When I heard the news – that Reina’d been in an accident, and that she didn’t make it – I dropped everything and rushed upstairs to my room. It was dinnertime. The TV was on. My brother was home and our little sister was talking about how her grades this semester were unexpectedly higher than last’s. My mother had prepared spare ribs for the occasion and my father was the only one paying attention to the news. Until that moment.
“A Grade 12 student of St. Mark Private High School was found dead by a bridge in Sta. Cruz, Manila, presumably a victim of a hit-and-run.”
Everybody looked at me. I studied in that school.
“The victim was identified as 17-year-old Reina Magdalo of Sta. Mesa, Quezon City. A tricycle driver found her and alerted a police officer, but shortly after the medics arrived, she was declared dead.”
No, I thought. That’s not what happened!
I screamed. I didn’t realize it until my father called after me, ordering me to calm down. But by then I was up the stairs, and in my room. I locked the door. There were frantic footsteps outside, and then knocks, and my mother’s voice, asking if I was alright. I was in bed, my blanket tight around me, my eyes shut. Tears streamed nevertheless. I didn’t want to believe that it happened. I swore that if I tried hard enough, I’d wake up from this terrible nightmare.
Reina was my only friend. The only bright glow of happiness in my otherwise drab, lonely life.
“Gerald!” My mother pounded on the door. “Gerald, are you alright? Do you want to talk?”
My eyes remained closed. I said nothing, hoping she’d get the message. Talking things over would worsen the situation, make it more real.
I closed my eyes and begged the universe to wake me up.
***
It was the brightness of the sun that woke me up, and when I glanced at the clock, I realized that I’d been asleep for more than twelve hours. It was midday. I checked my phone. Our class group chat was flooded with messages. I checked my social media feed. There were countless posts of condolences. Icons set to black squares or candles. Grayscale photos of Reina. And then pictures of her wake at the school chapel. Details and schedules. She was not the most popular girl in our batch for no reason. Everybody loved her—I, most of all. I dropped my phone and screamed in my pillow, soaking it even further with my tears.
The only person who made school worth going to, the only one who actually listened. The only one who cared if I lived or died, who loved me not out of obligation. The girl who brightened my life in the few months we spent as seatmates was gone. Forever.
It was real, all of it.
I lay on my side, staring blankly at the wall across my room. Propped against it was my study desk. My eyes fell on the small black hardbound notebook on top of my Advanced Trigonometry and Philippine Literature books. Reina had left her diary on our last date at the picnic grove. It was lying on the bench after her father – a strict, brooding bulk of a man who always wore a black office suit – picked her up in his Benz. I tried running after her, but the car had sped past, and she’d sent a message: Give it to me in class.
Sure. I won’t read a thing, I promised.
I actually want you to, she replied, and that was the last message she ever sent me.
I was planning to read it after dinner. But after the news, and in the midst of my grief, I couldn’t even bring myself out of bed, let alone read Reina’s last words. I didn’t know how long I stayed in my room. My parents found the lock to my room and entered it only to leave a plate of food on my study desk. It was mostly untouched.
I didn’t get to attend Reina’s wake.
Still, I had no choice. On the Monday after Reina’s funeral, my father dragged me out of bed and threatened to ground me for a year if I didn’t go to school. That didn’t seem like a bad deal to me, but I hated it when my dad yelled. So, I forced myself to go to the bathroom. Forced myself to change into my uniform. Barely ate breakfast, barely caught the bus in time. Found myself at the entrance of the school, wondering if, for once, my schoolmates would notice my presence. Nobody paid attention to me unless it was to make fun of me. Reina was the exception – she understood me, and now she was gone.
Around me, students laughed and cheered and high-fived each other. They chased each other down the hallways, giggled in groups, and gathered in clumps on the benches. The mood was light, happy even. As if Reina didn’t just die. As if nothing had changed.
I remained under a cloud. I didn’t give it too much notice until the bell rang and we all trooped up to our classrooms. I sat in the back row, nearest to the window. I tried to hold myself together and avoided looking at Reina’s empty seat. Around me, while waiting for our teacher, the other kids did what they usually did – fooled around, gossiped, crammed their homework. Then I felt a shift in the air. A jock in our class, Matt, sat on the seat beside me, and began to chat with the girls in front and on the other side of him, flirting with them. I snapped. At least, and uncharacteristically of me, I let my voice be heard.
“Why are you sitting on Reina’s seat?” I demanded Matt, and instantly regretted it.
I expected to get a beating – he was a notorious bully, after all. I waited for a vicious punch on the side of my head, or at least a threat of revenge. But he only blinked at me, and the girls and boys began whispering to each other. Their looks were strange. Finally, Matt replied.
“What do you mean, Gerald?” he asked. “Who on earth is Reina?”