Chapter III: Love at First Sight
Divine Word College of Hermosa stands proudly in the heart of town, its modest quadrangle filled with the chatter of students, echoing against the concrete walls of the school buildings. It's not the biggest school around—far from it, really—but it clings to its mission: to provide quality education with integrity, discipline, and a surprising number of uniform inspections.
At the far end of the quadrangle rises a small but elegant auditorium, used for plays, mass, and the occasional spontaneous earthquake drill. Adjacent to it is the High School Department, its façade standing out with architecture inspired by the Jesuit tradition—arched doorways, patterned glass windows, and thick wooden doors that creak like an old man with secrets.
Among the stream of students entering through the main gate this morning is Mercy. Her black leather shoes tap rhythmically against the tile floors as she makes her way up the stone staircase, carrying her books against her chest like a fortress. She walks straight into her classroom—room 204—always the first to arrive.
Her seat? The very front row, always. The teachers have already given up offering her other options. She wants to be there. Not to impress, not to shine—just to stay focused. Her long black hair, tied neatly with a dark red ribbon, cascades down her back. It shimmers under the dull light of the classroom as she sits quietly, pulling out her notes while waiting for the bell to ring.
Boys sit behind her, pretending to be interested in some novels, and newspapers they just bought from Sion's Trading at Calle Crisostomo and Bombay Bazaar at Quezon Boulevard, but their eyes betray them. They stare at her hair. Her posture. The occasional tilt of her head. They do this in shifts—like guards, really. Silent, vigilant, and completely unaware that Mercy knows every single one of them.
But no one dares to ask her out. It's as if Mercy comes with an invisible wall of thorns. Thorns of big rad red roses some may presume. Her composure, the conservative blouse always buttoned to the collar, the quiet way she moves—it's intimidating. Even the extroverted ones in class, the ones who sing during recess and whistle through the halls, fall silent in her presence. Her beauty, and stance, it's elegant and mesmerizing.
Except for Magie Fortuna. Mercy's seatmate in most classes. Magie's cheerful, round-faced, and wears her braids like antennae—always poking at someone's business. Her older sister, Praxedes Fortuna, is their Filipino teacher and, unfortunately for all of them, also their class adviser.
The sound of heels clicking against the wooden floor signals the arrival of Magie's sister. She is short, but her presence is towering. Her bun is tight enough to snap a hairpin, and her eyes scan the room like a prison warden.
"Naimbag nga Bigat, Magandang umaga class. Ngayong araw, tatalakayin natin ang Mga Kuwento ni Mabuti," she says, her voice sharp, her tone absolute.
Class begins.
Mercy writes meticulously.
"Mercy," Magie whispers during one class, "My Manang (Sister) Cedy is going to quiz us. Again. And she didn't even finish the coverage!"
Mercy just smiles faintly, flips a page, and continues writing. No complaints. No panic.
The truth is, Mercy isn't top of the class. She doesn't aim to be. Her scores hover just above average. She's content with that. She follows the lessons, passes her tests, and leaves school before sunset. Predictable, peaceful, and quite pious.
Weeks, then months, and years pass. Her third year in high school begins with the same rhythm—classes, chapel visits, occasional quiz bees. But one Tuesday, as the rain barely mists the windows. The type of day where the sky refuses to decide whether to rain or not, and the students keep checking the windows like fortune tellers. The Habagat season in the province is not yet as intense as today's climate, just a small drizzle, sunny, and the kind of climate you get like going through a highway under the trees, sunny, and shady. A boy she barely notices before slides into the seat beside her.
Tall. Slim. Slightly tanned. His hair is combed back, his collar neat. There's an athlete's lean in his limbs, and his smile is crooked, confident, looking like someone straight from the Beatles.
Mercy is walking toward the canteen when a tall, slim guy from the upper rows of the classroom walks beside her.
"Hola, Naimbag nga Bigat (Good Morning)," he says, his voice confident, but not arrogant.
She glances at him. "Hola. Naimbag a bigat too?"
"You're Mercy, right?"
She nods.
"I'm Enrico Quadro. Rico for short. From Calle Crisostomo, corner Calle Gen. Antonio."
"Okay," she says, pausing near the water fountain. She blinks. "You're in our class?"
"I seat at the back, two rows from you. I play basketball. That's probably why you didn't notice."
He chuckles. She doesn't.
He smiles. "You always smell like Sampaguita and Rosal. You know that?"
Mercy frowns. "Do you always sniff people in class?"
