Emilio Francine De Ramos

It was lunchtime. Luckily, Yuwan’s lunch break synced with mine, so we headed to the restaurant he mentioned earlier. When we arrived, I almost wanted to turn back and head to a different place. The restaurant exuded a ‘semi-fancy’ vibe, with high ceilings, mood lighting, and white tablecloths. I instantly felt out of place, as if my existence announced to everyone, ‘I don’t belong here.’

“It’s a bit fancy here…” I muttered under my breath.

We were shown to a cozy table near a window. When the waiter handed us the menus, I tried not to choke on my breath. Damn. Each dish was priced like rent. I glanced at Yuwan, expecting some reaction, but he calmly browsed the menu as if this was just another day in his life. No big deal. Must be nice to be rich.

He signaled the waiter and ordered effortlessly. “One truffle pasta with a house salad, please.”

The waiter turned to me. “And for you, sir?”

“U-uhm… do you have smaller portions of the salad? Or… maybe something more affordable?”

Yuwan shot me a confused look, then leaned closer. “Affordable? Why not get something like pasta or risotto? I’m the one who’s paying,”

“I-It’s embarrassing, Yuwan,” I whispered back. “I know it’s your treat, but the food here is expensive…”

“Emil,” he said flatly, “I can buy anything on this menu for you. I’m not going to let you eat just a tiny salad and feel guilty about it,” His voice softened, and a slight grin played on his lips. “C’mon, order whatever you want. I want you to leave this restaurant full and satisfied. ” I fought off a blush. Damn it, why does he have to say things like that?

“F-fine,” I sighed, pretending not to care, though my heart was practically sprinting. “But I don’t know what to order?”

“Do you perhaps want a recommendation?” the waiter chimed in smoothly, notebook in hand, clearly trying to keep a professional smile despite sensing our awkward vibe.

“S-sure,” I mumbled.

“I recommend the classic carbonara for someone who is new to Italian cuisine,” the waiter said gently. “And perhaps a starter—our bruschetta is quite popular.”

“Uhm—” I hesitated, looking up at Yuwan for approval.

“Okay, he’ll have that,” Yuwan said before I could finish, handing the menu to the waiter with a confident nod.

“Yuwan!” I gasped, eyes wide. “You didn’t even let me—!”

He just shrugged with that annoying, effortless charm. “You looked overwhelmed. I’m saving you the decision fatigue.”

I scowled at him, lips pursed, but deep down… I felt weirdly fluttery. He noticed. He always noticed.

“Fine,” I muttered again, folding my arms. “But only because I was going to get that anyway.”

“Oh really?” he teased, leaning back with that smug little smile. “Then I clearly made the perfect choice.”

The waiter smiled. “Would that be all, sir?”

“Do you serve wine?” Yuwan cut in.

I nearly choked. “Hey! We still have class!” I scolded.

The waiter chuckled politely. “Don’t worry sir, we have wines with low alcohol content that pairs well with your meals. You will not get drunk after drinking a glass.”

“That’ll do then, thank you,” Yuwan said with a shrug.

I narrowed my eyes on him. “You really…just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you can get away with anything!” He just grinned as the waiter left with our order.

“So,” Yuwan asked, “how was your morning class?”

“Ugh, freaking tired from pointillism,” I groaned, massaging my sore fingers. “My hands are killing me from all the tiny dots. I’m not even halfway done.”

“That sucks, you just do dots all over the drawing, and yet the professor will give you a low grade?”

“Well that’s architecture, I guess. Everything needs to be perfect.” I sighed, spinning the water inside of the glass as if I was swooshing wine. Yuwan leaned back in his chair, fiddling his nails.

“Well, how about you? How’s the class you flunked last semester?” I teased. My ‘amazing’ best friend here had two of his subjects that he dropped last semester because he said and he quoted, ‘I don't like the subject, so I'll just drop it’. Unfortunately, he has to retake those subjects whether he likes them or not because it’s part of his curriculum. I just hope he’ll be serious this time.

Yuwan’s face twisted in mock frustration. “You don’t have to bring it up. Well, it’s still the same, I still hate it. Math and planning and all that shit. I swear, if I could just quit and travel the world, get drunk, and do some stupid shit, I would.”

“Hey Yuwan, you better take things seriously this time,” I warned. “If you don’t do well with your studies, your father will send you to New York, remember?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Well, It’s not my fucking fault engineering is hard.”

“Hard or not, you have to push through. You can’t ace one subject and flunk the rest.” I gave him a pointed look. “Honestly, if you hate it this much, why didn’t you just shift courses?”

Yuwan’s playful demeanor faded. His eyes dropped to the table. “You know why,” he said quietly.

Of course, I knew. Yuwan never wanted to take engineering. His real passion is in the arts, singing, dancing, and performing. In grade school, he bagged every award in music competitions. His dance group was always in first place. But when he reached high school, his father put a stop to everything. He didn’t want any distractions from Yuwan’s academics which crushed Yuwan’s dream.

“You just wanted to take Theatre Arts,” I said, mostly to myself.

Yuwan let out a bitter laugh. “Theater won’t help with the family business, right? That’s what he always says.”

Silence stretched between us. For a moment, we were just two friends caught between dreams and reality. Then, he suddenly grinned.

