#ningningxreader

That voice—smooth, measured, and just loud enough to turn one or two heads—carried the weight of old habits.

Ning froze. You followed her gaze.

Kai Yoon stood there like he owned the damn place. Perfectly pressed navy blazer. Pants that fell straight like steel. Watch gleaming under the lights. Hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. He looked like a billboard for control, wealth, and carefully constructed charm.

She gave him a slow blink, as if debating whether he was real or a ghost from a nightmare she forgot to lock away.

“Kai,” she said finally. Her voice was even, but you caught the twitch in her hand. “Didn’t know you dined around here.”

Kai Yoon looked around the restaurant like it offended him. “Business meeting,” he said. “Didn’t expect you here either. I thought you didn’t settle for anything under four stars.”

You felt Ning shrink by an inch, just for a second. Just long enough to hate him.

She smiled tightly. “People change.”

His eyes flicked to you—dissecting, measuring, judging.

“And who’s this?” he asked. “Your… date?”

Ning’s hand slid under the table. Gripped your sleeve, light but firm.

“Yeah,” she said. “This is Y/N.”

Kai didn’t offer his hand. He just nodded at you like you were the waiter who brought him the wrong wine.

“Nice,” he said vaguely. “Well. You always did love charity cases.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was acidic.

Ning blinked, once. Her lips parted. Closed. You felt her breathing shift—shallow, then sharp.

Kai leaned slightly closer, that familiar condescension dressed up in fake concern. “I’m not here to cause anything. Just… figured I’d say hi. After all, if you never left me, we could’ve been in Paris right now. You know that, right?”

And there it was.

The guilt bomb.

The line you say when you’re sure the other person still wishes they were yours.

Ning didn’t flinch this time. She looked down at her plate. Took a breath. Then raised her head.

“No,” she said clearly.

Kai blinked.

“No?” he repeated, confused by her lack of remorse.

“If I hadn’t left you,” she said slowly, voice steady, “I’d be miserable in Paris. Playing dress-up for your colleagues. Laughing at jokes I didn’t find funny. Smiling through dinners where I was decoration.”

He opened his mouth. She didn’t let him speak.

“You always said you wanted a partner, Kai. But you wanted an accessory. Something polished. Quiet. A woman who could fit the lifestyle but never outshine you in it.”

The table between them shrank. The whole restaurant seemed to quiet.

“Now I’m here. In a three-star restaurant. With someone who listens when I speak. Who doesn’t measure me by my purse brand or last name.”

Kai tried to scoff, but it caught in his throat.

“You’ve changed,” he muttered.

She smiled. Not fake. Not proud. Free.

“No,” she said. “I just stopped pretending for people like you.”

You looked at her then—really looked. The slight tremble in her hand, the fire behind her eyes, the girl who used to order ₱700 cappuccinos now drinking house water and somehow tasting more alive than ever.

Kai stood there, hands clenched, lips parted like he wanted to say something cruel—but couldn’t. He left without another word.

Ning let go of your sleeve.

You didn’t speak for a while. The waiter came and refilled her water. She thanked him in soft Tagalog.

When she finally turned to you, her eyes were glassy—but not with sadness.

With release.

“I’m sorry you saw that,” she whispered.

You shook your head.

“I’m not,” you said.

And for the first time all evening, she smiled without hesitation

The air outside was cooler than expected—almost like the universe decided to reward you both for surviving dinner without throwing a wine glass.

Ning walked beside you in silence, her heels clicking softer than usual, like even her footsteps were tired of performing.

You didn’t rush her.

The streets were mostly empty, save for the soft glow of tricycles in the distance and the flickering “24 HRS” sign of a nearby sari-sari store. You passed a taho vendor packing up, the metal containers clinking softly in the cart. It was late. And yet, you both kept walking.

No destination. Just away.

After a while, Ning spoke.

“That was Kai Yoon.”

You looked at her sideways. “Yeah. I figured.”

She laughed under her breath, like it was absurd that he still had that effect on her. Or maybe she just hated that he didn’t.

“He runs a tech company now,” she said. “Based in Singapore. I think it’s called—uh—Synterra? Something very… artificial intelligence-y. Also opened a modeling agency in Paris. Probably so he could fly in and out without looking suspicious.”

“Of cheating?”

“Of collecting women like they’re NFTs.”

You huffed through your nose. “Classy.”

“Always,” she said. “Everything about him was curated. Even the way he picked pasta. Had to say it in Italian. ‘Tagliatelle al tartufo,’ not ‘truffle pasta.’ Said it made him feel like he was there.”

You glance down. Her fingers were fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.

“You loved him?” you asked.

She took a breath that said yes—but when she answered, it was more complicated than that.

“I loved… the idea of him. What he symbolized. Freedom. Sophistication. Someone who could stand up to my family without blinking.”

She paused. “But then I realized he wasn’t standing up with me. He was standing on me. Showing them he could take their daughter and make her perfect.”

You nodded slowly. The footsteps filled the silence again.

“I didn’t leave him because I stopped loving him,” she added. “I left because I started loving myself just enough to ask: what if this isn’t all I’m meant for?”

The wind rustled her hair. You watched her tuck a strand behind her ear. Her eyes stayed forward, but you saw the truth swimming in them. Not pain anymore. Not even regret. Just… growing pains. The kind you never talk about during Sunday brunches or DLSU org meetings.

“Must’ve been hard,” you said gently.

“It was.”

“You did it anyway.”

She looked at you.

For a moment, you thought she might say something back. Something vulnerable. Maybe even something terrifying like thank you for being here or you make this easier.

But instead, she chuckled.

“You know what’s funny?” she said. “Back then, if someone told me I’d end up living in a small apartment, eating at three-star restaurants, and walking home with someone who wears ₱100 shirts…”

You grinned. “You’d block them.”

“Immediately,” she said, smirking. “But now?”

She stopped.

You turned to her.

She met your eyes. No armor. No lashes fluttering. Just her.

“Now I think I needed to lose everything I thought mattered just to realize what actually does.”

The streetlamp buzzed faintly above you both. In the distance, a jeepney honked. Someone’s dog barked twice.

But right here?

It was just the two of you.

“I’m glad you did,” you said.

She blinked slowly.

Then started walking again.

A little closer this time.

Your hands didn’t touch. Not yet. But your shadows did—faint outlines stretched across the concrete, quietly brushing shoulders the way your hearts almost did.

And for once, that was enough.

You bolted upright to the smell of something… burning?

Panicked, you swung open your bedroom door—only to be met with the sight of Ning Yizhuo standing in the middle of your kitchen, holding a rice spatula like a sword.

“Why is the sinangag… black?” you asked, rubbing your eyes.

“It’s not black,” she said, flipping whatever remained in the pan with blind optimism. “It’s just… toasted.”

You peeked over her shoulder. The rice looked like it had been resurrected from the underworld.

“Were you trying to cook without oil?”

“I thought you said we were out of olive oil,” she huffed.

“Yeah,” you said, pointing to the bottle of Mantika Gold behind the stove. “But we still have cooking oil. That’s different.”

She squinted at it like it was in another language. “I thought that was for, like… tricycle maintenance or something.”

You sighed. She smiled sheepishly.

“I wanted to make breakfast,” she said, quieter now. “To say thanks.”

You looked at her. Hair slightly frizzy, wearing your oversized t-shirt with a cartoon mango on it. Dark circles under her eyes, but standing in your kitchen like it was her battlefield.

You couldn’t help it. You smiled.

“Well,” you said. “Thank you for trying to kill me first thing in the morning.”

She tossed a sinangag chunk at you. You dodged. It hit the wall with a soft thwack.

“Emergency food,” you deadpanned. “Doubles as a weapon.”

She broke into laughter, finally relaxing.

Later That Morning

She sat at the dining table (aka the folding table you bought from Shopee), poking at the bread you toasted to redeem breakfast. You handed her a mug of instant coffee. She sniffed it like it was a science experiment.

“I’ve never had 3-in-1 before.”

You nearly choked. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “I thought it was like, a brand. Not… literally sugar, cream, and coffee in one packet.”

You leaned back. “You ever been to a karinderya?”

“No.”

“Rode a jeep?”

“No.”

“Tricycle?”

She hesitated. “…Only when my driver was sick.”

You nodded slowly, sipping your coffee. “So you really are fresh out the private school bubble.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t ask to be born with a house that had a water heater in the maid’s bathroom.”

You laughed. “It’s okay. You’re adjusting.”

She looked at you—this time, not annoyed, not teasing.

“I want to,” she said, quiet. “I don’t want to go back. Not yet.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Even if it means burnt sinangag and bucket baths?”

She grinned. “Even if I have to shout ‘Para po!’ on a jeep tomorrow.”

You smirked. “Do you even know how?”

She turned pale. “…Do I have to yell it?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Loud enough for the driver to hear. Or knock the ceiling. You’ll see.”

She covered her face with both hands. “God. I’m going to die.”

You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your chin on your palm.

“Maybe,” you said. “But I’ll be there.”

She peeked at you from between her fingers.

“Promise?”

You didn’t blink.

“Promise.

Early Morning, Public Wet Market

You and Ning, out to buy ingredients after her sinangag disaster.

