Escaping the Plot (Not a romcom)

Umpisa ng problema

"Oh shet, sino ito?? Ang guwapo. Hayop."

But she didn't let it win.

Kasi honestly, gutom na siya.

An event coordinator leaned in gently.

"Hilda, darling. You're good to go—the segment's done.
You can head for lunch if you want!"

Finally.
She'd been there since 9 AM, in full face, on her feet, answering the same four questions.

She nodded. Unclipped her lanyard. Shifted her weight.

Inigo stepped forward—half-curious, half-entranced.

"Hi—sorry, are you—?"

She turned slightly. Not startled. Just efficient.

"Yes. The designer."
"The namecard's there, you can scan it."

She nodded toward a slim acrylic holder beside the display.
Minimalist signage. QR code standing tall like a gatekeeper.

"Also printed on the glass. Portfolio's there."

She offered a polite, calm smile—warm, even.
Then turned away, already walking.

"I've been here since nine. I'm starving.
Laksa or roasted duck rice. Anything with sambal, honestly."

She wasn't being rude.
She just didn't have time to entertain a man with model bone structure and no appointment.

And just like that—
She walked off.

Inigo stood there, one hand hovering stupidly in the air, still holding a designer card like it was a quest item.

And then he glanced up at the portrait again.

----- 

Later that Night — Íñigo's Hotel Room, Still Thinking

He should've just let it go.

But no. Masyado kasi siyang curious. So he typed her full name into LinkedIn.

Giovanna Hildegarde Florendo–Recto.

The results loaded like a file download hitting max speed.

Founder. Lead Designer. Patent Holder.
Studio H | Singapore · Manila · London.

His thumb hovered over the screen. Then, click.

Her profile was a perfect maze of slick categories—Industrial Design, Jewellery, Strategic Systems, UX Design, and then...

Illustration.

He blinked.

Wait.

That app? She was behind that?
The collapsible transit kiosk module?
The assisted-grip tool for stroke survivors?
Fucking hell, he used that phone stand at the office every damn day. Siya pala ang umimbento nun'?

He scrolled down.

Patents. Multiple. Some awarded, some pending, all licensed internationally.

Then he clicked through to her website, Studio H.

That's when the real rabbit hole yanked him in.

Her portfolio looked like a museum exhibit. Jewellery that could double as miniature architecture. Product designs that made everyday objects feel na pwedeng maging pamana. UX systems so seamless they made you wonder 'bakit walang nakaisip nito?!!'.

Then, something unexpected.

A section titled "Illustration & Story Worlds."

Soft pastels. Ink lines. Whimsical, witty, weird—and painfully familiar.

He froze.

"The Girl Who Put a Volcano in Her Lunchbox."
"Letters to the Sun from a Sleepy Moon."
"Sorry, The Universe is Currently Closed."

He knew those books. His pamangkins and pinsans had them. He'd even read one aloud—voices, quirks, all—at a birthday party last year.

She'd made those? Written and illustrated them?

Funny, smart, a little unhinged. Kids adored them. Adults secretly did, too.

Suddenly, everything clicked.

The quiet, deadly elegance. The cool, no-nonsense lanyard scan. The "I've been here since nine and I want duck rice and sambal" exit.

She wasn't just a designer.
She was a goddamn genre.

Íñigo leaned back in his chair, stunned.

Pentagonal threat, to putangina.

He bookmarked the site. Then scrolled back up to her portrait—the one from the event.

Those eyes didn't blink first.

"Wow, Hilda. You're everywhere pala."

---------- 

Days Later — Changi Airport, Departure Terminal

Inigo had tried.
Once.
Okay—maybe three times.

First, a polite email:

"Hi, Ms. Florendo–Recto. Just wanted to say I really admired your work at Suntec. Would love to connect sometime, maybe chat over coffee? Best, Inigo M."

No reply.

Then a text:

"Hey—hope this isn't weird. We met briefly at the Design Week exhibit? Just wanted to say your portfolio blew me away. Here's my card if ever."

Delivered. Not read.
Auto-archived.
Unknown sender. Straight to junk.

Last attempt: a DM via her portfolio site.

"Apologies if this is intrusive—just wanted to send appreciation. Your UX archive was stunning. And the children's books—genius. My niece loves 'Volcano Lunchbox.' Best, Inigo M."

Two days later, a form reply arrived:

"Thank you for visiting Studio H. We are currently not taking new clients or commissions outside existing retainer partnerships. For urgent matters, please contact our agency."

Damn.

"Agency??"

----------

Meanwhile — Hilda's HDB Flat / Home Studio

Hilda was very much alive.
Tulog nga lang.

Sprawled sideways on the couch, face pressed into a throw pillow, a polishing cloth stuck to her sleeve. On the coffee table, a small copper brooch prototype sat next to curled sandpaper.

Her Gucci loafers waited silently by the door.

Lunch had been bread and cream cheese from the fridge.
Maybe some leftover curry puffs.
Dinner? If she found the will na magluto ng rice.
If not—GrabFood.

Her inbox? Untouched for three days.
Her agency filtered everything first.
Unknown senders? Straight to junk.

She wasn't ghosting anyone.
She was just... tired.
Surviving. Recovering. Working. Napping.
Avoiding noise. And especially—

Not in the mood for handsome men in sharp suits with no clear agenda.

Inigo, for all his charm and looks, never made it past the firewall.

And Hilda?
Already back at her workbench, hoodie and joggers on, humming softly to a playlist.
Polishing her next prototype, fingers steady.
Praying no one dragged her to another exhibit anytime soon.