Rico laughs, and surprisingly, so does she. Just a little. It's the beginning of something unpredictable.
That day, he gives her a note—folded neatly into a triangle. Inside is a short poem. Cheesy. Rhyme-heavy. But it makes her smile.
The next day, she folds one back.
So begins the exchange. Not a word spoken in public. Just letters. Tucked into books. Slipped under desks. Passed like contraband when Ms. Fortuna isn't looking.
They write about their dreams. How Mercy loves old churches and bell towers. How Rico wants to become a teacher, maybe even here at Divine Word someday. They doodle. They tease. They write fake love songs in broken Spanish and Ilocano and quote Jose Rizal like hopeless romantics. One of their poems sound like:
A Kas Rosas ti Ayat,
Maris a nalabbaga,
'da kayat ko ibaga,
Riknak kenka nagasat.
O naayat nga Mercy,
Sabsabali ti riknak,
Para kenka makunak,
Nasam-it a kas basi.
Translation:
Like the rose of love,
There's color that is red,
I have something to be said,
I feel lucky above.
O lovely Mercy,
I feel something different,
For you, I say to vent,
Sweeter than basi.
(Basi is a sugarcane wine native to the municipalities of Sta. Maria and San Ildefonso, Ilocos Sur.)
They meet during breaks—briefly. They talk near the garden, where the shrubs conveniently block the view from the faculty room. They sometimes go to Plaza Immaculada near the auditorium. Rico tells jokes. Mercy listens. Her laugh is quiet, but it makes his chest feel like a boiling kettle.
They sometimes go on dates at the newly-opened Tower Café just beside the Cathedral and the Belfry, where an elegant structure stood in the site which was the Archdiocesan Seminary. This was unfortunately razed to the ground and into ruins just recently.
Their hands never touch. But their eyes say things their mouths don't.
At Brgy. Banggai, Mercy is different. She listens to her mother Tory's sermons about discipline and etiquette. She nods obediently when Melo tells her to wash the dishes or help out in gardening or plowing the field. But a part of her—just a slice—is itching to escape. She doesn't scream. She doesn't slam doors. But inside, she's humming the tune of rebellion.
She sneaks Rico's letters into her prayer book. Writes him answers at night when everyone else is asleep. In her dreams, she wears red lipstick and rides on a tricycle without telling anyone. She isn't wild. She's just... waiting.
Their secret stays safe. No one suspects. Not Magie. Not Ms. Fortuna. Not even Tory, who monitors her like a security camera with a rosary.
One Friday afternoon, Rico hands her a handkerchief.
"What's this?" she asks.
"Open it."
She unfolds it to see a tiny pressed flower in the center.
"I found it near the old chapel," he says. "Figured you'd like it."
Mercy doesn't say anything. But that night, she tucks the flower inside her diary. Under her pillow. Next to another letter he gave her, folded into the shape of a heart.
The next week, they almost get caught. Ms. Fortuna turns around mid-discussion, and Rico has a note halfway out his arm sleeve.
"Mr. Quadro!" she yells.
"Yes, Ma'am?"
"What is that?"
Rico freezes. Mercy's eyes widen.
"It's... my cheat sheet?"
The class gasps.
Ms. Fortuna raises an eyebrow. "Hand it over."
He walks up to her, unfolding the note in panic. But in a twist of comedic genius, it turns out to be his actual cheat sheet from the previous exam. Not the letter.
She frowns but lets him off with a warning.
Mercy sighs in relief. Later that day, Rico whispers to her, "See? I told you it's good to be a nerd. I've got spare notes everywhere."
They both giggle.
Weeks pass. Their bond deepens. They exchange small gifts—bananas wrapped in banana leaves, drawings of each other in caricature, clippings from Liwayway magazine. Rico once draws her as a superhero named Maria Mystica, who shoots lightning from her rosary.
Mercy draws him as a monk with a love letter tucked under his robe.
They fall for each other. Quietly. Deeply. Behind uniforms and quizzes. Behind conservative smiles and hidden scribbles.
Outside, the world continues. Bells ring. Teachers teach. But between them, it's a different time. A sacred one. One where every glance is a vow, and every note is a promise.
Yet Mercy knows there's a wall she cannot climb. Not yet. Tory still watches. Melo still suspects nothing. And though she doesn't shout, part of her screams inside—longing for a world where she and Rico don't have to hide.
But for now, she chooses the front row.
And the letters.
And the secret.
She chooses to wait. Not out of fear.
But because love, when written in small folded notes, lasts longer than spoken words.