Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The message wasn’t supposed to be there.

I was just opening my laptop to check the usual — e-mails, drive links, the layout folder for the Media Guild publication — when I saw it sitting quietly on top of everything.

DearJho.txt

At first, I thought it was one of Maloi’s stupid pranks again. She’d done worse — like changing my desktop wallpaper to a crying cat with the caption “ikaw ‘to pag walang kape.” But when I double-clicked the file, the joke didn’t feel like hers.

> Dear Jho,

You left your St. Laureen account signed in last night sa org room. Don’t worry, di ko binasa mga files mo. Promise.

Ingatan mo account mo, o ikaw iingatan ko.

– A. Stranger

The cursor blinked at the end of the message like it was waiting for my reaction.

My first instinct was to laugh. Because — seriously? Who leaves a love note on OneDrive? But something about the tone — quiet, deliberate, not teasing — made me freeze.

It wasn’t loud or showy. It was… gentle. The kind of message you leave when you don’t want to scare someone, just nudge them a little.

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or freaked out.

And maybe that was why I kept staring at it longer than I should.

The Media Guild office was its usual brand of chaos that morning — laughter from the next room, the clatter of camera tripods, the faint smell of toner from the printer that’s been dying since first semester. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, slicing the room into gold and shadow.

Around me, people were moving. I wasn’t.

I just sat there, my hands hovering above the keyboard, still processing that someone — a stranger — had touched my account. My space. My digital fingerprints.

I whispered under my breath, “Who does that?”

“Who does what?” Maloi’s voice popped up right beside me before I even realized she was there. She had a knack for appearing out of nowhere, always with coffee in one hand and gossip in the other.

“Wala,” I said too quickly.

She squinted at me, suspicious. “Ayan na naman yung mukha mo.”

“What?”

“The ‘I’m pretending to be calm but my soul’s screaming’ face.”

I sighed. “It’s nothing serious, Maloi. Meron lang kasing ano—” I paused, hesitant. “…may nag-iwan ng note sa account ko."

Her eyes immediately brightened. “Like a love note?”

“It’s not a love note.” My voice half-annoyed.

“Then read it.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

Before I could protest further, she leaned closer, her chin nearly resting on my shoulder. “Sige na, basahin mo. I promise I won’t laugh.”

I hesitated, but part of me wanted to tell someone — if only so I could laugh with her about how absurd it all felt. So I opened the file again. The words blinked back on screen.

Maloi read silently, then gasped so dramatically the whole room turned for a second. “Jhoanna Robles, you have a secret admirer!”

“Shh!” I hissed, pulling the laptop closer. “Pwedeng wag mo i-announce sa buong building?”

She grinned. “But this is so cute! ‘Ingatan mo account mo o ikaw iingatan ko’ ? Girl, sino ‘to? Parang softboi na may manners.”

“Or hacker na may manners,” I muttered.

“Still better than my last situationship.”

I rolled my eyes, but her laughter was contagious. It loosened something heavy in my chest. For a while, we joked about it — she called the stranger “Mr. Sign-In,” I called them “Potential IT Violation.” But when the noise died down and I was left staring at the message again, my smile faded.

Because I really didn’t remember forgetting to log out.

The memory came back slowly, like rewinding an old film. I was here last night. It was late. The kind of late that blurs everything into static. The only light in the org room came from our monitors, and the air smelled like printer ink and microwaved pancit canton.

Most of the others had already packed up. I was still there, hunched over my laptop, editing the layout for the org’s magazine issue. My playlist had long ended; all I could hear was the soft tapping of keys, the gentle thud of my heartbeat against the quiet.

Every now and then, someone would pass by the corridor — their footsteps echoing against the tiles — but eventually, even that faded.

By the time I saved the last file, the clock read 11:47 p.m.

I remember rubbing my eyes, staring at the progress bar, waiting for it to hit 100%. I’d been awake since 6 a.m. I could barely think.

That’s probably when I forgot. I was too tired, too eager to get back to my dorm, that I just closed the lid and left.

And someone — this “stranger” — must’ve sat there after me.

Maybe they were another member pulling an all-nighter. Maybe a janitor who noticed the open screen. Maybe… someone who’s seen me before.

The thought sent a shiver through me, not from fear but from curiosity.

When I blinked back to the present, Maloi was waving a camera strap in front of my face.

