DENZEL’S POV

I stood outside the ICU, looking through the glass window. At the monitor blinking steadily. At the tubes that disappeared into his skin. At the machine that breathed for him.

A nurse placed a hand on my shoulder and tapped gently. I didn’t say anything. She didn’t either. Maybe she knew there were no words left.

The fluorescent light buzzed above us. The smell of antiseptic clung to my clothes like a second skin.

He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t alive.

I turned and walked out of the hospital — without good news or bad. Just like the past three months.

Rule #1: Don’t fall in love.

Because love? That was the kind of mess that made you hope. And hope was the most dangerous thing of all. Like last Christmas when I thought Pa would come home to celebrate with the family, only to be left waiting on the dining table for hours.

Rule #2: Don’t accept help.

Because help always came with strings—long, invisible threads that choked you when you weren’t looking.

Rule #3: Never show weakness.

Because once, I cried in front of a classmate. And she told the whole room the next day that I was a sobbing wreck.

IIf I could carve them into my ribs like commandments, I would. No one would see it, but I’d feel it press into my skin every time life tried to knock me down.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass window of the bus, my earbuds blasting lo-fi music to drown out the morning noise of honking cars and vendors yelling “palamig!” from street corners. For a moment, I considered buying some to ease the scorch of the heat, but I didn’t have coins to waste. My fingers were clenched around the handle of my tote bag like it was the only thing tethering me to the ground.

Three months ago, my dad—Antonio Ramos, a real estate consultant—had ended up in the ICU. Car crash. Mangled vehicle. Coma. And worse, my mother had discovered right after that he’d been cheating.

With who? No one knew. Or maybe Ma knew, but she never said. She just worked overtime shifts at the bank, smiled and laughed excessively in front of her children, and cried when she thought no one was watching.

I saw it all.

And so I added another rule to my list. Rule #4: Never trust those who smile too easily.

As the bus rolled through the gates of Holy Cross Academy, I sat up straighter and re-braided my hair with practiced efficiency. My uniform blazer was too big—it used to be my brother’s—and my shoes were clean but thinning at the soles.

“Holy Cross,” the driver called.

I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and stepped out.

The campus was already humming with movement. Flags flapped wildly at the entrance, their colors faded from years of sun. The morning sun lit up the school’s cream walls, and the scent of cut grass mixed with fried street food from the nearby stalls. The cheer squad was practicing on the quad, their high ponytails bouncing to the beat of a new pop anthem.

“DENZ!”

I barely turned in time to catch Hannah’s flying body as she launched herself into a hug.

“Hannah, you’re wearing glitter. Again.”

“It’s for spirit day!” Hannah grinned, her teeth gleaming. “I am the spirit. Literally.”

“You’re the ghost that haunts this school,” said Rheiza, who appeared behind us with two steaming cups of taho: soft tofu, brown sugar syrup, and pearls. A morning ritual of hers. She handed one to me.

“You’re both just jealous,” Hannah said, looping her arms through ours. “Also, you both look like you haven’t slept.”

“That’s because we haven’t,” I muttered.

The truth was, I’d been up late reading an online chess forum and calculating how much it would cost to get my dad’s hospital room extended for another two months. Ma’s salary wouldn’t cut it. My brother was still unemployed.

We passed the cheerleaders, who were forming a human pyramid while a teacher yelled corrections.

“You’re not watching the game later?” Hannah asked.

“What game?”

“THE volleyball practice session. Holy Cross Academy vs Mater Carmeli Scholarium. Oh, damsel, please don’t tell me you forgot.”

I blinked. Right. Today, Mater Carmeli Scholarium—the rival private school—was coming to their campus for a friendly exhibition game. Friendly in the same way a shark was friendly to a seal.

“I have chess club,” I said flatly. “And it’s Denzel, not damsel.”

I always hated how they would call me damsel because it sounded like my name.

“Whatever… damsel, Denzel… sounds the same to me,” Hannah teased. “Anyway, you always have chess club.”

“Because chess doesn’t require jerseys and grunting.”

“She says that now,” Rheiza said, smirking. “But wait till she meets Mater Carmeli’s team captain.”

“I heard he’s hot,” Hannah whispered. “Like, ‘ruin-your-life-and-make-you-thank-him’ hot.”

“Still not interested.”

We passed the trophy wall in the admin building on their way to the classrooms. The center space had recently been cleared to make room for the winner of the upcoming interschool chess invitational.

And I was going to win it. Not for clout. Not even for pride. For the scholarship money.

I needed out.

Out of my house where bills piled like fallen leaves. Out of the hallway where Ma sobbed quietly on the phone. Out of the ache I felt every time I visited Pa, unsure if I hated him or missed him more.

Chess was the way.

And today, the school was housing the very same academy I’d be facing in the chess finals: MCS.

“Let’s go. Class starts in five,” Rheiza said.

—

BASTI’S POV

Across town, at Mater Carmeli’s stone courtyard, I sat with one leg bouncing, earbuds in. Trying not to think about the text I got last night.

Wedding arrangements finalizing. Family dinner next week. Be present.

“Are you even listening?” Nate, the Korean fool asked, waving a plastic fork in my direction. “Bro. Earth to Basti.”

“I’m listening, idiot,” I muttered.

“You’re brooding.”

“He’s always brooding,” Luke said from the bench behind us, stretching his arms. “It’s part of the Karl Sebastian package.”

“Tall, rich, and emotionally constipated,” Tim added, sipping his iced Americano.

We were all wearing our blue-and-gold varsity jackets as we waited for the school van to take us to Holy Cross. Tim was scrolling through the latest chess updates. Nate was playing mobile games. Luke was humming some choreography under his breath.

And me? I was trying not to think about the fact that my parents had called the wedding planner again.

I didn’t love her. I wasn't even done with college.

But she was part of the plan. The family plan. And I always followed the plan. At least, I used to.

“Who are we playing again?” Nate asked.

“Holy Cross,” Luke said. “Where your future girlfriends study.”

Nate grinned. “They don’t know that yet.”

“You don’t even know their names yet.”

“Details.”

Biatrice walked past us, hair tied in a braid, the school’s chess pin shining on her lapel.

“She’s playing today too,” Tim said. “Bia’s going to face HCA’s top player. What’s her name again?”

“Shekaira something,” Bia answered, not turning around. “Ramos.”

My ears perked up.

Ramos.

Somewhere, I’d heard that name before. The name itched at the back of my brain like something I was supposed to remember.

“Let’s go,” I said, standing.

The van arrived.