Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 2

But I saw it. Just beneath the laughter, tucked in the corners of his smile: that sharp, aching hollowness. The way he blinked a little too long when he looked at my face, at her face.

We finished breakfast with the sound of Mang Ruel hitting the high note and a truck horn blaring down the road. The town was waking up, sleepy and slow, like it wasn't sure it wanted to start the day either.

I picked up my bag, my heart heavy but determined.

Time to meet the world again.

Time to find my place in it, even if it meant pretending, even if it meant piecing myself together between dry toast and sad coffee and my father's quiet courage.

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The engine rumbled to life like it was waking from its own dream. Dad's old old silver sedan sputtered once, coughed twice, then settled into a low, stubborn hum. I slid into the passenger seat, my backpack at my feet, the scent of the cracked leather seats mingling with the lingering musk of engine oil and stale mints from the dashboard cup holder.

The morning sun slanted low through the windshield, casting gold over everything, the cracked dashboard, the faded rosary swinging from the rearview mirror, even Dad's profile as he adjusted the rearview and wiped his palms on his jeans like he was nervous. Like it was his first day too.

We pulled out of the driveway slowly. The street outside our gate was already coming alive. A man watering plants in his sando, two kids chasing each other barefoot, the soft whir of a sari-sari store fan. The kind of small-town buzz that made the world feel both big and small at the same time.

For a while, we didn't say anything. The only sound was the occasional wheeze of the truck and the rustle of wind slipping through the half-open window. My hair fluttered against my cheek like tiny whispers.

"Got everything?" Dad asked eventually.

"Yeah. I double-checked," I said, fiddling with the strap of my bag. "Pens, paper, existential dread. I'm all set."

He chuckled under his breath. "That's my girl. Always prepared."

We passed the church, the bakery, and the small park with the rusting swing set where I once fell off and cried so hard he bought me two ice creams. I glanced at him sideways. His hands gripped the wheel tighter now, his knuckles pale.

"You'll be fine," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "You've always been smart. Curious. Brave, even when you didn't feel like it."

"Mom always said I talked too much in class," I said with a half-smile. "Said I asked too many questions."

He smirked. "Yeah, but that's what made you shine. You never just took things as they were. You always wanted to know why. That's rare."

The road ahead blurred slightly, not from tears, not quite, but from that kind of full-body ache that came from being reminded of who you were before.

"I'm gonna try harder this time," I said softly, tracing invisible circles on the fogged window with my finger. "Be better. For Mom."

He didn't respond at first. Just kept driving, eyes fixed ahead. But I saw his throat bob. Saw the way his jaw clenched like he was holding in something sharp.

"She'd be proud of you already," he said, voice tight but steady. "She always was."

The words hovered between us like a second heartbeat.

We turned into the school's narrow driveway, where a few early students were already milling about in plaid skirts and backpacks too big for their frames. I stared at the gate, at the looming facade of a place that held no memory of me. Yet.