“Ning,” you whisper as the palengke’s chaos swells around you. “You don’t need to say ‘Hi po!’ to every tindera.”

“But they’re smiling,” she whispers back. “What if they think I’m rude?”

“They’re smiling because they know you’re rich.”

She gasps. “How?! I’m wearing slippers!”

You point to her giant tote bag that says Dior: Limited Edition – Tokyo Collection.

She looks down. “Oh.”

You sigh, gently pulling her closer as a manang with a basket of tilapia barrels past her. “Just stay near me. Don’t look too excited.”

Too late.

Ning’s eyes are already wide at the tower of tomatoes stacked like red marbles, the piles of eggplants glistening with morning dew, the giant hanging scales that look older than Makati. You haven’t even made it to the meat section and she’s already taken four mental photos.

“This is so…” she breathes in the scent of calamansi, fish guts, and tsinelas. “…raw.”

You laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

You approach a vegetable stall. The manang behind the counter eyes Ning up and down. You know that look. The internal calculator: 1 foreign-branded bag = 300% markup.

Ning, unaware, leans down and gestures at a bundle of pechay.

“How much po?”

“₱100 na lang, hija,” the vendor says with a smile that hides evil.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Ate, that’s ₱35 everywhere else.”

But Ning already takes out a crumpled ₱100 bill.

“Keep the change po,” she says sweetly.

The vendor nearly bursts into song.

You wait until you’re walking away before turning to her. “You just bought ₱35 pechay for ₱100.”

“What?! But she said—”

“She saw your bag.”

“That’s discrimination,” Ning gasps.

“That’s business,” you grin. “Welcome to capitalism, but stinkier.”

At the fish section, Ning nearly gags.

You watch her lean far, far back as a fishmonger slaps a bangus on the chopping board with a wet thwack.

“Oh my god, it’s staring at me.”

“It’s dead.”

“It’s judging me for eating salmon sashimi.”

She hides behind you as you order galunggong.

“I used to think fish just came in frozen packs,” she mumbles, holding her breath.

“You think those were just born in rectangular trays?”

“I didn’t think at all,” she confesses. “I just ate what the chef plated.”

You glance back at her. Her Dior tote has a bit of fish scale on it now. She doesn’t even notice.

She’s trying.

You hold the plastic bag out to her. “Here. Carry this.”

She takes it hesitantly. It drips slightly. Her face contorts.

“You’re making me hold—ew—raw fish?!”

You smirk. “Congrats. You’re halfway to sainthood.”

Walking Back Home

She’s carrying two plastic bags now. One with the galunggong. One with overpriced pechay and two calamansi she got bullied into buying for ₱25 each.

Her back aches. Her arms are sore.

But her face?

Sun-kissed, flushed, smiling.

“I think I have tendonitis,” she says dramatically. “This is what the masa experience feels like?”

You snort. “You’ve been here a week.”

She stops walking for a moment, looks at the street—dusty, uneven, vendors on both sides yelling “ISDAAAA!” and “PALENGKE PRESYO!” She looks down at her slippers, a far cry from her Jimmy Choos. Then at her tote bag with fish slime. Then at you.

“I don’t hate it,” she says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

She looks up at you with a weird kind of wonder. Like she just surprised herself.

“I feel like I’m doing something real. Like I’m… living. Not just existing between air-conditioned places.”

You hold her gaze for a second longer than you mean to.

She breaks it first, laughing lightly. “Plus, I’ll have a great story when I go back to school.”

You chuckle. “You’re going to open with ‘I once overpaid for pechay’?”

She grins. “No. I’ll open with, ‘I once held a bag of raw fish and survived.’”

And for the first time, you don’t see the rich girl from DLSU.

You just see Ning.

And she’s starting to feel like yours

Your Apartment Kitchen, 2:14 PM

You place the ingredients on the counter. Fish, pechay, calamansi, some leftover onion, a tomato Ning insisted was “too wrinkly to live.” You’re planning something simple—just fried galunggong and ginisang gulay.

Ning stares at the fish.

“I feel like they’re… fighting for their lives.”

“They’re already dead, Ning.”

“I mean spiritually.”

You roll your eyes and grab a chopping board. “Come on. We’ll cook together.”

Her face lights up. “Like those couples on YouTube?”

You freeze mid-chop. “We’re not—”

“Shh,” she says, putting on your spare apron. It hangs off her like a child playing house. “Don’t ruin the aesthetic.”

You hand her a tomato. “Slice this.”

She holds it like it’s alien technology.

“…How do I hold it again?”

You step behind her, gently placing your hands over hers.

“Like this,” you say, guiding her fingers.

Your hands linger. Her hair smells like coconut shampoo. She’s not speaking.

Neither are you.

Just the sound of your breaths syncing, your hands on hers, the tomato slowly surrendering under the blade.

She exhales, shaky. “This feels like a scene in a teleserye.”

“Except there’s no background music,” you mumble.

She glances over her shoulder, smirking. “Says who?”

You roll your eyes—but your heart’s beating a little faster.

Eventually, the stove hisses to life.

You heat oil in the pan. Ning steps back cautiously, eyes squinting like it might explode.

“You’re scared of the oil,” you tease.

“I’m scared of trauma,” she says, backing against the counter. “It pops like gunshots!”

You drop the fish into the pan. It sizzles loudly—Ning screams. You barely catch her wrist as she jumps behind you, peeking like she’s watching a horror film.

“It’s frying, not fighting you.”

She peeks again. “It’s bubbling…”

“You bubble too when you’re angry.”

“Exactly. See how scary I am?”

You laugh. “Yeah. Terrifying.”

She shoves your arm lightly. You don’t move.

You just smile.

30 minutes later.

You both sit at the table, staring at the final product: a semi-burnt but edible galunggong, slightly overcooked pechay, and rice Ning almost remembered to fluff.

She takes a bite.

Chews.

Then raises both arms in the air dramatically. “I have achieved domesticity!”

You snort. “It’s not MasterChef, Ning.”

“But it’s mine,” she says softly. “Our mess. Our rice. Our fish.”

You glance at her. Her smile is smaller now. Warmer.

No designer lipstick. No filters.

Just Ning Yizhuo, sweaty from cooking, proud of her ₱100 pechay, and looking at you like maybe—just maybe—this is what home could feel like.

You grab your fork. “Next time, you do the frying.”

She gasps. “That’s a death sentence.”

You smirk. “Then I guess we better cook together again.”

She blinks.

Then smiles.

“Yeah,” she says. “We better

The meal’s done. Sort of.

You’re drying plates while Ning stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair clipped messily. Dish soap bubbles spill from her hands like foam parties gone wrong.

“Are you sure I’m doing this right?” she mutters, squinting at a fork.

“It’s not neurosurgery, Ning.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she says. “I’ve never washed a dish in my life.”

You blink. “Never?”

She shakes her head, sheepish. “Not once. I always just… left it on the counter. And poof. It disappeared.”

You whistle low. “Wow. Must be nice.”

She doesn’t laugh. Just looks down at her hands. Sudsy. Pale. Dripping.

“I think that’s why I stayed with Kai for so long,” she says softly. “Because I thought love was… being taken care of. Being served.”

You glance at her, waiting.

“But this—” she gestures at the sponge, the heat, the water. “This feels weirdly better.”

You bump her hip lightly with yours. “It’s because you earned it.”

She smiles at the sink. “It’s because I’m with you.”

Your hand stops mid-dry.

But she doesn’t push it. She just continues washing, humming quietly to herself.

You don’t say anything.

You just keep drying the plates like your heart didn’t just hiccup inside your chest.

Rooftop, 11:34 PM

The night air is cool. You both sit on the rooftop—her in your hoodie now, legs tucked into her chest, your shoulder nearly touching hers.

Below, the world murmurs. Jeepneys. Radios. Barking dogs. But up here, it’s calm.

She sips from a cheap plastic cup of Milo.

“I used to think I knew who I was,” she says suddenly. “Yizhuo. Daughter of the Yoons. Fluent in French. Studied abroad. Always clean. Always polite. Always… perfect.”

You say nothing. Let her speak.

“But the more I stayed in that life, the more I felt like I was shrinking. Like every time I said ‘yes po’ or smiled at a dinner I hated, I lost a version of myself.”

She rests her head on her knees.

“I’m scared,” she admits.

You turn slightly. “Of what?”

“That I don’t belong here either. That I’m just playing pretend in reverse now. Like a rich girl trying to cosplay being normal. And that the moment I get one thing wrong… people will laugh.”

You take a beat. Then: “Then let them.”

She looks at you.

“You’re trying,” you say. “You’re failing sometimes, yeah. But failing isn’t fake. It’s proof you’re in it. It means more than all the perfect smiles you gave for free before.”

She stares at you. Long. Quiet. Like she’s memorizing the words.

Then, softly: “You make me feel real.”

You smile. “You are real.”

A pause.

She sets her cup down. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“If I asked you to hold my hand right now, would it be weird?”

You look at her—really look at her—and for the first time, she’s not playing at anything. Not pretending. Not flirting.

You reach out. She takes your hand.

And together, you just sit there. Holding onto silence like it’s the only thing keeping your hearts from spilling over.

The Next Day

The next morning, you’re frying eggs when there’s a knock at the door.

Ning, hair still wet from her bucket bath, peeks out the window.