“Hellooo? Earth to Jhoanna.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I said, gusto mo bang hanapin kung sino ‘yung gumawa nito? I can post it sa Freedom Wall!”

My immediate reaction was no — an instinctive, panicked no. But then, she raised a brow. “Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? Malay mo magreply, or mag-confess. Or something.”

I hesitated. My fingers brushed the edge of the laptop.

It was ridiculous. Immature, even. But part of me — the part that still stayed up at night editing, drinking coffee, finding stories in tiny, quiet things — wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was a story waiting here too.

The next few hours passed in fragments. Maloi typing something suspiciously fast on her phone. Me pretending not to care. The hum of the air conditioner. The way sunlight slowly softened through the blinds as the day aged.

By 5 p.m., I was packing up my things when she suddenly said, “Jho, check your phone.”

“Why?”

“Basta.”

Her grin looked too innocent to be innocent.

I unlocked it, a notification popped up, a new post from the campus Freedom Wall page. I opened it.

I almost choked.

> Lucky R.:

“Hello po, looking po ako sa taong naglagay nito sa OneDrive ng friend ko.

Magpakilala po kayo please baka kayo na ang sagot sa prayers nya."

There was a photo attached — the exact screenshot of the message.

DearJho.txt

My stomach dropped.

“Malooiii!”

She only laughed, clutching her phone like a trophy. “You’re welcome.”

“Delete mo yun!”

“Too late for that. May 300 likes na."

I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it, Jho.” she said softly, "Curious ka rin." 

And maybe she was right.

Because later that night, when I was back in my dorm, the glow of my laptop reflecting on my face, I refreshed that Freedom Wall post every few minutes. Watching the comments pile up — jokes, theories, heart emojis, random guesses — and somewhere between laughter and exhaustion, I realized I wasn’t even mad.

Just… restless.

As if something had been set in motion, and I didn’t know yet if it was the start of something beautiful, or the start of trouble.

But either way, I couldn’t look away.

Chapter Text

The Freedom Wall post refuses to die.

Every time I open my phone, it’s there — screenshots on random stories, reposts on meme pages, my name occasionally tagged with a teasing “😏.”

I keep telling myself I don’t care. That it’s funny. That Maloi’s right — it’s harmless.

But the truth is, each time I scroll past it, something in my chest twitches.

Not embarrassment anymore. Just that restless curiosity that’s too stubborn to fade.

In the org room, the air is thick with printer ink and the low hum of people working. The afternoon light filters through the blinds, streaking everyone’s hair gold. Maloi’s in her usual spot, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by cables and chaos.

“Grabe Jho,” she calls out without looking up, “may nagcomment na naman sa post mo. ‘Sana all may OneDrive admirer.’”

I groan, adjusting the focus on the camera I’m testing. “Technically, hindi ko naman post ‘yun.”

“Eh ikaw ‘yung bida. Therefore, ikaw ang may love life.”

“Pfft.” I check the lens cap, deliberately avoiding her grin. “Love life? Wala nga akong maayos na tulog.”

“That’s because you keep checking if ‘A. Stranger’ commented back.”

My head snaps up. “How did you—”

“Girl, you’ve been refreshing the Freedom Wall page every fifteen minutes.”

“Hindi ah.”

“Mhmm.” She smirks, then points her stylus at me. “I know that look. You’re invested.”

“I’m just… curious. That’s all.”

“Sure. Curious ka lang sa taong nag-iwan sa’yo ng flirt note sa OneDrive. Totally normal.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no venom in it. This is Maloi — teasing is her love language.

She stretches and stands, heading toward the pantry for coffee. “You know, baka naman si universe na 'tong gumagawa ng paraan para maging curious ka naman sa ibang bagay other than our studies."

“Wow. Philosophical ka na naman.”

“I watched another indie film kagabi,” she says over her shoulder. “Laging may character na tahimik pero mysterious. Ikaw daw ‘yun.”

“I’d rather be asleep.”

Her laughter echoes through the hallway, and for a while, the world feels normal again — deadlines, projects, Maloi’s noise. But the note still hums at the back of my mind like a quiet refrain.

I shook my head, trying to dismiss the thoughts.

I scanned the room, and that's when I noticed her again. The new face in the org rooms lately.

