The afternoon class resumed with a familiar tone—introductions. But unlike the usual name-age-hobby routine, this time, the teacher decided to shake things up. Each student was handed a sheet of paper divided into nine boxes. The first three were labeled with hobbies: singing, dancing, and drawing. The next three asked for favorite colors: blue, pink, and black. The final three listed birthplaces: Center, City, and Barangay.
The goal was simple—fill each box with the name of a classmate who matched that category. That meant asking questions, interacting, and breaking through the awkwardness of being new. It was a clever way to get everyone talking.
The classroom buzzed with energy. Groups formed, laughter echoed, and the quiet ones were pulled into conversations whether they liked it or not. Even those who didn't feel like socializing had to play along to avoid seeming aloof or arrogant. After all, it was just the first day. Appearances mattered.
As the papers slowly filled, some students got more strategic—targeting the boxes they needed, jumping from person to person. A few used it as an opportunity to start friendships. And then there were those who seemed to already know half the room, casually collecting names with ease.
By the time the bell rang for lunch, the class felt more alive than it had that morning.
Outside, the sun was at its peak—relentless and unkind. The concrete shimmered under its heat. With her umbrella in hand, she stepped into the blazing light, unfazed by the curious glances of those she passed. This time, she didn't care. Her mind was preoccupied with something far more important: food.
She walked home at a calm, unhurried pace. After lunch, she took a quick shower and changed into something more fitting for the afternoon. The heat demanded comfort, but she never sacrificed style. She wore a soft strapless dress, layered with a loose, light-colored long-sleeved cover-up. White rubber shoes completed the look—simple but coordinated. Her hair was tied into a high ponytail with soft curls bouncing at the ends. One last look in the mirror confirmed she was ready. She grabbed her umbrella, slung her bag over her shoulder, and made her way back to school.
She arrived ten minutes early, walking with grace and quiet confidence. The schoolyard was alive with the sound of basketballs hitting pavement, shoes squeaking, and the occasional burst of cheering. The boys were playing in the heat as if the sun didn't exist. She admired their energy, even if she thought they were borderline insane for playing under such intense sun.
A few students lounged under trees, watching the game from the shade. Others stood on the terrace that overlooked the court. As she reached the school gate and closed her umbrella, she felt eyes turn toward her again. This time, she figured it must be her outfit—something a little different from the usual. But she didn't flinch or slow down. She walked straight into the classroom, placed her bag on the desk, and sat down to rest.
Fifteen minutes of walking under the sun had earned her a quiet moment.
To pass the time, she pulled out a book on stocks and investments—a personal interest she didn't share with many. Most students her age weren't into financial strategy, but she enjoyed learning about it. There was something calming about numbers and future planning.
Outside, the bell rang.
The classroom door opened as the boys who had been playing basketball streamed in, their faces flushed from heat and exertion. She didn't look up from her book, completely immersed.
But they noticed her.
All of them.
In the corner of the room sat a girl—fresh, radiant, and composed. Her dress swayed gently with the breeze from the window, and the strands of her curled ponytail danced in the light. It was a sight that caught everyone off guard.
Some were impressed. Others were awestruck.
She didn't even realize it.
One of the boys, Darren, hesitated as he walked to his seat beside her. The contrast between them couldn't have been more obvious. He still smelled of sweat and sun, while she exuded the clean, light scent of bath soap and soft perfume. He considered switching seats—but the teacher entered before he could make a move.
The teacher paused, scanning the room.
"You boys," he said, eyeing the group who had just sat down. "You shouldn't overdo it with basketball during lunch. It's not just about your comfort—your classmates and even your teacher might mind."
A collective "Yes, sir," echoed in response.
The teacher wasn't done.
"And aren't you embarrassed coming in like that while your classmate over here"—he gestured subtly in her direction—"is looking fresh and fragrant? You should know better."
There were chuckles and sheepish grins, and a few more "Yes, sir" responses.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a series of short introductions and class briefings. Teachers walked in and out, establishing rules and routines. Before long, it was nearly time to go home—but not quite.
Cleaning time.
Ma'am Chrisnela arrived in the last few minutes to assign duties.
"Our area of responsibility is the school grounds," she announced. "Make sure all trash is properly disposed of before leaving. You can get your cleaning tools from the back of the room."
"Yes, ma'am," the class chorused, then began their tasks.
While she was sweeping the area near the front gate, a small group of girls approached her.
"Carmela, your clothes are really nice," one said shyly.
She smiled. "Thank you."
"Can we ask… where did you buy them?"
"I don't mind. I actually got them while I was on vacation in C City," she replied casually.
"C City? That's pretty far. No wonder. Your clothes are beautiful, Carmela. Too bad we can't buy the same."
"Yes, too bad."
But deep down, she knew something they didn't. Those clothes? They weren't available in any store—even in C City. She had made them herself.
Inspired by future fashion trends from a life she remembered, she used a weaving machine to create pieces no one else could replicate. Her grandmother, Susie, had taught her the art of weaving. Once she mastered it, she started borrowing the machine to bring her designs to life.
In a way, her wardrobe was her armor. In her past life, she had always wanted to dress like this but never had the confidence. Now, she could wear what she wanted, express herself, and feel proud doing so.
The compliments were flattering—but they couldn't copy her. Not completely. Her fashion was rooted in a future they hadn't seen.
As the sun dipped lower and the first day of class came to an end, she felt content. She had left a strong impression—not just with her clothes, but with her presence.
Moving forward, she promised herself she would stay true to who she was. No more shrinking back. No more letting the expectations of others control her choices.
She would follow the rules, of course. After all, getting expelled for wearing a dress would be absurd.
But within those rules, she would carve her own path—bold, bright, and entirely hers.
This time, she would live the life she had once only dreamed of.
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