And freezes.

“What?” you ask, stepping beside her.

Outside, standing crisp in a dark grey long-sleeved polo, holding a takeout bag from some overpriced café in BGC…

…is Kai Yoon.

You and Ning stare at him. He meets both your gazes. Eyes unreadable.

He lifts the bag slightly. Almost like a peace offering.

“Can we talk?” he asks, eyes on Ning.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just clutches her towel tighter, like she’s not sure what she’s shielding—her skin or her peace.

You look at her. “You don’t have to.”

But she steps back, exhales, and says—

“Give me five minutes.”

Your jaw tightens, but you nod.

As she closes the door behind her, your knuckles whiten around the frying pan handle.

You’re not worried about him hurting her.

You’re worried about her forgetting what she’s learned to love.

The door clicks shut.

Ning steps out barefoot onto the sun-warmed tiles of your apartment landing. Her hair is still dripping, towel slung over her shoulder. She looks like she just stepped out of something pure—like peace—and into something that smells like old perfume and pretense.

Kai holds the café bag awkwardly.

“I didn’t know what you eat now,” he says, offering it. “They had truffle croissants.”

She stares at it. “You think this is a peace offering?”

Kai smiles faintly. “It’s a start.”

She doesn’t take the bag.

“You always did that,” she says. “Use money to fix things.”

“It’s what I have,” he replies. “And you liked it, remember?”

She blinks. “I liked you. Not your Black Card.”

Kai shifts, uncomfortable for the first time. His voice drops.

“I miss you.”

Inside the apartment hallway, behind the door:

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

You were just… worried.

You press your ear to the door, trying not to breathe too loudly.

Then you hear it:

“I miss you.”

Your chest tightens. You grip the edge of the counter like it’ll steady your heart.

Back outside:

Ning crosses her arms. “You miss the version of me that didn’t talk back. That wore what your mom liked. That went to meetings just to smile and pour wine.”

Kai’s jaw clenches. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “Do you even know who I am now?”

“I’m trying,” he says quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Kai says the thing that you hear through the door:

“You were better with me, Ning.”

The words hit like cold water.

Inside, you flinch.

Your throat dries.

Outside, Ning stays very still.

Kai softens. “You had structure. Discipline. A path. You weren’t flailing around in slippers at wet markets with some random guy who—”

“Don’t,” she cuts sharply. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Kai’s eyes flash. “You really think he understands you more than I did?”

She doesn’t answer.

And silence, this time, screams.

Then—

He steps forward.

And wraps his arms around her.

She freezes.

Then slowly—reluctantly—lets herself rest her chin on his shoulder.

Not tightly.

Not long.

But enough.

Inside:

You see it.

Through the open window.

That hug.

Your world stills.

The eggs on the stove begin to burn.

You don’t notice.

You just… quietly step back.

Like something in you cracked open and didn’t know how to close again.

Ning steps back into the apartment.

She looks shaken, but not sad. Just thoughtful. Her towel still slung over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed.

You’re already wiping the pan clean. Face unreadable. Voice even.

“Breakfast’s cold,” you say.

She pauses.

“I—Kai—he just wanted to—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you say too quickly.

She hesitates again. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

But you don’t meet her eyes.

You just turn your back and start reboiling water you don’t really need.

And Ning, for the first time since staying with you, feels a distance that wasn’t there yesterday.

You used to cook together.

Now, you eat in silence.

The only sound at lunch is the scrape of a fork against your ₱10 plate and the ticking fan that wobbles like it might fall any day now.

She sits across from you, legs crossed, hair perfect again. Even her nails are painted now—light pink with tiny gold accents. There’s a glint of pearl earrings that weren’t there last week.

You don’t ask.

She doesn’t tell.

But between every spoonful, there’s that thick quiet. The kind you only hear between people who used to laugh.

Market Morning

You grab the bayong and head out. The sun is high, the air thick with rain that hasn’t fallen yet.

She stays in bed, scrolling. You glance once before leaving.

“Need anything?”

She shakes her head without looking up. “Kai’s picking me up in an hour.”

You nod once.

You don’t say goodbye.

Rooftop Steakhouse – Night

A rooftop in BGC. Golden light. Jazz music. Wine in glasses with stems longer than her fingers.

Ning sits across from Kai, eating steak she didn’t order. He talks about expansion—tech, models, Singapore, Paris.

“Paris?” she asks softly, staring out at the skyline.

“Yeah,” Kai says. “We could go. For New Year. You and me again.”

She chews slowly.

The steak tastes like money. Like comfort. Like the life her father wanted her to return to.

Her phone buzzes once.

She doesn’t check.

But her fingers twitch.

Back home, the rain finally comes.

Not in drizzles.

In sheets.

You scramble as water rushes in through the back door, frantically stacking up chairs, unplugging sockets, grabbing the rice container before it floats away.

The water is ankle-deep.

You’ve got no rain boots. Just tsinelas. Just yourself.

You think of Ning.

Of how she used to squeal when she saw a cockroach, how she held fish like it was cursed, how she once tried to sweep a leak away with a face towel.

She’s not here now.

You’re soaked to the bone.

The electric fan you bought last month sparks once—then dies.

So you sit.

In the flood.

Alone.

You, in the dark, watching raindrops plink into your pot.

Ning, on a rooftop, watching city lights flicker like stars you can almost touch.

Kai’s voice fades into the background. Something about investment. About her father calling him “finally someone respectable.”

Ning cuts her steak.

But her heart?

It’s not chewing.

It’s remembering.

The burnt sinangag. The way you looked at her during that rooftop talk. How your hand fit perfectly in hers without needing to squeeze too tight.

She blinks.

Her wine glass reflects the city.

But in it, she sees you.

And her smile fades.

Back at Your Place – Midnight

The floodwater’s receded.

You mop in silence.

You place the fan outside, unsure if it’ll ever work again.

You don’t text her.

You don’t check her socials.

But when you sit back on the wooden chair by the window and close your eyes—

You think of her.

And wonder if she still thinks of you

The house smells like wet cement and bleach.

Your jeans are still damp. You haven’t changed out of them. Haven’t eaten dinner either.

Instead, you sit on the monoblock chair just outside your door, elbows on your knees, a bottle of Ginebra at your side, half-empty. A box of Fortune Reds lies unopened beside it.

You stare at the box.

You told yourself never again. Not after your dad. Not after what it did to your voice.

But it’s quiet tonight. Too quiet. The kind that makes you want to cough out every feeling like smoke just to fill the space.

Rain drips from the rusted awning overhead. A faint scent of galunggong still lingers in the air, like it’s haunting you.

And then you hear it.

That low, smooth hum.

Tires on wet gravel.

A sleek, polished black sports car—almost foreign against the warped concrete and half-flooded gutter—pulls up right in front of your gate.

You don’t move.

The driver door opens.

And there she is.

Ning Yizhuo.

Hair smooth. Blazer expensive. Heels tapping lightly against the wet pavement.

The door doesn’t close. The engine keeps running behind her like it’s waiting. Like she’s just pausing.

She steps forward.

You still don’t move.

Only your fingers twitch toward the cigarette box.

She looks at you like she’s not sure what she’s expecting—anger? forgiveness? one last smile?

You look at her like you’re not sure what she’s offering.

Her lips part.

Then, softly:

“Y/N… I’m flying to Paris.”

You exhale through your nose. Not shocked. Not anymore.

Of course she is.

Paris. The place they promised her. The symbol of who she used to be. Or who she was always meant to become again.

You nod slowly.

Not because you agree.

Just because it’s the only thing you know how to do without crumbling.

She waits. Maybe for you to say something. Stop her. Ask her not to go.

But you don’t.

You finally pick up the cigarette box. Open it. Pull one out with shaking fingers.

She watches, eyes widening. “You don’t smoke.”

“I do now,” you say.

Your voice is hoarse. Not cruel. Just… tired.

She looks at the car.

Then back at you.

“It’s not forever,” she says, almost desperate. “Just… for now. Just a little while.”

You light the cigarette. It sputters against the rain-heavy air, but you breathe in anyway.

The taste burns.

So does everything else.

You look up at her.

Eyes red. But not from smoke.

From the flood you’re trying to pretend isn’t inside you.

“Then go,” you say quietly.

She flinches.

“I waited,” you add. “You said you wanted something real. I thought you meant me.”

Her lip trembles. “I did.”

You scoff, bitter. “Then why does it feel like I was just… part of your transition? A layover between lives.”

She blinks rapidly.

You flick ash onto the pavement. The ember glows faintly in the dark.

“You’re gonna forget me in first class, Yizhuo.”

She shakes her head. “No. I won’t.”

But the car’s still running.

The lights still on.

You don’t believe her.

You just look at her one last time.

Soaking her in—every detail. The old you would’ve reached for her hand. Tucked her hair back. Told her to stay.

But now?

Now you just say:

“Paris is beautiful this time of year.”

She swallows hard.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

She turns.

The car door closes.

The taillights disappear.

And you sit back down, alone again, rainwater at your feet.

The tricycle outside was already honking like it had a personal grudge against your household. The neighbor’s dog was barking again. And you had exactly 18 minutes to shower, dress, and pray your uniform shirt was dry from last night’s sampayan.