I first notice her one afternoon while I’m exporting layout files. She’s sitting in the shared corner desk near the window — from the audiovisual org, I think. She has that look: big headphones, pressed lips, completely focused on her screen.

Sometimes she hums softly, unconsciously, when she’s editing. I only catch bits of it — faint melodies, maybe from a movie score.

I see her a few times that week. Always there before I arrive. Always the last to leave.

We don’t talk. But I start recognizing her habits.

She keeps her workspace neat — camera batteries lined up like soldiers, notebook open but mostly blank except for doodles of clouds. She drinks her coffee black, takes long pauses before hitting “render,” and sometimes, when the light hits her face just right, she squints and smiles like she’s found something funny in the silence.

I don’t know her name. But lately, I catch myself glancing her way too often.

Maybe it’s because she seems so calm — like the world doesn’t rush her. Or maybe it’s the way she looks at her screen, patient, unbothered, quietly steady in a place where everyone’s always rushing.

“Hello po?”

I blink, snapping back to the present. It’s one of the juniors from our org, holding a USB. “Pwede po pa-save sa drive ‘yung layout namin?”

“Ah, yeah. Sige.” I plug it in, open the shared folder, and notice a new subfolder that wasn’t there before.

SLU Coverage / Shared Materials (A. Arceta)

The name stands out for half a second. Not because it means anything, but maybe because it’s neat — symmetrical, easy to remember.

I click it open out of habit. Inside are videos and photos from the recent campus fair — stage shots, crowd pans, booth clips, all clean and crisp. Whoever this person is, they’re clearly good at what they do.

I scroll through quietly. Nothing unusual. Nothing personal. Just solid work.

Still, when I close the folder, the name somehow lingers in my head.

A. Arceta.

Maybe because it sounds nice. Or maybe because I’ve been too caught up in names lately.

I shake my head and laugh under my breath.

“Hoy, anong tinitingnan mo?” Maloi’s voice cuts through, peeking over my shoulder again.

“Wala—”

She squints at the screen. “Uy. Sino si A. Arceta?”

I shrugged. "From the other org siguro.”

“Hmm,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Parang mysterious na bida sa pelikula."

“Lahat naman sa'yo mysterious.”

“Because I have taste,” she says proudly, standing up, but suddenly remembering something. “But think about it, 'A. Stranger' kahapon tapos 'A. Arceta' naman ngayon? Hmm. Minumulto ka yata ng mga letter 'A' ngayon ah." 

I scoffed, "Purely coincidental."

"Nga ba?" Maloi's smile is now growing into a grin, na parang may naiisip na namang kalokohan. "Kung gusto mo, iistalk ko yung buong org para—" 

“Please don’t.” 

She grins. “Too late, I’m already opening Facebook.”

I groan. “Maloi, seriously.”

“Fine, fine. Joke lang!” She returns to her desk, chuckling. “Mostly.”

Later that evening, the campus is quiet. Most people have gone home, and the sky outside the window is bruised purple. The reflection on my laptop screen mixes my face with the faint glow of the editor I left open.

Maloi’s out buying snacks. I’m alone in the org room again, the same way I was that night.

And maybe that’s why I think of the note again.

I open the file.

DearJho.txt.

I read it once, twice. The words don’t lose their weight.

"Ingatan mo account mo... Or ikaw iingatan ko."

I trace the edge of the trackpad, thinking.

Whoever wrote this saw me at my worst — tired, messy, probably talking to myself at 11 p.m. — and still decided to write something kind instead of mocking me.

It feels strange, that kind of attention. Quiet, patient, unseen.

And lately, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been too focused on finding the answer that I’m missing the small things happening around me.

When Maloi returns, she throws me a pack of chips and flops down beside me.

“So..." She started. "Any updates from Mr. Sign-In?”

"None," I immediately answered while slightly shaking my head. "I'm sure hindi nun nabasa yung post sa Freedom Wall." 

“Or maybe... Andyan lang siya sa tabi-tabi,” she says teasingly, biting into a chip. “Watching you freak out.”

I shake my head, but the thought stays.

Andyan lang siya sa tabi-tabi.

The hum of the computer fills the silence. Outside, the street lamps flicker on, bathing the windows in amber light.

I glance at the shared desk near the window. Empty now, except for a forgotten tumbler and a coiled camera strap.

I return to my laptop, and for reasons I can’t explain, I whisper quietly to no one in particular, “Who are you?”

