Chapter 2 Unspoken Curiosity
1295 Words
San Rafael, 1991 — Joshua’s Perspective
The heat in San Rafael had a way of pressing down on everything—on rooftops, on shoulders, on thoughts. Joshua Escultor wiped the sweat from his brow as he stepped out of the tricycle, his sketchpad tucked under one arm. The Alcántara house stood quietly at the end of the lane, its white paint faded by sun and time. He’d been here more often than he cared to admit, under the pretense of working on a school project with Clarisse.
But it wasn’t Clarisse who lingered in his thoughts.
It was Malliah.
He didn’t understand it at first. She was younger—barely fourteen—and quiet to the point of invisibility. But there was something about her presence that unsettled him most gently. She didn’t try to impress. She didn’t flirt or tease or perform. She simply existed, like a poem written in a language he hadn’t yet learned to read.
He walked up the steps and knocked. Clarisse answered, her smile bright and familiar.
“You’re early,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.
“I wanted to finish the layout before the weekend,” Joshua replied, setting his sketchpad on the table.
Clarisse chatted as she gathered her notes, but Joshua’s eyes drifted toward the hallway. He wondered if Malliah was in her room, curled up with a book, lost in some faraway world. He’d caught glimpses of her like that—knees tucked under her, hair falling like a curtain, lips slightly parted as she read. It was a kind of intimacy he didn’t know how to approach.
“Malliah’s probably hiding again,” Clarisse said, noticing his glance. “She’s always like that. Books, books, books.”
Joshua smiled politely, but something in him bristled. It wasn’t just books. It was the way Malliah listened when no one thought she was listening. The way she looked at the world was both beautiful and dangerous. He wanted to understand that gaze.
They worked for an hour, sketching old church facades and annotating architectural features. Clarisse was animated, tossing ideas around, laughing at her own jokes. Joshua nodded, contributed, but his mind kept drifting.
At one point, he excused himself to get water. In the kitchen, he found Malliah standing by the sink, rinsing a glass. She turned when she saw him, startled.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“Hi,” Joshua replied, suddenly unsure of himself.
She nodded, drying her hands on a towel.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
“You didn’t.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator filling the space between them.
“What are you reading these days?” he asked.
Malliah hesitated. “A book about stars. And loneliness.”
Joshua tilted his head. “That sounds… heavy.”
She shrugged. “It’s quiet. Like me.”
He smiled. “I don’t think quiet is a bad thing.”
She looked at him then—really looked—and Joshua felt something shift. It wasn’t an attraction in the usual sense. It was recognition. Like two people who’d been walking parallel paths and suddenly realized they were heading the same way.
“I should go,” she said, stepping past him.
“Malliah,” he said before she disappeared.
She paused.
“I like the way you see things.”
She didn’t respond, but he saw the faintest ghost smile ghost across her lips before she turned the corner.
Joshua stood there for a long time, the glass of water untouched in his hand.
Joshua didn’t return to the Alcántara house for several days. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he needed space to think. His feelings for Malliah had crept in like a slow tide, and now they were lapping at the edges of his conscience, refusing to recede.
He sat in his room one evening, sketchpad open, pencil hovering over the page. But instead of architectural lines and angles, he found himself drawing her—Malliah beneath the mango tree, her braid falling over her shoulder, her eyes lost in a book. He shaded the contours of her face with care, capturing the softness of her expression, the quiet intensity of her gaze.
He stared at the sketch for a long time.
She was fourteen.
He was eighteen.
It wasn’t wrong to admire someone’s spirit, he told himself. It wasn’t wrong to feel connected to someone’s soul. But it was dangerous to let those feelings grow unchecked. Malliah deserved space to become who she was meant to be. She deserved time, freedom, innocence.
And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He remembered the way she’d said, “It’s quiet. Like me.” He remembered the way her fingers had trembled when he handed her the envelope. He remembered the smile that had flickered across her lips when he told her he liked the way she saw things.
He wanted to protect that smile.
He wanted to protect her.
But he also knew he had to leave.
His departure was set for the following week. Manila awaited—university, internships, the beginning of a life he’d worked hard to earn. He should be excited. He should be focused. But all he could think about was the girl he was leaving behind.
He decided to write.
Not a love letter. Not a confession. Just a note—something honest, something gentle.
Malliah, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll have the courage to give it to you. But I wanted to say thank you. For being exactly who you are. For reminding me that quiet doesn’t mean empty. That stillness can be full of meaning. You’ve made me see the world differently. And that’s something I’ll carry with me, wherever I go. Take care of your stars. And your loneliness. They’re beautiful. —Joshua
He folded the note carefully and slipped it into an envelope. He didn’t seal it. He wasn’t sure if he’d leave it behind or take it with him.
The next day, he returned to the Alcántara house one last time.
The Alcántara house looked the same, but everything felt different.
Joshua stood at the gate for a moment, fingers brushing the envelope in his pocket. The mango tree swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows across the yard. He could hear laughter from inside—Malliah’s brothers, probably. The sound was warm, familiar, and bittersweet.
Malliah was in the garden, crouched beside a row of marigolds. She looked up when she saw him, her face lighting up in surprise. “You came back,” she said, brushing dirt from her hands.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” Joshua replied, his voice steady, too steady.
She nodded, eyes searching his face. “You’re leaving soon.”
“Tomorrow.”
They walked together beneath the mango tree, the silence between them filled with everything they couldn’t say. Joshua wanted to tell her how much she’d meant to him. How her quiet strength had changed him. How her presence had made the summer feel like something sacred.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he handed her a small notebook. “For your stars,” he said. “And your thoughts?”
Malliah opened it slowly, fingers tracing the first page. There, in careful handwriting, was the note he’d written. She read it silently, lips pressed together, eyes shimmering.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t need to.
Joshua reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Take care, Malliah.”
Then he turned and walked away.
She watched him go, notebook clutched to her chest, the marigolds blooming quietly behind her.
- Writer