It wasn’t.

But whatever. You wore it anyway.

You didn’t eat breakfast — you just grabbed a cold pandesal and downed the last packet of powdered coffee from the tin can. It wasn’t much, but it was better than showing up to class with your stomach performing a live percussion solo.

Wallet check: ₱52. Gcash: ₱18.71. Hope: hanging by a thread.

Still, you made it.

You always did.

The jeep ride to PUP was its own kind of hell.

You clung to the metal handlebar like it was your last lifeline as the driver sped through Sta. Mesa like he was auditioning for Fast and Furious: Manila Drift. You were squished between a sleeping man and someone’s elbow poking into your ribs. The sun was barely up, but the city was already sweating.

Still, you made it. Bag check. ID check. Security guard gave you a little nod.

“Uy, Y/N,” one of your blockmates called, catching up beside you. “Kumain ka na?”

“Tubig lang,” you muttered.

He laughed. You didn’t.

You sat through three straight lectures. The chair creaked every time you leaned back, and the electric fan above your head only worked when the wind outside was feeling generous. Someone was blasting TikTok audio in the hallway again.

But you focused. Took notes. Answered when called.

Because if there was one thing you promised yourself — it was this:

You were gonna make it out of here. Not to prove anyone wrong. But to prove yourself right.

You didn't need luxury. Or name brands. Or validation.

You just needed enough time. Enough willpower. Enough luck to stretch your baon until Friday.

It was past 5PM — golden hour, but Sta. Mesa didn’t care.

The sun dipped lazily behind smoke-stained buildings, casting everything in that familiar orange haze. The scent of isaw, exhaust fumes, and overpriced coffee floated through the air, and half your block was already outside the main gate waiting for a ride or just pretending to study.

You were one of them — sitting on the low cement ledge near the guard post, legs tired, GCash at ₱3.19. You were about to text your mom that you’d just walk home to save money, when a sound cut through the noise.

Vrrrrooooom.

Low. Smooth. Not tricycle. Not jeep.

Everyone turned.

And that’s when you saw it.

A white Porsche — clean, glossy, tinted like a celebrity car — slowed to a stop just outside the campus gate. The engine purred like it didn’t belong here, and it didn’t.

Nobody said anything at first.

Then:

“Bro… is that a Grab?” “Putek, 'di yan Grab, tanga.” “Bat may sports car dito?”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the window.

And then it rolled down.

She looked… effortless.

Long straight hair tucked behind Chanel shades, gold hoops peeking through, glossy lips wrapped around a straw from her ₱280 coffee. She was wearing a cropped white polo and green slacks — La Salle uniform. Her lanyard was hanging from the rearview mirror like it knew it was flexing.

She was on her phone, laughing at something — and then, out of nowhere, she glanced toward the crowd.

Right at you.

Your heart stopped for no reason.

You looked away instantly, pretending to check your phone that had no data.

Then she honked.

Not aggressively — just one soft, almost playful beep.

People whispered.

"Nagpapasundo ba siya?" “Siguro boyfriend niya taga rito?” “Luh, kung sino man yun, jackpot.”

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t call out a name. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even react when people kept staring.

She just sipped her coffee. Checked her nails.

Waited.

Then slowly, with surgical confidence, she pushed open her door — heels clicking against the concrete — and stepped out like a Vogue ad decided to walk into your barangay.

And that’s when it hit you.

This wasn’t a Grab.

This was Ningning.

Over the few weeks.

The white Porsche became a regular thing.

At first, people thought it was a one-time fluke. Maybe someone got lost. Maybe a rich cousin doing a favor. But no — three days later, it was there again. Same time. Same spot. Same girl.

Ningning.

No one knew her name at first, of course. Just that she was from La Salle — DLSU Conyo Queen, as people started calling her in hushed tones and group chats.

She’d park by the gate. Window down. Music low. Always in designer sunglasses, always sipping something that probably cost more than your whole meal for the day. She didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t ask for directions. Just… waited.

And always, at some point, her eyes would sweep through the crowd like she was looking for something.

Or someone.

Your blockmate leaned over one afternoon and elbowed you.

“Bro,” he whispered, “bakit parang sayo siya nakatingin?”

You waved him off. “Hindi sa’kin ‘yan. Baka sa likod.”

But you knew there was nothing behind you except a faded canteen poster and a jeep terminal.

It became a thing.

The La Salle Girl Watch.

Even profs started noticing.

“Hoy, sino yung may sugar mommy sa inyo, ha?” one joked, making the whole class laugh while you just stared at your paper and tried to pretend your ears weren’t burning.

People threw out theories:

She was picking up a secret boyfriend.

She was the ex of a prof.

She was just lost, but too proud to ask for help.

She was rich enough to be weird, and this was her hobby.

But deep down, you knew the truth was simpler.

She knew someone here.

And every day she came back — she kept choosing not to say who.

One day, you stayed late for org work and missed the usual 5PM routine. You walked past the gate at almost 7PM, tired and half-starving, just planning to ride home and sleep.

But the car was still there.

No headlights. No music.

Just her.

Sitting behind the wheel, hair tied in a messy bun now, glasses swapped out for her bare face. She wasn’t sipping coffee or scrolling her phone.

She was just… there.

And for the first time, she looked tired too.

Then she saw you.

This time, she didn’t look away.

She just held your gaze — a beat too long. Like she was about to say something.

But then she turned the key.

Engine on.

And drove off.

You didn’t know why your chest felt heavy.

But you had a feeling…

THE NEXT DAY

It was 8:37 PM.

The multipurpose room smelled like sweat, markers, and cheap pancit canton. You were sweeping the last of the confetti off the floor after your org’s monthly open mic event — half of which you ran, the other half you tolerated.

You were dead tired. Your back ached. Your GCash balance was currently ₱0.57. And to top it off, the janitor forgot his keys again, so you had to wait for him before you could lock up.

That’s when you heard the knock.

Not from the door. From the window.

You turned.

And there she was.

Ningning.

Still wearing green. Hair in a sleek ponytail. Leaning slightly against the frame like she belonged in a shampoo commercial. She looked… out of place. But completely unbothered by it.

You blinked.

She pointed at the door with her perfectly manicured finger. “Open. I don’t like windows.”

You opened it. Confused. A little wary.

She stepped inside like she owned the room.

“Okay, so like… I’m not into long intros or anything,” she began, brushing a strand of hair back. “But I need a boyfriend.”

You just stared.

“…Huh?”

She rolled her eyes, but not cruelly — more like she didn’t want to explain twice. “My family’s visiting from abroad next week. They think I have a serious relationship already. Long story. My cousin got engaged, and my mom suddenly decided she wants me to settle down too.”

You blinked again.

“I’m twenty,” she added flatly. “Gross.”

“…So what does this have to do with me?” you asked, still holding the broom like it could protect you from this fever dream.

She took a deep breath.

“I need someone believable,” she said. “Not a La Sallian boy na may daddy issues and wears vape as cologne. Someone… lowkey.”

She looked at you dead in the eyes.

“You. You’re so normal. Like — ridiculously normal. You take the jeep. You have holes in your socks. Your baon is probably packed by your nanay.”

You opened your mouth to object. Then closed it. Because, well. She wasn’t wrong.

She stepped forward, arms crossed.

“Here’s the deal. Be my boyfriend. For a week. Just for family dinner, a few photos, maybe a lunch date. I’ll compensate. Like, hindi ako manggagamit ha — I’ll give you ₱5,000. G.”

You swallowed.

“…₱5,000?”

“Each day.”

You almost dropped the broom.

“I just need you to look convincing,” she said. “And maybe—like—hold my hand and pretend we’re gross in front of my tita.”

You stared at her.

She looked back.

Then added: “Don’t fall in love with me, ha?”

And somehow, that was the first sentence that made your stomach flip.

It was just a regular Thursday.

You wore your usual PUP uniform — half-ironed polo, faded pants, shoes that had seen better days. Your bag felt like a boulder. Your mind felt heavier. Finals were coming, and your GCash had the emotional weight of a breakup.

The heat was insane. The line for tricycles was a war zone. You were about to give up and just walk home again.

Then came the sound.

Vrrrroooooom.

Clean. Refined. Not a jeep. Not a tricycle.

You already knew.

Heads turned like synchronized swimmers.

The white Porsche slowed to a stop outside the campus gate, smooth like it belonged in a music video. The windows were slightly tinted, but not enough to hide her.

Ningning.

Wearing a cropped tee, high-waisted jeans, heels that screamed "I don’t walk, I glide." Her oversized designer shades were perched on her head, glossy lips wrapped around her iced latte straw. She looked like a page torn out of a fashion magazine and dropped straight into Sta. Mesa.

Then she yelled — loud enough for the entire block to hear:

“LOVEEEEEEEE!!” (“BABE!!”)

Silence.

You, frozen.

“Love, sakay na! Ang init noh??” (“Babe, get in! It’s sooo hot, right??”) “I’m double parked pa, baka pagalitan ako ni Kuya driver ko!” (“I’m double parked, the driver might scold me!”)

Spoiler: she didn’t have a driver. She was the driver.

You stood there, disbelief on your face, as everyone — and I mean everyone — turned to look at you.

