Queue

Chapter 1

I wasn't supposed to be here.
"Samahan mo na ako, please," Raya had begged through voice note.
"Wala akong kakilala kundi si Jio, tapos puro lalaki na 'yung ibang nando'n."

So now I'm here.Sitting on a fake leather couch in a dorm somewhere near España, surrounded by loud voices, takeout containers, and the smell of liniment and fries. The UST basketball team was clearly close — and loud. Someone forgot the ice. Someone was trying to freestyle rap about it. And my cousin was clinging to her boyfriend like they were starring in a Wattpad fic. I, on the other hand, was slowly melting into my seat, stirring my milk tea for the sixth time.

Then someone sat beside me. No words. No greeting. Just... sat. I glanced over. Tall. Hoodie. Tired eyes. I recognized him — not because he said anything, but because he didn't. Elian Reyes. UST varsity. Shooting guard. I'd seen him on livestreams. On campus posters. Tahimik sa interviews. Suplado ang aura. He stayed quiet. No glance. No "hi." He was just there  like background noise I couldn't ignore.

So I ignored him first. After a few minutes, I heard him let out a short breath.
"Lagi bang ganito 'yung mga lakad nila?" he said, not even looking at me.

I raised an eyebrow. "Yung mag-iimbita tapos kayo ang mawawala?"

He nodded once.
"Raya always does this," I muttered.

"Niyayaya tapos biglang may sariling mundo." Still no smile. But he stayed.
"Anong program mo?" I asked, half out of boredom. "Civil Engineer"
"Of course," I said.
"Stereotype." Still no reaction.

"Let me guess  tahimik, serious, mahilig sa sneakers?"
He gave the tiniest shrug.

"Ganun nga siguro." I looked at him again.
He wasn't trying to impress anyone. Hindi gaya ng ibang varsity na kilala ko na puro pa-charm. He just... sat there. Like silence didn't bother him. And weirdly, neither did I.

Raya and the rest eventually came back with the missing ice and more food. Everyone returned to shouting and laughing. Elian stood without a word. Didn't say goodbye. Didn't look back. I watched him walk away, one hand in his hoodie pocket, unreadable. I didn't expect anything. Not a follow. Not a message. Not even a second conversation. But somehow, when I got home, I couldn't stop stirring my drink.

And I realized... I've talked to a hundred guys who tried too hard. But maybe it's the quiet ones you remember most.