The end of January crept in with a brittle chill, the kind that made mornings in UP Los Baños feel more like Baguio than Laguna. Carmela wrapped herself tighter in her oversized hoodie, her breath fogging in the dawn air as she walked her usual path around the campus field. The second semester was underway, and though the university buzzed with academic rigor, a quiet, shared anxiety was also beginning to settle in the corners of campus life.
Whispers of a strange virus in China had started to spread among students—just passing mentions in group chats and memes at first—but something about it lingered in Carmela's thoughts. She remembered the news cycles from her past life: how normal everything seemed at first before the world shifted on its axis. It was 2020, and while life was still moving as usual, Carmela's knowledge of what was coming grounded her in a strange mix of urgency and quiet reflection.
Her dorm room had become her sanctuary—walls adorned with family photos and dried leaves from her hometown she had pressed into notebooks. Every space in the small shared room was neatly organized, her books stacked by subject, her planner crowded with to-do lists and long-term goals.
Carmela had grown used to being away from her family. Her mom, dad, and older brother were still back in the province, running the small family farm and sari-sari store. They video called often, and she'd even guided her brother through setting up an Excel sheet for inventory using nothing but Messenger voice notes and annotated screenshots.
But even so, homesickness came in waves—especially after dinner, when she'd lie in bed and think about the clatter of dishes back home, her mother humming folk songs, the evening news blaring from their old TV.
Despite the looming thoughts of a possible pandemic, Carmela was deep into her semester's major project—an upgraded version of her co-op financial tracking app. Her goal was to create a user-friendly platform tailored for rural communities with poor internet connection and minimal tech knowledge. It had gained the attention of Professor Tenorio, who now mentored her regularly.
"Your interface is shaping up well," he told her during a consult. "But I think you're onto something much bigger here, Carmela. Think long-term: this could become a startup."
She nodded, trying not to show how fast her heart was beating. "That's exactly what I hope to do, sir. After graduation, maybe sooner."
Her ambition had become clearer these past months. Not because she wanted fame or fortune, but because she had seen how tech could transform lives—especially the lives of people like her family, like their neighbors who still calculated credit with pencil and paper.
In her free time, she joined webinars about social entrepreneurship, applied for online coding bootcamps, and started a small blog documenting her journey into IT and tech for rural development. Writing had taken a back seat as a full-time dream, but she still carved out moments to post poems or reflections on her blog, which had gained a modest following.
One cold Saturday afternoon, she met Raziel at a small open-air café near the university gate. He had taken the bus from Manila to visit her, like he occasionally did when his schedule allowed it.
He greeted her with a smile and a paper bag.
"Another 3D-printed gift?" she teased.
He grinned and handed it over. Inside was a mini planter made of recycled filament, shaped like a robot.
"You're growing," he said. "You need something to remind you to breathe and slow down."
She smiled at him. There was something unshakable about Raziel. He never pressed her for more than she could give. He simply stayed. Supported. Waited.
They talked for hours, about everything—from Carmela's app to Raziel's freelance software gigs and the growing unease he felt with news of lockdowns happening abroad. Unlike Treize, who had once scoffed at Carmela's intensity, Raziel met her curiosity with his own.
"You really think this virus will reach here?" he asked.
Carmela nodded slowly. "I think it's already here. Just... not fully visible yet. We should prepare."
Raziel took her words seriously. They brainstormed what remote study and work might look like. He even helped her set up a backup server for her app prototype.
Later that evening, as they walked under the acacia trees near Carabao Park, Raziel said, "You always think ahead. That's what I admire most."
Carmela looked at him, emotions swirling. "I have to. I know how fast things can change."
They stood quietly for a while, watching the sky turn lavender.
"I'll be here, you know," he added. "Wherever you need me. Whether that's in person or... over Zoom."
Carmela laughed, brushing his hand lightly with hers. "We'll figure it out."
In her dorm that night, she sat by the window with her journal, pen in hand.
*"The past taught me what loss looks like. The present is teaching me what hope feels like. And the future—well, I'm not waiting for it to surprise me this time. I'm building it myself."*
January ended with more caution than celebration. Hand sanitizers popped up at dorm entrances. Posters about washing hands and flu prevention became common. Rumors of an outbreak in Metro Manila surfaced in their group chats.
But Carmela didn't panic. She planned.
She drafted backup strategies for her project. She advised her mother to stock up lightly on supplies, just in case. She started researching how online classes might be implemented, remembering how in her previous life, everything had shut down in March.
And even as uncertainty loomed, she felt a strange calm.
She was no longer the girl swept away by what life threw at her. She was a woman with knowledge, experience, and choices.
The storm hadn't arrived yet.
But this time, Carmela was ready.