“Is she talking to him?” (“Dude... what?”) “That’s not a Grab, bro.” “Putek, jowa niya talaga si PUP boy?”

You could hear your blockmates losing their collective minds.

“Bro, kung sa kanya ka nga sinisigawan ng 'love’... bakit hindi mo pa sinasagot sa GC?” (“If she calls you ‘love’… why can’t you reply in the group chat?”)

And she did it again.

“Y/N! Bilis, babe, I’ll buy you milk tea pa oh!” (“Y/N! Hurry, babe, I’ll even buy you milk tea!”)

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

But instead, you walked. Slowly. Like it was your funeral.

“Putangina, si Y/N pala talaga.” (“Holy sht, it really is Y/N.”)* “Manifesting my own DLSU girlfriend as we speak.” “Wait ‘til Twitter hears about this.”

You reached the passenger side. She leaned over, popped the door, and gave you that smile.

“Hey, babe,” she said sweetly. (“Hey, babe.”) “Missed you.”

You got in. Closed the door. And just like that — you disappeared into the sweet-smelling, air-conditioned, ₱5M worth of gossip fuel.

From PUP boy to Porsche passenger. In full view of the campus.

And she didn’t even need to explain a thing.

After shuting the passenger door behind you with a soft thunk, and letting the cold AC hit your face like a reward for surviving the most embarrassing 10 minutes of your life.

You adjusted your seat belt, still half-processing the trauma of Ningning yelling “LOVEEEE!!” in front of your entire university. Students. Guards. Stray cats. Everyone.

“You didn’t have to scream like that,” you muttered, fidgeting with the lock like it was your first time in a car this expensive.

She leaned back against the leather seat, smug smile already locked and loaded.

“It’s called commitment to the role, dumbass.” “Believability is everything. You think I half-ass my fake relationships? No. I serve.”

You looked down at the center console, still confused.

“Why does this car only have two doors?”

“Because it’s a sports car, babe. You think I’d pick you up in a Toyota Wigo?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, and then — without warning — reached out and grabbed your hand.

Not gently. Not romantically. Like it was a business deal sealed by skin-to-skin contact.

“Anyways,” she said, palm pressing against yours, her nails cool to the touch, “welcome to your first of many days… with me.”

You blinked.

“…Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than you meant. “Let’s just get this over with.”

But her grip didn’t loosen.

“Right,” she said, smiling with just enough softness to make you question if this was still just acting. “Just one week. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Rule number one,” Ningning said, adjusting her Louis Vuitton shoulder bag like it was part of her anatomy, “don’t gawk.”

You were already gawking.

To be fair, this was Greenbelt 5. You didn’t even know there was a 4, let alone five. The floor tiles were shinier than your future, and the escalator had glass railings like a spaceship. There were no street vendors, no hotdog carts, not even a Kultura corner.

Just cold air, chandeliers, and judgmental rich people.

And all of them?

Looking at you.

Because beside you was her.

Ningning. Hair in soft waves. Skirt that swayed when she walked. Top that probably cost your tuition. And heels that sounded like mini thunderclaps across the marble.

She was holding your arm. Touching you. Like you were someone.

Everyone noticed.

Old women glanced. Frat boys stared. Salesladies side-eyed. You swore one whispered:

“Must be her driver.” (“Ay, baka driver.”)

But Ningning? Didn’t flinch.

She walked like you belonged next to her — no explanation, no apology.

And that messed you up more than anything.

Inside the café, she ordered with ease.

“Two matcha lattes, less sweet, oat milk — and can you serve it with the espresso on the side? I hate pag pinaghahalo nila agad.”

The cashier nodded like she was royalty.

You? You blinked at the prices.

₱295 for a drink. That’s seven jeep rides. Or two meals. Or— “Babe, swipe your card.”

You looked up.

“...Huh?”

She leaned in, whispering.

“This is part of the act, okay? You’re supposed to act like you can afford this.”

You swallowed.

“But I can’t afford this.”

She smiled sweetly.

“Good thing I can. Now swipe, pogi.”

At the table, she did a full evaluation.

“Okay,” she started, “we need to fix your walk. You don’t walk with confidence, you walk like someone just shouted ‘cut!’ on a teleserye taping.”

You just nodded, sipping the ₱295 latte like it didn’t taste like regret and grass.

“Also,” she said, pointing, “you can’t keep wearing those shoes. The sole’s literally opening. What if my mom sees that? She’ll think I’m dating a fishball vendor.”

“...Anong masama sa fishball?”

She laughed.

Not the sarcastic conyo laugh you expected.

But a real one.

And suddenly… you weren’t just surviving the act anymore.

You were enjoying it.

Until she said:

“We’ll need to take couple photos later. My mom’s already asking for updates.” “We’ll go to Wildflour or something. It looks... Instagrammable.”

You blinked again.

“Wait, she doesn’t know we’re fake?”

Ningning smiled.

Then stirred her latte.

“Of course not.”

Outside, another stare. Another whisper. Another slow head-turn as Ningning held your hand in front of everyone like she’d done it for years.

“Look up,” she whispered. “You’re with me now.”

THE NEXT DAY

You weren’t late today.

Nope. You were early.

Which was weird, because usually you were ten minutes late and pretending you had a nosebleed excuse. But today you were twenty minutes early… and still five minutes too late for the gossip storm you walked into.

You stepped through the campus gate, and immediately—

Eyes.

Everywhere.

Like your arrival was the event of the day.

People nudged each other. Whispers. Phones. TikToks probably being filmed in secret. Even Mang Nestor at the fishball cart gave you a knowing nod like you’d just graduated with honors.

“Bro, bro, that’s him diba?” “’Yun ‘yun eh! Yung sinigawan ng ‘LOVEEE!!’ tapos sumakay sa white Porsche!” “Tangina… jackpot.”

Even the guards joined in.

“Y/N, pwedeng pa-picture?” “Pampabwenas lang, baka may masundo rin akong taga-Miriam.”

You tried to laugh it off.

But the minute you entered the classroom—

Chaos.

Your blockmates stood up.

One dramatically reenacted the entire mall scene like it was a teleserye:

“LOVEEEEEE!!!” he screamed, running in slow motion toward the whiteboard while pretending to hold an iced latte.

Another grabbed a rag, pretending it was a Hermes purse.

“Wait lang babe, I’ll open the Porsche door for you!” “OMG, don’t forget to wave at the commoners!”

The class lost it.

Even your professor paused mid-roll call just to smirk and say:

“Y/N? Present ka ba or busy ka pa sa Greenbelt?”

You facepalmed so hard it echoed.

“Pwede ba,” you groaned. “It’s not even that serious.”

“NOT THAT SERIOUS?!” your seatmate gasped. “My guy, you got collected like a limited edition figure. Do you know how many boys were crying in the group chat last night?!”

“Pinag-uusapan ka sa confessions page, bro!” “Someone said, ‘May boyfriend na pala si Ningning, aray.’”

You sank deeper into your chair.

This was your life now.

Famous. Accidentally.

Then your phone buzzed.

Ningning (💸🫀):

“Lunch later. Wear something I won’t burn. Mwah.”

You stared at the screen.

And sighed.

Here we go again.

It was lunch break, and you were already sweating.

Not from the heat — but from the anticipation. Because if yesterday was wild, today was about to make headlines again.

You kept your head down while walking toward the gate. Your classmates followed like ducklings, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

“Bro, what if she shows up again?” “Di ka na pwedeng makipag-break ‘no. Sayang Porsche.” “Sana all may sugar mom— este, girlfriend.”

Then — you heard it.

Vrrrrrmmmm. But not the same vroom as yesterday.

Nope. This was deeper. Meaner. A little richer.

Heads turned like it was a K-pop comeback.

And there it was:

A matte black Mercedes-AMG G-Class.

Blacked-out rims. Custom plate. Tinted windows that screamed “this vehicle has never touched EDSA.”

“TANGINA!” “WHAT THE F— IS THAT?!” “Bro. Bro. Is that HER again??”

Then the door opened.

Ningning stepped out. New outfit. All white, effortless, expensive. Oversized sunglasses. A Nike duffel slung over her shoulder like she was either going to the gym or buying it.

She looked around, spotted you instantly, and did the one thing you feared:

“LOVEEEEEEE!!!” “Babe! Bilis na, I’m hungry!”

Your classmates collapsed in disbelief.

“She changed cars??” “She CHANGED BRANDS??” “Is he a senator’s son??”

You walked toward her like a man approaching judgment day. Then you saw it:

She held up the Nike bag, shook it once, and smirked.

“Here. Size 11 right?” “I noticed your shoes were crying.”

You opened the bag.

Brand new Dunks.

You were speechless.

“You bought me shoes?”

“No, I adopted them. You just get to wear them.”

She winked and tossed you the keys.

“Now drive.”

“Huh—what?? I can’t—”

“Relax, babe. Just kidding. You really think I’m letting ₱14 million get scratched by you?”

Everyone watched.

You got in. Again.

Different car. Same girl. Even crazier scene.

Your classmates? They didn’t even pretend to be cool anymore.

“He’s not real.” “That man is living the Wattpad dream.” “If this turns out to be a prank show, I’m suing.”

The car ride was quieter this time.

