn't loud enough to alert the other professors, but it hit me with the force of a physical blow.
I forced myself to remain calm, dropping my bag onto my desk and reaching for my class materials. I refused to look directly at him, maintaining the professional barrier.
"Bakit what, Professor Dela Cruz? Are you referring to the proper citation format? Because I assure you, I follow the latest Chicago Style handbook," I retorted, injecting a measured coolness into my voice.
He pushed off the partition, taking a threatening step closer. "Stop the performance! Stop calling me 'Professor Dela Cruz' when we both know that façade is thinner than rice paper right now! I'm talking about **Kent**!"
I finally looked at him, my expression one of practiced disdain. "Kent Santiago is a colleague. We had lunch. It's called 'socialization.' Perhaps you should try it sometime instead of lurking near the door."
"Socialization?" he scoffed, his voice laced with venom. "Hindi ganyan ang socialization, Elaine! You were smiling at him! You were leaning in! You haven't looked at me, your supposed *colleague*, with anything other than hatred for the last twenty-four hours, yet you're giving him that look—that soft, easy look—over a plate of *kare-kare*?!"
The sheer hypocrisy of his jealousy infuriated me. He had no right. *Walang karapatan ang taong nang-iwan na magselos.*
"And what if I was, Saintly?" I challenged, finally letting a sliver of my true anger escape. "What business is it of yours? You abdicated your rights to question my life five years ago when you walked away. I don't need your permission to socialize, or to smile, or to—to **flirt** with anyone I choose!"
The word 'flirt' hung in the air, sharp and provocative. His eyes narrowed, and his breathing became visibly ragged.
"Flirting? Is that what you call it? Is that your way of showing me you moved on? By torturing me with the sight of you being happy with someone else just minutes after seeing me again?" He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know you, Elaine. You don't just 'socialize' like that. You are deliberately doing this, aren't you? You're punishing me."
"Punishing you?" I let out a bitter, cutting laugh. "You think having lunch with a kind, respectable man is punishment? Saintly, the punishment was already served five years ago, at that port! Ang punishment ay ang araw-araw na pagbangon ko nang wala ka! Ang punishment ay ang pagyeyelo ko ng sarili ko just to survive! You don't get to feel punished now because you saw me enjoying *kare-kare*!"
Tears pricked at my eyes, but I ruthlessly fought them back. I would not cry in front of him again. Never.
"Kent is a good man. He's stable. He's here. He didn't run away to chase some abstract dream halfway across the world, only to show up five years later expecting everything to be the same! He's *present*," I emphasized the last word, letting the weight of his absence crush him.
He looked devastated. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a deep, agonizing sorrow.
"I know I messed up, Elaine," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I know I hurt you. Every day, for the last five years, I lived with that guilt. And if you think I came back here for a simple career move, you're wrong. I came back hoping, praying, that maybe—just maybe—I could talk to you. I needed to see you, to apologize properly, to explain..."
"Explain what?" I cut him off, my voice ice. "Explain that your success was worth sacrificing us? Explain that your 'Poetics of Diaspora' is really about the pain of leaving the one you loved? I don't want your explanations, Saintly. They are too late."
I leaned over my desk, my gaze colder than the winter outside. "Stay away from me. Stay in your cubicle. Be the successful, renowned Professor Dela Cruz from New York, and I will remain Professor Reyes, the history scholar. We are colleagues, nothing more. And if you ever glare at Kent Santiago—or any colleague—again with that possessive, jealous look, I will report you to the Dean for professional harassment. *Naiintindihan mo ba?*" (Do you understand?)
He swallowed hard, his face pale and drawn. He looked defeated, cornered.
"Yes, Elaine," he finally choked out, his voice heavy with resignation. "I understand. Professor Reyes."
He took a slow, painful step back, returning to his side of the aisle. The distance was only a few feet, but it felt like an ocean. He picked up his coffee cup, his hands trembling slightly, and stared blankly at his computer screen.
I had won. I had established the boundary. I had extinguished his hope and silenced his anger.
But as I sat down to prepare my lecture on the Philippine Revolution, the victory tasted like ash. I was alone in my perfectly ordered, perfectly cold world, and the knowledge that the man who held the key to my heart was just across the aisle, shattered and hurting, offered no comfort at all.