Actions That We Can't Control | F.S #01

01

Chapter 01

Little kid?

I should've been annoyed. I mean, I'm not that young. I'm literally sixteen. Not twelve. Not eight. But instead of irritation, what I felt was... confusion. Because his tone wasn't mocking. It wasn't belittling. It was calm—warm, even. Like he was teasing, but not in a cruel way. Parang he was talking to me like I was safe.

Weird.

I didn't answer immediately.

My heartbeat was pounding so loud I could barely hear myself think. Parang ang ingay ng loob ko, pero ang tahimik sa labas. My throat tightened, like my voice decided to go into hiding just when I needed it most. The words were there—floating somewhere between my ribs and my lips—but they just wouldn't come out.

I hated how I froze. I stared at the floor, counting the scuff marks on my sneakers just to ground myself.

"My name's Nathaniel Hiroshi," I said finally, voice tight. "And I'm not a kid."

It came out a little too defensive, a little too sarcastic, and I instantly regretted it. Papa shot me a look from across the room—one of those classic 'ayos ka lang?' glares that could fry your soul. So I forced a tight smile, almost like an apology, and glanced back at the boy who spoke.

He smiled softly, parang hindi siya offended. Or maybe sanay siya sa awkward replies. Or maybe he wasn't even listening anymore.

I wasn't sure.

His mom—who was sitting beside him, started the conversation with my mom. Small talk. You know, the usual: school, church, kung saan kami nagbabakasyon tuwing Holy Week. Nothing important. Just adults being adults, pretending they liked each other more than they really did.

I hated being in these kinds of social setups—yung parang show-and-tell ng mga anak, but make it Catholic Filipino family edition. Everyone pretending to be polite. Everyone pretending not to judge.

But they do.

They always do.

Two days have passed since our first meeting with the Buenavista's Family. Actually, I couldn't even remember half of it. Whenever I looked back, it's only a blur and the only thing that's clear is when Theodore introduces himself to me.

That morning was great not until Dad came into my room and open the topic about Buenavista's again.

"Hiroshi," Dad said, knocking lightly on the frame of my bedroom door. I was at my desk, halfway through a Chopin étude, fingers still hovering over the keys. "May dinner tayo sa Sabado. Invited ko 'yung Buenavista family."

I looked up, blinking away from the keys. "Saturday? Akala ko may meeting ka with the parish board?"

"Na-resched. So, free ako. And I thought it would be good to invite them over. Si Theodore, 'yung panganay, musician din 'di ba? You could talk about music." pangungumbinsi pa niya.

I nodded, not really answering. I didn't know much about the Buenavistas, aside from the usual church rumors. Tita Khisia—the mom—was head of the altar society. Tito Sherlock—the dad—was a youth formation leader. Very religious, very proper, too proper.

And then there was Saint Theodore, as people liked to call him. Youth guitarist, choir boy, future seminarian—or at least that was the image. Mysterious, quiet, the kind of guy you couldn't pin down. I'd seen him before, mostly during Sunday masses, but we never talked. We orbited different circles.

He really lives up on his name, Saint. We are different.

"Sure," I said after a beat, spinning my office chair around. "I guess. Sino pa darating?"