Maybe because you were still processing the Dunks. Or the fact that she didn’t even flinch paying for parking with a black card. Or maybe… it was because her hand brushed against yours again while adjusting the GPS.

You pretended not to notice. She pretended not to care.

But there was something in the air.

The café was somewhere you’d only seen on influencer vlogs — tall glass windows, minimalist interiors, plants that probably had better skincare routines than you, and a scent that screamed: “we do not serve sawsawan here.”

You hesitated at the door.

“You sure I’m allowed in here?” you whispered. “My existence might bring the aesthetic down.”

She gave you a look.

“You’re with me. That makes you pre-approved, babe.”

Inside, the host immediately smiled like he recognized royalty.

“Ah, Miss Ningning. Your usual table?”

“Yes please. Oh, and we’re sharing today.”

You blinked.

“Sharing?”

“Yep. One of the three things I actually like doing in a relationship.”

The menus were thick. The prices were thicker.

₱1,300 for grilled salmon. ₱800 for truffle fries. ₱450 for sparkling water. And a dish simply called “Rice” — for ₱1,100.

You stared at it.

“Babe,” you whispered. “This rice better sing and dance for me.”

She laughed.

“Shh. People here tip in euros.”

The food arrived. Fancy. Intimidating. Delicious, probably.

She took a photo. You watched her.

Then she put her phone down.

“So,” she said casually, slicing into her ₱2,000 salad, “How’s fake dating me so far?”

You blinked, mouth full of gold-leaf-adorned shrimp.

“Uh… weird. Public. Confusing.”

She raised a brow.

“No fun? Not even a little?”

You met her gaze. It lingered.

“It’s fun,” you admitted. “Just… hard to tell what’s part of the act sometimes.”

Her fork stopped mid-air. Just for a beat.

Then she smiled — but a little slower this time.

“You’re not supposed to figure that out.”

Before the tension got too real, her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it.

“Great. My cousin saw us through someone’s Instagram story.” “She said, and I quote: ‘About time you dated someone tall.’”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Glad to know I passed the height check.”

She sipped her iced tea, leaned back, and whispered just loud enough:

“You’re passing more than that, babe.”

After lunch, she insisted on stopping by the mall.

“Quick lang,” she said. “We need content.”

“Content?” “Yes, babe. We’re a fake couple — not invisible.”

You followed her through the maze of luxury boutiques, dodging security guards and judgmental air, until you reached a small retro-style photo booth tucked between a plant shop and a bakery with a line full of influencers.

She pulled the curtain aside and looked at you with her usual smug grin.

“Tara.” “Wait—what, here??” “Yeah. We need proof for the titas. ‘Soft launch’ style.”

You slid in beside her, awkwardly bumping knees. The curtain closed. It was darker than you expected.

Quiet.

Warm.

Too warm.

“Pose na,” she said. “First frame — smiling. Cute lang.”

Click.

“Second frame — pretend you’re laughing at something I said.”

“But you didn’t say anyth—”

Click.

“Third frame,” she whispered, voice suddenly lower, “Look at me.”

You did.

You weren’t smiling.

She wasn’t either.

And before either of you could speak—

Click.

The last flash went off. But neither of you moved. Your knees were still touching. Her hand was still resting near yours. Your heart? Not behaving.

“Okay…” she said finally, clearing her throat, “we can pick those up in 10.”

You both stepped out like nothing happened. Like it was just for the show.

But you knew. And you think maybe she did too.

When the strip printed, she looked at it.

First frame — smiling. Second frame — blurry laugh. Third frame — eyes locked. Almost too real. Fourth frame — silence captured in a flash.

She didn’t say anything. Just folded it and slipped it into her wallet.

“For the ‘archive,’” she said.

And that was that.

Or maybe… it was the beginning of something else.

After the photo booth incident (which no one will ever admit felt real), Ningning suddenly turned to you mid-walk, eyes lighting up like a child about to commit fiscal terrorism.

“OH MY GOD—Pop Mart!”

“Pop… what now?”

You blinked and looked up just in time to be dragged into a glossy, pastel store filled with tiny shelves, glass boxes, and suspiciously cute toys in blind boxes. She moved like she was in a museum. You moved like you were in a financial crisis.

“I’ve been waiting for this drop,” she mumbled, already grabbing boxes with deadly precision.

“Drop?” “Yes, babe. Limited edition. Do you want me to get you one?”

“I want food and a future, but sure. Gimme the penguin one.”

She giggled and threw in five more.

You didn’t ask questions.

Because by the time she got to the counter?

₱109,700.

No typo.

You watched the card swipe. No flinch. No blink. Not even a glance.

You walked out of the store pale. Stumbling. You clutched your chest.

Then— you dropped to your knees.

“Blughh—ugh—GOD—blughhh—”

You made the most dramatic fake puking noises ever heard inside Greenbelt 5.

Shoppers stared.

She stared.

You looked up at her with pure pain in your eyes.

“That was my tuition. That was my aircon. That was my children’s future.”

She burst out laughing. Like full-body, hands-on-knees, snorting-laugh.

“Stop! You’re so stupid—STOP!!”

“That one figure cost more than my entire org budget last year!”

“Shut up, you’re gonna make me drop my bears!”

She kept laughing, but slowly… the laughter faded. She looked at you again.

Still fake-gagging. Still joking.

But something in her chest shifted.

You were real. You didn’t try to impress her. You didn’t chase her money. You were just… you.

Normal. Simple. And somehow — hilarious.

She bit her lip, still holding the Pop Mart bag.

And softly whispered to herself,

“This isn’t normal…”

But she didn’t mean the toys.

Surprisingly, the next day felt... quiet.

No Porsche. No Mercedes. No matte black anything. You walked into school like a regular guy — no Ningning at the gate, no engine sounds triggering emotional breakdowns.

But that didn’t mean the chaos stopped.

It just got quieter. More targeted.

More annoyingly direct.

First was in the hallway:

“Dude,” your classmate whispered, sliding up beside you. “Are you secretly rich? Like… old money? Hidden trust fund?” “You can tell me. I’m chill.”

Then in the cafeteria line:

“So like… was this a scholarship thing or a ‘she saw your birth chart and fell in love’ situation?”

Then during class, someone from the back casually dropped:

“Hey, Y/N. What perfume do you use?” “Just wondering… for scientific reasons.”

You sighed.

Then came the moment.

Your barkada — the original loud trio — sat you down, stared at you for a solid 10 seconds, then one of them suddenly got on his knees.

“IT SHOULD’VE BEEN MEEEEEEE!!”

The other pretended to cry, clutching your shoulders.

“Bro, just tell us the truth. Did you give her a love potion? Is that what’s happening here?”

“Tell us what you did,” another whispered dramatically. “I’m willing to cross moral boundaries.”

“You realize,” one of them added, “you’re now officially our barkada MVP. We have no choice but to protect you at all costs.”

“whatever guys.” before smiling a little bit.

Ningning had done this before.

Put on the dress. Fixed her hair. Showed up with perfect posture and polite smiles.

Because in her world, love wasn’t something that bloomed — it was assigned. Selected. Negotiated behind wine glasses and expensive napkins.

[LOCATION: A private rooftop restaurant in BGC.] [TIME: 9:00PM, YESTERDAY.]

Tonight’s candidate? Daniel. 25. Singaporean. Second son of a tech empire. Went to Harvard. Invests in green tech. Probably owns a self-watering bonsai.

And still, all Ningning could think about was how you once offered her taho and called it “your 3-star dessert.”

Daniel stood as she arrived.

“Miss Ningning,” he greeted. “You look even more radiant than your Instagram.”

Red flag #1.

She sat down.

“Thank you. You’re early.”

“Father told me never to keep opportunity waiting.”

Red flag #2.

The waiter approached, and Daniel ordered for both of them. Red flag #3.

“I took the liberty of researching your family,” he said casually between sips of wine. “I think a partnership between ours would be quite… synergistic.”

“Ah. So this is a merger meeting.”

He laughed like it was a joke. It wasn’t.

“No offense,” he added, “I’ve met plenty of beautiful women. But not many with your kind of pedigree. You’re a rare investment.”

She stared at him.

Investment.

Not person. Not girl.

You were halfway through your pancit canton break under the makeshift tambayan when it happened.

Again.

Screech. Silence. Gasps. And then—

“OH MY GOD. SHE’S BACK.” “PUTA. WHAT CAR IS THAT NOW??” “BRO. IS THAT—A RANGE ROVER SPORT?!”

You didn’t even flinch this time. Just sighed and looked up from your fork.

There she was — Ningning — stepping out in full black, messy bun, no makeup (but still looked like a Vogue cover), and oversized sunglasses that screamed I didn’t sleep but I still slay.

Except something was… off.

She wasn’t waving. Wasn’t teasing.

She walked straight toward you, ignoring the whispers and stares like she didn’t just destroy the local air quality with her entrance.

“Babe,” she said, voice lower than usual. “Can I stay here for a bit?”

Your friends were already scattering, pretending not to eavesdrop.

You blinked.

“Why’d you come here again?”

She sighed. Sat beside you.

“Because I couldn’t breathe at home.”

She looked around.

Jeepneys passing. A cat sunbathing by the gate. Plastic chairs. Students napping on armrests. Someone selling taho.

She smiled softly.

“This is chaos. But like… the good kind.”