---

The rest of the week moves like a dream — one of those long, hazy ones that aren’t exactly exciting, but strangely comforting.

The post about the Freedom Wall finally die down. No more tags, no more teasing DMs from people I barely talk to. Even the original thread gets buried under new confessions, jokes, and open letters.

And just like that, I’m not the campus headline anymore.

Maloi keeps joking that I should frame the screenshot — “Para may proof kang naging main character ka once in your life.”

But I just laugh it off, because honestly? I like the quiet better.

Classes start piling up again. Midterms, quizzes, random surprise projects that professors apparently summon for sport.

Our org calendar’s full — photo coverage here, design layout there, editing deadlines everywhere.

It’s tiring, but in a way that feels real. The kind of busy that makes time go faster.

I start falling back into rhythm — camera in hand, bag always heavy, surviving on bread and three-in-one coffee packets.

Life feels normal again. Almost.

Friday came. The Media Guild office is chaos — a kind of chaos that feels alive.

Every desk’s cluttered with layout drafts, paper trimmings, and tangled cables that no one claims ownership of.

There’s music playing faintly from someone’s phone — an old Ben&Ben song distorted by tiny speakers.

The printer’s groaning again. Maloi’s humming. Everything’s moving.

I’m halfway through finalizing the stage layout when the door opens — quiet, no knock, just that soft creak of hinges I’ve grown used to.

I don’t look up immediately. But I feel the shift.

The kind of pause that happens when someone steps into a room and the air rearranges itself around them.

“Hey,” a voice says. Low. Even. Smooth in the way some people’s voices naturally are — unhurried, comfortable in silence.

I look up.

It’s her. The new girl who usually sits by the window — always early, always calm.

Up close, the light from the glass catches strands of her hair, glinting faintly brown under the fluorescent white. Her ID sways slightly as she walks closer, a quiet rhythm against her hoodie.

“Hi,” I manage, straightening in my chair.

She stops by my desk, the faint smell of coffee trailing with her.

“I came to get the final layout for the stage,” she says, tone light.

It’s not a question. She already knows I’m the one handling it.

“Ah, yeah. Wait lang.” I fumble with the stack of printed files beside me. “Medyo magulo pa ’yung table ko, sorry.”

Her lips twitch — the start of a smile that doesn’t fully form.

“It’s fine,” she says softly, almost amused.

I find the folder and hold it out. “Here.”

When she reaches for it, our fingers brush. For a moment, everything stills.

She doesn’t pull away quickly. Just lets the moment exist for a heartbeat longer than politeness requires.

Then, a small nod.

“Thanks,” she says. Her eyes flicker toward the screen in front of me, scanning my half-finished design. “You’re still using the same layout format?”

I blink. “Huh?"

Wait, how did she?

She shrugs lightly, the corner of her mouth curving. “I’ve seen your drafts on the shared drive.”

“Oh.”

It’s the only thing I manage, but internally, I’m trying to replay every file name I’ve ever uploaded.

She must sense it, because her voice softens. “You do good work.”

It’s so simple, so casually said, but it lands somewhere deeper than it should.

“Uh. Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound awkward.

She tucks the folder under her arm and looks around the room for a moment — the mess, the noise, the energy.

“I like this part,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

“What part?” 

“This,” she gestures vaguely at the cluttered tables, the open laptops, the smell of ink. “The night before an event. It’s chaotic, but… alive.”

I study her face — the calm focus in her eyes, the way her expression softens when she says alive. She looks like someone who finds meaning in small things.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Alive’s a good word for it.”

Her smile widens just a bit, and she nods once, as if we just agreed on something only we understood.

“I’ll drop by tomorrow for the stage check,” she says, stepping back.

Her voice shifts — still gentle, but there’s something else there. Something warm.

“You’ll do great, by the way.” She says. It sounds like a casual comment, but the way she says it — deliberate, certain — makes me look up again.

Her gaze meets mine, steady but kind. It lingers for a second too long.

Then she adds, almost teasingly, “Don’t forget to rest, Jhoanna.”

And before I can even ask how she knows my name, she’s already turning toward the door, the faint scent of citrus and coffee trailing in her wake.

I watch her leave, the echo of her voice still threading through the noise of the room.

For a second, I forget to breathe. Then the printer hums again, and the moment passes— but the warmth stays.