At Lagonoy High School, nestled between lush rice fields and echoing roars of tricycles, the star section was a room of quiet achievers and gentle brilliance. Among them was Calista, a girl whose mind raced faster than any recitation bell.
Calista loved books. Not just textbooks or reviewers for Science quizzes—though she was always the top of the class—but also novels, especially romance. The kind where feelings bloomed slowly, like sunflowers turning to face the light. Her eyes would often linger on a line of dialogue, memorizing the way the characters said "I love you" without saying it outright. She believed the best stories were those that grew in silence.
She was friends with Ella, the gentle, thoughtful girl who had recently captured the attention of a quiet boy named Isaac. Calista would catch him slipping folded pieces of paper into Ella's notebooks or placing them beneath the covers of her reading books.
"He thinks no one notices," Calista once thought, smiling as she turned a page of her own novel during lunch break. "But it's such a cute love story in progress."
Calista didn't interfere. She loved watching stories unfold, whether in fiction or in real life.
One drizzly Tuesday afternoon, the school bell rang, and students poured out of their classrooms like bees released from hives. Calista, balancing her bag and a hardbound novel, took a shortcut through the covered court. It was quiet except for the occasional thwack of a table tennis ball.
She turned a corner too fast and bumped into someone—a boy with a table tennis paddle in one hand and a stunned expression.
"Ah! Sorry!" Calista said, stepping back.
"No—it's okay," the boy replied, blinking at her. He kept staring, eyes wide.
She frowned slightly and wiped her cheek. "Is there something on my face? Dirt? Ink?"
"No! I mean—no dirt. You just... I haven't seen you up close before."
She blinked. "You're in Section Emerald, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I'm Ian. Table tennis varsity."
"Calista. Star section," she replied, then excused herself quickly, cheeks warm from the unexpected gaze.
After that day, she thought little of the encounter. She had tests to review for, novels to finish, and Isaac's poetry deliveries to silently observe. Yet something about Ian lingered—his straightforward stare, the way he looked both nervous and delighted.
Over the next few weeks, something curious began to happen. Calista would find a bar of Honey chocolate tucked into her locker, or a small flower—sometimes gumamela, sometimes santan—on her desk after lunch. There were no notes. Just small, quiet gifts.
At first, she thought it was a mistake. Then she noticed how Ian would glance at her in the hallway, never quite approaching, always from a respectful distance.
One Wednesday, she received two Honey bars. That same day, she saw Ian practicing alone at the court with uncharacteristic energy.
Then, one Friday afternoon, while she was organizing her things outside the library, Ian finally approached her.
"Hi. Did you get the Honey bar today?" he asked.
She looked at him, amused. "That was you?"
He nodded, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah. I thought... you might like something sweet after studying so much."
"You've been doing this for a while. The flowers too?"
"Guilty," he said, smiling.
She paused. "You like me."
It wasn't a question.
Ian straightened. "I do. I think you're smart. And kind. And... you always look so peaceful when you read. Like you live in a whole different world."
Calista didn't reply right away. She wasn't dense. She had known. She just didn't expect to feel the butterflies.
"I'll give you a chance," she finally said, surprising herself with how natural it felt.
The days that followed were slow and quiet, like the novels she loved. Ian never pushed. He'd walk with her after dismissal when he could, or wave at her during breaks. Sometimes they sat in the canteen together, not always talking. It was the silences that felt the most comfortable.
He learned she liked iced coffee with just the right amount of milk. She learned he played table tennis because it calmed his nerves.
One rainy afternoon, she brought her book under the covered walkway. Ian found her there.
"What are you reading today?" he asked.
"A romance. About a girl who never thought she could love someone until she met the boy who was always in the background."
He sat beside her. "Is the boy any good?"
She smiled. "He tries his best."
Ian grinned. "Then maybe he deserves a happy ending."
She looked at him, surprised. "Are you quoting the book?"
"No. Just hoping," he replied.
And that's how it was for them. Hopes exchanged softly. No grand gestures. No declarations written on giant cards. Just flowers. Chocolates. Long walks. Short smiles.
At school, Ella and Isaac's romance was blooming in poetry and pages. Rina and Levi grew close through tournaments and late-night reviews. And Calista, who once watched others' love stories like they were unfolding novels, found herself in a story written between the chapters.
By the end of the semester, Ian handed her a small envelope after her last class.
"Don't open it yet. Read it tonight," he said.
She did. At home, curled up with a blanket and soft jazz playing, she opened the note:
Dear Calista,
I know I'm not like the boys in the stories you read. I don't know how to quote poetry or sweep someone off their feet with just a look. But if there's a chapter in your life where someone quiet walks with you, listens when you need it, and maybe shares Honey bars when you study—
I'd love to be in that chapter.
Yours,
Ian
She reread it three times.
Then she picked up her pen and wrote back:
Dear Ian,
You may not be a boy in a story. But you've made my days feel like a story worth reading again and again.
I hope you're in the next chapter too.
Sincerely,
Calista
The next morning, she handed it to him with a shy smile. Ian opened it, read it, and smiled so wide his ears turned red.
From then on, they were officially unofficial. Not loud. Not flashy. Just known.
He waited by her classroom sometimes. She saved him the extra Honey bar from her lunch. He taught her how to hold a table tennis paddle. She read to him her favorite passages.
And when they sat together on the school bench under the molave tree, Calista would look up from her novel and say, "You know, I never expected to fall in love during my first year."
Ian would reply, "Neither did I. But I'm glad I did."
Because sometimes, love isn't loud or rushed. Sometimes, it grows like pages turning in a favorite book.
And Calista, who used to believe her life was written in ink and fiction, found a new kind of story—one with chocolates, rallies, and a boy who always looked at her like she was the most fascinating chapter of all.
End.