His name was Caleb.
He wore a crooked grin like it was made just for me.
We sat next to each other in Chemistry, and I swear he made even molecules feel romantic. He'd nudge my shoulder during quizzes, pass notes with dumb doodles and jokes I pretended weren't funny. But they were. And so was he. Silly, confident, too charming for sixteen.
He called me "Brainiac," like it was a pet name. I hated it—until I didn't.
When he asked me to prom, I almost didn't believe it. Me. The girl with perfect grades and barely-there lashes. I didn't have the soft curves or carefree laugh like the other girls. I had eye bags from studying too late and calloused fingers from writing too much. But he asked me. Smiled like I was special. And I—God—I wanted to believe it.
Prom smelled like overdone perfume and too much hairspray. The air buzzed with glitter and hormones. My dress was pale blue, itchy at the seams. My mother had pressed it herself, then handed me her silence like a corsage. No curfews. No questions. Just, "Don't embarrass yourself."
She didn't even offer to take a picture. I stood in front of the mirror alone, adjusting the tiny clip in my hair over and over. My Lola gave me her old pearl earrings that morning. "Para swerte," she said. But even the pearls felt like borrowed magic.
The gym was transformed for the night: yellow curtains, Christmas lights taped along the walls, a tired-looking emcee announcing prom royalty with too much energy. There was lechon at the buffet and lukewarm punch served in plastic cups. Someone spilled Sprite on my shoes. I smiled anyway.
Caleb picked me up in his cousin's old Civic. The inside smelled like air freshener and fast food. He opened the door for me and said, "You clean up well, Brainiac." I laughed. My stomach fluttered. For a moment, I thought maybe this would be the start of something.
I didn't think I would fall apart that night.
Until I did.
It happened so fast I almost missed it—almost convinced myself I hadn't seen what I saw.
But I did.
In the corner of the ballroom, under a gold balloon arch, Caleb was kissing someone else. Not a shy kiss. Not a drunk mistake. A full, open-mouthed, laughing-into-it kind of kiss. With Jasmine-from-Track who always smelled like strawberry gum and never once looked my way.
My mouth went dry.
The lights of the room blurred, like a camera lens twisting out of focus. The band played a weak cover of "Kahit Maputi Na Ang Buhok Ko," and the lyrics felt like a cruel joke. I stood there, arms limp at my sides, heart pounding so hard I thought people could hear it through the sequins on my dress.
He didn't even look guilty.
When he caught me watching, he didn't run. He just gave a shrug. A smirk. As if to say, What did you expect?
And the worst part?
I didn't cry.
I didn't scream. Didn't throw anything. I walked out of that room so calmly that even the chaperones smiled at me. Thought I was just going to the restroom. But I wasn't.
I was going home.
Back to silence.
Back to safety.
I walked to the barangay waiting shed and sat under the flickering light, ignoring the stares of manangs going home from bingo night with their tupperware and folding chairs. One of them offered me a hard candy. I declined with a smile. I didn't need sweetness. I needed numbness.
That summer, I didn't see a single friend. I told everyone I was "preparing for senior year." What I was actually doing was turning my heartbreak into a schedule.
Wake up.
Study.
Run.
Read.
Ace practice tests.
Repeat.
I didn't eat lunch with anyone. I stayed in the library during breaks. When the guidance counselor asked if everything was okay, I smiled and said, "Just focused." That word became my armor.
I devoured textbooks like candy. Buried my hurt under the weight of flashcards and annotated pages. I learned how to weaponize excellence.
At night, when the neighbors were already watching teleseryes and my classmates were out at Jollibee or mall arcades, I stayed home. Solving equations. Memorizing definitions. Making sure not a single part of my heart wandered back to that balloon arch.
I filled up notebooks with more than just answers. I filled them with control. With logic. With proof that I could still be worth something, even if I wasn't chosen.
When the school year started, I was top of every class. Teachers called me "remarkable." Classmates asked for notes they'd never read. Even Caleb—yes, Caleb—tried to sit beside me again, acting like nothing ever happened.
"Hey, Brainiac," he said, casual, like we had some unfinished story.
I smiled. Said hello. Handed him the wrong homework answers on purpose.
Achievement became my revenge.
Because trophies never lie.
Because straight A's don't cheat.
Because perfect grades never kiss someone else.
When I walked across the stage at recognition day, I didn't look for my mother in the crowd. I didn't need her nod this time. I looked straight ahead, medal cold against my chest, heart colder still.
And for the first time, I realized something sharp and sacred:
If I couldn't be loved,
I would be unforgettable.