Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 14

I snorted. “It’s called organization.”

“It’s called neon chaos.”

I nudged him with my elbow. “Says the guy who brought color-coded flashcards like we’re on a quiz bee.”

He held one up dramatically. “The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

We were still bickering about the proper color for annotating when the doorbell rang again.

I got up and opened it, and immediately burst into laughter.

There stood James.

Wearing a red t-shirt and royal blue pajama pants. A pair of crooked reading glasses clung to his face like they didn’t belong there. And, to top it all off, a white cardigan was draped across his shoulders like he was the CEO of bedtime.

“Is this some kind of nationalistic pajama party?” I gasped between laughs. “What’s up with the Philippine flag outfits?”

I pointed behind me to Matt, who was now standing, equally dumbfounded.

James looked at him.

Matt looked at James.

And in perfect unison, they both groaned, “Come on, bro!”

I doubled over laughing, nearly dropping the textbook I was still holding. James stepped in, muttering something about how it was the only clean thing left, and Matt shook his head, muttering back about stolen thunder.

This was going to be a long, but interesting, night.

We settled into the living room like kids about to build a fort, not cram for exams. Notes were spread across the low table, pens uncapped, pages rustling with urgency, but none of it felt heavy. It felt… safe.

Matt took his usual organized stance, cross-legged, posture straight, arranging his notes like sacred scripture. I always found it amusing, the way he turned even the messiest subjects into something presentable. James, meanwhile, looked like a misplaced puzzle piece, sprawled across a floor pillow, shoulders loose, that familiar furrow of effort and exasperation on his face.

Matt leaned toward him with a sigh. “Did you bring a pen?”

James blinked. “Uhh... nope.”

Without saying anything, Matt extended his palm in my direction.

I didn’t even have to ask. I placed a fifty-peso bill in it, trying not to smirk.

James looked between us, confused. “What--?”

“We bet on whether you’d bring a pen or not,” I said, failing to hide my grin. “I said you would.”

James groaned, dramatically slumping into the cushions. “Et tu, Betty?”

“Hey,” I said, raising my hands, “I’m just funding education.”

They bickered for a bit, that boyish kind of sarcasm and teasing that made the air lighter somehow. I found myself laughing more than studying, but it wasn’t the kind of laughter that covered sadness, it was genuine. Warm. Familiar.

Somewhere between reviewing formulas and making fun of James’s inability to remember anything from last week’s notes, something shifted in me. For a brief, flickering evening, I wasn’t the girl haunted by silent mornings and dreamless nights. I wasn’t watching my father fall apart in slow motion. I wasn’t the quiet shadow who tiptoed around grief.

I was just… me.

A girl in her living room, in pajama shorts and a hoodie, surrounded by two boys wearing the Philippine flag in pajama form, arguing about whether mitochondria were cooler than ribosomes. A girl who had crumpled index cards in one hand and a pencil behind her ear, and for once, didn’t feel like she had to hold the universe together.