You handed her your extra iced tea. She took it without question.

“My parents set me up with another guy today,” she mumbled. “From Singapore. His family owns a tech firm.”

You didn’t say anything.

“He brought flowers. Called me sweetheart.” “I wanted to throw the bouquet into a blender.”

That made you snort. She smiled.

“They keep thinking I need someone suitable — someone who wears a suit, drives a car that’s not part of my collection, and has a last name that makes business sense.”

Then she looked at you.

Really looked at you.

“But every time I see your face, I don’t think of bank accounts. Or dynasties.” “I think of breathing. And laughing. And… pancit canton.”

“That’s not very romantic,” you muttered.

She chuckled.

“It’s not supposed to be. It’s supposed to be real.”

The chaos kept happening around you.

But inside that circle — that cracked plastic chair, that extra iced tea — it was quiet.

And for the first time since this fake thing began…

You both let it be.

After her surprise visit yesterday, Ningning kept a low profile.

No sports car. No screaming “LOVEEEE” from tinted windows. Just… her.

She texted you out of nowhere.

Ningning: U free? I want silog. Like the real kind. W/ vinegar. Ningning: I’m wearing pambahay ok don’t judge.

You didn’t reply. You just sent the Google pin to your favorite karinderya outside campus.

She arrived in a hoodie, basketball shorts, and pink slippers with bunny ears.

No one recognized her. Except you.

You were already seated, guarding two plates like it was the last food on earth.

“Bunny slippers?” you said. “Shut up. I was depressed. I needed comfort.”

You both started eating. She took her time. You didn’t.

“Slow down,” she said, poking your arm with her fork. “You always eat like it’s a survival challenge.”

“Habit. I share a house with three brothers. If you’re not quick, you go hungry.”

She giggled and poured vinegar on your rice.

“Here. Try it like this.”

You did.

“...That’s kinda good.” “Of course it’s good. I’m rich and right.”

She leaned back in her seat, looking up at the noisy ceiling fan spinning too slow for this heat.

“You ever think about how weird this is?”

“What?”

“You. Me. This whole setup. You’re… not part of my world. But when I’m here, eating silog and watching your hair do that little stupid curl thing, I feel like I don’t need anything else.”

You froze mid-bite.

She caught herself and quickly took a big spoonful of rice.

“ANYWAY. I’m full. What now?”

THE NEXT DAY (SATURDAY)

You knew she wasn’t built for this.

The sun was hot. The air was sticky. And you were walking her through a street you’ve memorized since childhood — the fishball man nodding at you like family, tricycles honking like a symphony, the scent of oil, vinegar, and dreams of ₱10 meals.

Ningning?

She had no idea what she signed up for.

“Okay, okay… so this is—what again?” “Fishball. Kwek-kwek. Isaw. Tokneneng if you’re feeling brave.”

She blinked.

“These sound like Pokémon names.”

You laughed. The vendor handed you a cup.

“Here, fishball muna. Baby steps.”

She poked it once. It slipped. You caught it mid-air and handed it back with a grin.

“Wow. Hero.” “I train in the arts of street food defense.”

You dipped it in the sauce for her — not too much — and held it up.

“Trust me.”

She took a bite.

Paused.

“Wait. This slaps.” “Told you.”

Soon you were guiding her through stalls, helping her count coins, showing her which taho guy gives the best syrup-to-sago ratio.

“Okay, now this is balut.” “I’ve seen Fear Factor. I’m out.”

“You ate ₱7k sushi last week, Ning.” “Yeah, but the duck didn’t have a face.”

After a while, she sat on the sidewalk beside you. You handed her bottled water.

She wiped her hand, looked at you, then at the street.

“You know what’s crazy?” she said. “This isn’t scary.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… I always thought this would be chaotic, dirty, overwhelming. But I don’t feel scared.” “I feel… safe.”

You smiled.

She looked down at her stained fingers and laughed.

“But seriously, how do I get this sauce off my nail?” “You don’t. That’s the payment for entering my world.”

She leaned on your shoulder.

“Fine. I’ll keep it. Street badge unlocked.”

And for the first time in a long time…

She didn’t feel like a guest. She felt like she belonged.

It was already 10:38PM.

You were lying on your mattress, fan pointed directly at your legs, holding your phone above your face. Your fingers were stained orange from the cheesy chichirya you swore you weren’t gonna eat.

Her name popped up.

Ningning: hi. Ningning: miss ko na isaw. Ningning: and maybe a little bit of you. but not that much.

You smiled.

You: just admit you’re soft na. Ningning: I will literally throw you.

She called.

No video, just her sleepy voice and the background sound of her Dyson air purifier. You could tell she was lying on her bed, face-first, blanket up to her ears.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you ever think about how weird today was?”

“What part?” “You choking on fishball? Or nearly paying ₱1,000 for taho because you thought the man was underselling himself?”

She laughed — that genuine, belly laugh. The kind you never heard from her in fancy cafes.

“Shut up. That man deserved a raise. I was just being a woman of the people.”

There was a pause.

“No but seriously,” she said softly. “Today was… the happiest I’ve felt in a while.”

“Because of isaw?” “Because I didn’t have to be her today.”

“Her?” “You know. ‘Conyo Ningning.’ The girl with five cars and a family full of pressure. The girl who has to be flawless all the time.”

She shifted.

“But with you… I can just be stupid. Chill. Tanga. Like me.”

You smiled to yourself, heart thudding a bit too hard for this late at night.

“You’re not tanga.” “Okay, maybe a little when you thought sauce and nail polish were the same thing—”

“I will hang up.”

Silence. Then both of you laughed again.

“Hey,” she said. “If this was real… like, real real… would you still like me?”

You blinked.

“It already feels real.”

That shut her up for a few seconds.

Then—

“Okay. Goodnight, stupid.” “Night, rich girl.”

Call ended.

You stared at your screen, heart too full.

And for the first time since this whole fake thing started…

You didn’t want it to end.

“Hey,” you said before she hung up. “You know, I’m kinda bummed PUP doesn’t sell street food inside. I’d go crazy if there was a kwek-kwek cart next to the library.”

“Noted,” she replied, like she was writing it down for a future PowerPoint proposal. “Anyway, sleep na, Mr. Fishball.” “Goodnight, Bunny Slippers.”

[MONDAY – PUP Cafeteria, 11:21 AM]

You were just trying to grab lunch. Same old cafeteria, same weird smells.

Until— You froze.

There it was. A LINE of street food vendors inside the actual cafeteria. One had isaw. Another had kwek-kwek. There was even a taho guy in the corner with a laminated ID that said “Official Cafeteria Vendor (Temporary).”

Your brain lagged.

“TANGINA…” one of your classmates whispered. “BAKIT MAY FISHBALL SA LOOB???”

Students were lining up, confused but thrilled. And then you saw it:

A small handwritten sign taped to the kwek-kwek cart.

“Y/N’S SPECIAL: FREE. (Everyone else: ₱5 per stick)”

You looked around, heart pounding. Somewhere, you knew she was watching.

You texted her.

You: you did this didn’t you Ningning: no i think it was the spirit of the kwek-kwek gods You: you’re insane Ningning: yeah. for u.

You shook your head, smiling stupidly.

And took your place in line.

YIZHOU RESIDENCE

House 1 of 10. The coldest. The biggest. The most silent.

A knock at her bedroom door. It wasn’t even the head maid — just one of the door staff.

“Good morning, Miss Ning. Your father wants to see you.” “Ugh, what is it this time.”

She put on her robe, tied her hair into something passable, and dragged her feet across 600 square meters of imported marble.

[Her father's office.]

Large desk. Minimal light. Cold air from central AC. Her father didn’t even look up.

“What is it, old man?” “Sit.”

She didn’t.

“I heard your little boyfriend isn’t what you said he is.”

He placed a file on the desk. Black leather. Golden seal. Confidential.

“Y/N. From PUP, not DLSU. Lives in a rented apartment — rent overdue for three months. Pleaded to keep their water and electricity. Deceased parents. Works part-time at a 7/11. Weekends too.”

Ningning’s mouth opened slightly.

“Wha— how dare you— you SPY on him?”

“You know, I got curious…” he said calmly. “All these men I’ve personally — emphasis on personally — handpicked for you. Scholars. Entrepreneurs. Future billionaires. And you reject them?”

“So I had to ask myself. Why?” “And now I know.”

He leaned back.

“So I’ll give you a choice.”

“We offer him ₱2 million to disappear. Never see you again. Or—”

He slid a piece of paper forward. It was blank. Symbolic.

“You live with him. But you won’t be my daughter anymore.”

She blinked. Once.

“That means your credit cards: cut. Cars: repossessed. All ten of our homes: will have the liberty to reject you at the gate. And your only money will be… whatever’s left in your wallet.”

Ningning stared at him. No tears. No begging. Just one sentence.

“I’ll live with him.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t ask for a moment to think.

She just turned. Walked.

And left behind everything.

It was one of those nights.

The fan was on its fourth creaking rotation. Your feet dangled off the bed. You couldn’t sleep. Not because it was hot — but because something in your chest wouldn’t sit still.

You stared at the ceiling.

That’s when your phone buzzed.

📞 Incoming call: Ningning 💅🏻

You picked it up.