“Well, since you brought up the subjects that I flunked, why don’t you tutor me?” he joked.

“What? Tutor you? Me? Are you crazy?” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m an architecture student, I can’t handle your subject.” I mean, I’m not saying I really can’t tutor him, it’s just hard to squeeze him into my already-packed schedule.

“C’mon Emil, I’ll treat you to lunch for a whole month. Please?”

“Your grades are at stake here, you can’t bribe me with your treats.”

“Emil… pretty please?” He gave me his signature puppy dog eyes. The jerk knew that was my weakness.

I sighed in exasperation. “Oh my god, fine!  Alright! I can’t tutor you, but I’ll find someone who can. Happy?”

He broke into a wide grin. “You’re the best, Emil!”

“Yeah, yeah. Oh, and here comes our food.”

After lunch, we returned to our respective classes. The lingering aroma of the meal that I had was clinging to my clothes. The sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting a warm glow across the room. To my surprise, our professor announced a free period, and the collective sigh of relief from my classmates echoed around me. Seizing the moment, I settled down at my table, ready to tackle the dreaded pointillism assignment.

The classroom was unusually full, an energized hum buzzing through the air as students leaned over their desks, concentrated expressions painted on their faces. It was rare to see my classmates this dedicated; the looming mountain of assignments had lit a fire under all of us. I glanced around at the mess of papers, half-finished projects, and graphite stains scattered across the tables, each corner bursting with creativity in its chaotic form.

As I prepared my plate, someone suddenly covered my eyes from behind, blocking my view of the chaos before me.

“Guess who?” a familiar voice chirped playfully, almost singing the words.

I couldn’t help but grin, recognizing the light, teasing tone. “With those noisy shoes? Obviously, it’s you, Lor.”

“What the hell? That’s too specific, Emil!” she shot back, laughter dancing in her voice.

“Lor, the sound of your shoes can be heard up to the Mass Comm building,” I replied, barely containing my laughter.

“You bitch! That’s too much!” she cackled, plopping down beside me. Lory Escudero, one of my closest friends in architecture, had this almost magical ability to brighten even the dullest days. Her smile alone could disarm the grumpiest of people, it was warm, genuine, and impossible to resist. While most students in our course stuck to their own circles, Lory somehow managed to be everyone’s friend. She was the kind of person who could walk into a room and instantly lift the mood. What made our bond even more special was that she knew about my sexuality. I didn’t have to pretend around her or watch my words. With Lory, I could just be me, and that comfort meant more than I could ever explain.

“Done with your work?” she asked, peering curiously at my plate, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Do you see my plate? Does it look like it’s done?” I retorted, pointing to the multitude of dots I had painstakingly created.

“Really? But pointillism is easy,” she teased, leaning back in her chair.

“For you!” I shot back. “My hands have been hurting and all I’ve been doing is dotting the same damn spot over and over. You graduated from Fine Arts, so you’re used to this!” Lory was older than me, she’s 28 and has already completed her first degree.

“Excuse me, Mr. Emilio Francine De Ramos, you think it’s easy for me? I’m struggling too! Just because I have a background in the arts doesn’t mean this is a walk in the park,” she replied, acting offended.

“S-Sorry, Lor, I didn’t mean to sound rude,” I quickly apologized, sensing the shift in her tone. “I’m just stressed with this. Can’t I just not do this? It’s just an activity.”

“Heck no! This is a quiz! If you fail this, your midterm grade will be affected. You can kiss goodbye to your scholarship if you fail this class,” she declared, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. I hated how right she was.

“Alright, alright! I’ll finish it!” I groaned, sighing heavily as I returned to my work, dot by tedious dot. The steady rhythm of my pen against the paper became oddly soothing as I focused on my task, the black dots gradually transforming into a blurry image. Meanwhile, Lory kept me company, her animated chatter weaving seamlessly into the background of my concentration.

“Speaking of which,” she said slyly, leaning closer as her eyes sparkled with curiosity, “how’s your handsome best friend? Have you confessed yet?”

My hands faltered slightly, the pen hovering over the paper. “Of course not,” I admitted, a mix of embarrassment and anxiety flooding through me.

She shot me a knowing look, her expression softening. “For God's sake Emil, how long will you wait until you confess? When will you tell him your feelings? One way or another, he’ll find out.”

“I need to be sure,” I whispered, lowering my voice as if saying out loud would make it more real. “I don’t even know if he’s into guys or not. Heck, he doesn’t even know about my sexuality.”

“Look, as much as I want to help, this part’s on you. You're the only one who can tell Yuwan how you really feel,” she said gently, her eyes soft with concern. “But Emil… please, take care of yourself—especially your heart. I hate the thought of you carrying this around and getting hurt even more. You know I’ve always got your back. Just… don’t wait until it’s too late and all you’re left with is regret.”

Her words lingered in my mind, maybe she was right. I couldn't keep this to myself forever. I need to do it before I regret everything.

As I focused on the plate before me, I could feel the weight of my heart heavier with each passing moment. As the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the room, I knew what I had to do. After school hours, I will tell Yuwan. No more hiding. If things went south, at least I have closure. Whatever might happen, I thought resolutely, it was time to lay my cards on the table.