Emilio Francine De Ramos

It was midterm season, time already passed since Yuwan and Heather became official. At that time, I tried my best to piece myself together, to build something that resembled a normal life. But the truth was, Yuwan still lived in the spaces between my thoughts. He was in the songs that played on the radio during my commute, in the familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee that reminded me of mornings we'd spent together in the hut, and every fleeting glance I gave toward the corner of the cafeteria where he and Heather sat, always together.

Some wounds didn't heal. They just dulled with time. And that's what I did, tried to dull the ache, one day at a time. I wasn't angry anymore. I didn't hate Yuwan for choosing Heather, and I didn't hate Heather for being someone I could never be. But the love I had for him? That never really went away. I carried it like a scar, quiet and unseen, but always there.

Life fell into a monotonous rhythm. School, work, sleep, repeat. My part-time job at the convenience store was mindless, which was exactly what I needed. It gave me a few precious hours where I didn't have to think, just scan items, bag them, smile when required, and count the hours until I could go home.

That night was no different. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the air smelled faintly of instant noodles and cheap detergent. I stood behind the counter, watching the clock tick painfully slowly toward my break. Customers came and went, barely more than blurs of faces and idle conversations.

And then he walked in.

The man looked like he didn't belong in a dingy convenience store at 10 p.m. He was taller than me, broad-shouldered but not bulky, with a kind of relaxed confidence in the way he moved. His dark hair was slightly messy, as if he'd been running his hands through it. There was something warm and familiar in his expression, an easy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like the world was just a little bit funnier to him than it was to everyone else.

"Evening," he greeted casually as he entered the store. I gave him a polite nod, not wanting to interact that much.

He stood there for a long time. What the hell is he waiting for? Finally, he uttered a word. "Do you...uh, recommend anything here?"

I looked up, confused. This isn't some restaurant, you idiot. "Recommend? For a convenience store? Dude, it's just snacks and sodas."

"I know, I just—" He laughed. "Just figured you might know the good stuff."

"Look," I said, pointing behind him at a stack of ramen cups, "if you're hungry, go with spicy ramen. Otherwise, the soda in your hand will do just fine."

He laughed again, but this time it was genuine. "Spicy ramen. Got it." he approached the counter, setting down a bottle of water and the spicy ramen I recommended. As I scanned his item, he was staring at me, like a creep.

"You're working pretty late," he said, his voice light but curious. "What's your name?"

I froze for a second, surprised by his forwardness. Most customers didn't care who you were as long as you gave them their change and a receipt. "Uh... Emil," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the register.

The man leaned on the counter, as if we were old friends. "Nice to meet you, Emil. I'm Silas." I nodded, not offering anything in return. I wasn't in the mood for small talk. But Silas didn't seem bothered by my lack of enthusiasm.

"This place is a bit shabby. Do you like working here?" he asked, genuinely curious.

I shrugged. "It pays the bills."

He chuckled, his laughter soft and unpretentious. "Fair enough." There was a beat of silence before he added, "You seem like someone who's hard to get to know. I like that."

I rolled my eyes internally. "That's... not really my intention."

"Good," Silas said, grinning. "Then this is gonna be fun."

I scanned the water and gum, ready to move on. But instead of leaving, Silas dug a pen out of his pocket and grabbed the nearest receipt. With a quick flourish, he scribbled something down and slid the paper toward me.

"Here," he said with a wink. "My number. Just in case you feel like talking to someone who isn't a customer."

I blinked, caught off-guard. "Uh..."

He gave me a lazy salute. "See you around, Emil." And with that, he was gone, just as suddenly as he'd arrived.

===================================

I didn't think much of Silas at first. People like him, a little too charming, a little too sure of themselves, usually came and went. I stuffed the receipt with his number deep into my pocket, fully intending to let it slip through the cracks of memory and laundry cycles. But, for reasons I couldn't quite name, it stayed. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, as if they weren't just passing over me but really seeing me.

Or maybe it was the way he carried himself, with that effortless ease, the kind that felt like standing barefoot on warm sand. There was no rush to his movements, no need for anything other than the present moment. He reminded me of someone, or rather, of a version of someone I used to know. Not in appearance, but in spirit. It was the way he made me feel like I still mattered to someone.

I told myself I wouldn't text him. I wasn't ready to invite anyone new into my life, especially not someone so persistent. But the loneliness clung to me like humidity on a summer night—thick, inescapable, and suffocating. It weighed me down during long shifts at the convenience store, making the minutes drag like hours.

On one of those nights, in the quiet lull between customers, I found myself pulling out that crumpled receipt. I stared at his scrawled number for a long moment, thumb hovering over my phone screen as if texting him would make me cross some invisible line I wasn't prepared for.

But the need for connection won out.

Me: "Hey. It's Emil. From the convenience store."

I expected silence, or maybe, at best, a delayed reply. But his response came almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting for me.

Silas: "Well, well. I was starting to think you wouldn't text me. How's your night going?"

I exhaled a laugh, despite myself. Something about his easy tone loosened the knot in my chest, the one that had been tightening ever since... well, since Yuwan.

Me: "Just another shift. Not much to report."

Silas: "Boring? Or peacefully boring?"

Me: "There's a difference?"

Silas: "Of course. Boring means you're stuck. Peacefully boring means you're exactly where you want to be."

I stared at my phone for a moment, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused by the strange way he framed things.

Me: "Definitely just boring."

Silas: "Good. Then I'm here to make it a little more interesting."

I paused, thumb hovering again. Unsure whether to be annoyed or amused by the strange way he framed things.

Me: Definitely just boring.

Silas: Good. Then I'm here to make it a little more interesting.

The minutes slipped by without me realizing. Our conversation found a rhythm, light banter, casual jokes, silly questions.

Silas: Okay, serious question: is cereal a soup?

Me: That's a stupid question.

Silas: No, think about it. Liquid base, floating bits, eaten with a spoon. That's a soup, my friend.

Me: Soup is hot.

Silas: Gazpacho says hello.

I snorted out loud, earning a strange look from the only customer browsing the chips aisle.

Me: Fine. Then by your logic, is a hot dog a sandwich?

Silas: Now we're getting into dangerous territory. Don't think our relationship is ready for that debate yet.

Me: Relationship? Bold choice of word.

Silas: What can I say? I'm an optimist.

I leaned against the counter, staring at the glowing screen. His words were ridiculous, but my chest felt lighter.

Me: You're impossible.

Silas: And yet, here you are still texting me.

Me: Maybe I'm just really bored.

Silas: Or maybe you needed someone to talk to.

That one hit harder than I expected. I didn't answer right away, letting the silence stretch while I pretended to re-stock gum packets.

Silas: Don't worry, Emil. I'm not asking for anything. Just... keep texting me. For tonight, at least.

And so I did. We talked about nothing and everything: favorite childhood cartoons, whether pineapple belonged on pizza, the strange regulars he imagined must come into my store. Each reply from him was quick, warm, insistent, like a hand tugging me gently forward.

It was easy. Too easy. Like slipping into a sweater I thought I'd lost. And that scared the hell out of me.