“Yo, Ningning.” “I mean—babe.” you corrected, half-sarcastic.

Her voice came through the speaker. Soft. Nervous.

“I’m coming over.” “Huh?” “How do you… make the tricycle know the way?”

You chuckled, already standing up.

“Just say ‘Y/N’s residence’ when you get to the terminal near our subdivision.” “Okay. Thanks.”

You didn't even fix the place. Didn’t check the mirror. Just stood there in your worn-out Nirvana shirt — one your late father handed down to you — and your old basketball shorts that had more thread than fabric.

[A knock at the door.]

You opened it.

There she was. No glam. No outfit changes. No white Porsche.

Just Ningning. Hoodie over her head. Bag over her shoulder. Eyes tired.

“No cars today, Ning?”

She didn’t smile.

“We need to talk.”

You nodded and let her in.

You sat on the couch — the spring-poked, hand-me-down couch that creaked when anyone over 100 lbs sat on it. You thought about offering her juice. But remembered you didn’t even have rice for breakfast tomorrow.

“What’s up?” you asked, gently.

She looked at you, calm, composed — almost too composed.

“I’m living with you.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Huh?!”

She breathed deep. And said it like a weather report:

“Long story short… My dad found out. About you. The real you. PUP. Rent. 7/11. Everything.”

“He gave me two options: One — never see you again, and I get everything back. Or two — live with you. Starting tonight. No help. No money. No cards. No family.”

Silence.

You blinked. She kept talking.

“It’s complicated. I lied to him about everything. About you. So this is the consequence. And I picked it.”

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat.

“Ning… are you sure?”

“No. I’m not. But if it means I still get to see you every day… I’ll take the uncertainty over a golden cage.”

She adjusted the bag on her lap.

“So yeah. I’m not asking to sleep in your bed. Just… point me to a corner I can call mine.”

You stared at her.

Then stood up.

Walked to your room.

And came back with your extra pillow — the one that’s seen better days but still held shape.

“Corner? You’re not sleeping in the corner.” “Why not?”

“'Cause if we’re broke, we’re broke together. And this bed barely fits one, but hey— we’ll figure it out.”

She smiled.

The first real one that night.

The sun had barely peeked over the rooftops when she asked—

“Y/N, is there coffee?”

You pointed across the street with a half-yawn.

“There’s a vending machine beside Tita Belen’s sari-sari store. Five pesos. Best coffee you’ll ever hate but still love.”

Ningning squinted out the window.

“Five… pesos?”

You nodded.

“Do I need, like, to download an app or—”

“No app. No line. No barista asking for your name. Just a paper cup, three-in-one powder, and a boiling tank older than both of us combined.”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were seated outside on two sun-stained monobloc chairs. You wore your Nirvana shirt again. She wore your sister’s hoodie, sleeves too long, hood barely covering her morning hair.

Steam rose from your identical paper cups.

“It’s… warm,” she said, sipping.

“It’s nostalgic,” you replied. “Tastes like heartbreak, passed exams, and regret.”

She laughed.

“You always make everything poetic.” “Comes free with poverty.”

Then you heard her.

“Abaaaa…” “Y/N, iho!”

It was Lola Belen, the neighborhood queen of tsismis and sari-sari economics. She stepped outside, broom in one hand, plastic clip still holding half her curlers.

She looked Ningning up and down—socks mismatched, cup in hand, smiling like she belonged there.

“What a cute girlfriend you have.” “Ang ganda! Mag-ingat ka, baka agawin!”

Ningning smiled bashfully, covering her mouth with the cup. You nearly choked on your coffee.

“Ah—she’s not—uh—” “I mean—yeah. She’s… yeah.”

“Hmp. Maganda na, mabait pa. Tinabihan ka lang niya, gumwapo ka agad.”

Ningning giggled, eyes crinkling.

“Thank you po, Lola,” she said, bowing slightly. “I’ll take care of your favorite customer.”

Lola Belen smiled like she’d just witnessed the beginning of a teleserye.

And for a little heartstring pull at the end…

As you walked back to your gate, Ningning whispered:

“You know…” “That was the first time in a long time someone called me cute just because—” “—not because of my bags, or makeup, or school.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just quietly poured the last sip of your coffee onto the sidewalk.

And took her empty cup, so she wouldn’t have to.

You woke up to the sound of metal clinking in the kitchen.

At first, you thought it was a rat. Or worse—your landlord checking for unpaid rent. But then you heard it:

“Ugh!—Why won’t this stupid thing turn on?!”

You got up, shirtless and confused. Peeked into the kitchen.

There she was. Ningning. In one of your oversized pambahay shirts. Hair tied into some messy half-bun. Holding a rice cooker lid like it owed her money.

“...What are you doing?”

She turned to you, deadpan.

“I am... trying to cook.” “You said you were tired of eating Lucky Me.”

You blinked at the chaos.

The rice cooker was plugged… into the extension cord… that wasn’t plugged into anything. On the floor sat a pot of water, no rice. Beside it? Rice. Unwashed. Poured into a bowl like cereal.

You chuckled.

“Ning… that’s not how this works.”

“Then teach me! I just wanna help okay? I feel useless here. I can’t contribute. I can’t even turn on the rice!”

You walked over, gently took the extension cord, and plugged it into the wall.

“First lesson,” you said. “Electricity is kinda important.”

[Later that day… laundry.]

She stared at your old washing machine like it was a cursed artifact.

“Why is it shaking?? It’s so loud—did we break it??”

“No, that’s just how it sounds. It’s like 11 years old.”

“...Is it supposed to smell like that?”

You grinned.

“Only a little.”

Ningning frowned at the clothes she just hung with wooden pins outside.

“I think I accidentally dyed your white shirt pink.”

“It’s okay. Now I match your lipstick.”

She turned redder than the shirt.

[Nighttime.]

You found her on the floor, arms outstretched, exhausted.

“I cooked. I cleaned. I handwashed socks. This is worse than pilates.”

You tossed her a cold bottled water from the fridge.

“You survived.”

She sat up.

“Barely. But…”

She looked around. Your tiny apartment. The hanging clothes. The warm rice cooker you saved with your own two hands.

“It’s… not so bad. Simple. Humble. Feels a little like a movie. You, me, and the noise of the electric fan.”

“A broke indie film.” “A poverty-core romance.”

You both laughed.

And as she laid her head on your lap, eyes slowly closing, she whispered:

“I used to have everything. But this right here? Feels more real than anything I’ve ever owned.”

It started as a dare.

You handed her a crisp ₱500 bill, straight from your emergency cash stash.

“Okay, boss babe,” you said, arms crossed. “Here’s your mission: budget groceries for three days. We need at least rice, eggs, meat, and something to drink that’s not hotdog water.”

“Easy,” Ningning replied, all smug in her cap and hoodie disguise. “I’m a Math major.”

“No you’re not.” “Exactly. Which makes this more fun.”

[AT THE PALENGKE]

First red flag?

She walked past the tindera shouting “15 per kilo po!” to ask—

“Miss, do you guys sell almond milk?”

Second red flag?

She squealed in excitement after finding a fruit stand.

“OMG they have grapes!” “Ning—no—” “And they’re seedless!!”

She dropped a bag into the basket.

“₱600??” “It’s imported!” “So is my stress!”

Fifteen minutes in, your ₱500 became ₱–180. She bought:

Brie cheese (₱320)

Salmon belly (₱200)

1 pack of truffle oil pasta (₱450)

Sparkling water “in cute bottles” (₱110)

And exactly one egg (“For aesthetic.”)

You were dying inside.

“Ning. We are literally down to rice and prayers.”

She blinked.

“I… I thought this was enough?” “For a picnic at Bonifacio High Street, maybe!”

[AT HOME – POST-GROCERY MELTDOWN]

She flopped on the couch dramatically.

“I failed you.” “You failed math. Logic. And hunger.”

She peeked up from the pillow.

“But the grapes were good, right?”

You threw one at her. She caught it with her mouth and grinned.

“Admit it,” she said. “Even my broke girl arc is iconic.”

You sat down beside her, shaking your head.

“We’re eating eggs and rice for the next week.” “Then it’ll be the best egg and rice of our lives.”

She curled up beside you, your ₱500 lesson etched into her soul.

“Next time, you do the groceries,” she mumbled sleepily. “I’ll just be in charge of being cute.”

You laughed.

“That’s a full-time job already.”

It was supposed to be a nice little break.

Just you and Ningning, sitting across each other at a 3-star family restaurant you saved up for. Nothing fancy. Plastic menu. Kids crying in the corner. Table’s a little sticky.

But the fried chicken hit just right, and Ningning? She looked happy.

She was in your old hoodie again, hair tied messily, dipping her fries into banana ketchup like it was fine dining.

“This tastes better than that truffle aioli BS,” she joked, licking her fingers.

“Because it’s made with love.” “And probably 3 types of artificial oil.”

You both laughed.

Until the bell by the glass door rang.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But Ningning did.

He was tall. Polished. Hair slicked back, dress shirt perfectly pressed. Kai Yoon, Singapore Tech. NingNing’s ex from 2 years ago.

He paused at the entrance, sunglasses still on indoors. And when his eyes landed on Ningning, they stayed there.

He made his way toward your table.