Azra's POV
I pulled my modest sedan into the small gravel parking lot of San Miguel University, thankful that my father had finally let me drive it. Stepping out into the early morning, I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine and freshly cut grass. The sun was just starting to rise, casting a soft, golden glow over the aging brick buildings of the university. They weren't grand or polished, but there was something inspiring about them. It was a quiet resilience, a kind of strength that didn't need validation.
San Miguel wasn't prestigious. It didn't have the grandeur of the private schools and universities my siblings attended or the family names engraved in plaques along its walls. But here, I'd found a sense of purpose I'd never quite felt in the elegant, carefully manicured spaces of my childhood.
Crossing the courtyard, my heels clicked softly on the pavement. I noticed a few students near the Humanities Department, exchanging shy nods and occasional waves as I passed by. They called me "Miss Amarante" or even "Professor Dream"—a nickname I'd never quite understood, though I supposed it was either for my way of teaching or my habit of drifting into thought. I didn't mind the distance between us; it allowed me to focus on what mattered—guiding them into worlds of words and ideas.
In my office, I settled in and began sorting through the books and papers I'd prepared the night before. Today, I would introduce them to the writings of José Rizal, whose idealism and commitment to his people resonated deeply with me. Rizal had dedicated himself to education as a form of empowerment, and I hoped to carry that same message into my teaching.
Just as I was preparing my notes, a knock at my door brought me back to the present. I looked up to see Mateo, one of my more dedicated students, shyly poking his head inside.
"Miss Amarante?" he asked, voice tentative. "I wanted to check if you'll still have time for the literature club meeting after class?"
I smiled, a warmth in my chest. "Of course, Mateo. I'm looking forward to it. Did you bring something new to share?"
His face lit up, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, ma'am! I've been working on a poem."
"Wonderful. I can't wait to hear it." He gave a quick nod before disappearing down the hall, his excitement adding a small spark to my morning.
But as soon as I turned back to my desk, my phone buzzed—a message from Celia. I hesitated, already guessing what it might say, but read it anyway:
"Don't forget the family dinner on Saturday. Mom's planning something big, and she wants us all there. Please don't be 'teaching' this time. xoxo."
I sighed, fingers hovering over the screen as I considered my reply. Family dinners at the Amarante estate were always elaborate affairs, with a guest list as polished as the silverware. I loved my family and cherished the few times we all gathered together, but each occasion served as a reminder of the life I'd chosen to step away from—the expectations I hadn't met.
"Understood," I replied simply and set my phone aside just as the bell for the first period rang. Gathering my materials, I smoothed down my dress and made my way to the classroom. When I walked in, a hush fell over the students as they turned their attention to me, their faces a mix of awe and expectation.
"Good morning, everyone," I greeted them. "Today, we'll be discussing Rizal's Noli Me Tangere. Some of you may have read it before, but I encourage you to approach it with fresh eyes. Every time we read, we find something new."
As I began my lecture, my gaze fell on the back row, where a new face sat—a young man whose polished appearance stood out. His intense gaze was fixed on me, a small smile playing at his lips. I noticed the confident set of his shoulders and the way he seemed comfortable, as though he'd seen the world already and knew his place in it.
After class, he approached my desk while the other students filtered out.
"Professor Amarante," he greeted me with a polite smile. "I'm Marco. Marco Villareal. I just transferred here from the city."
"Welcome to San Miguel University, Marco," I said, matching his smile with one of my own. "Are you joining us for literature?"
"Yes," he nodded, eyes steady. "I actually signed up because I heard about your class. They say you're the best professor here."
I raised an eyebrow, surprised by his straightforwardness. "Flattery won't get you extra credit, Marco."
He chuckled. "Not looking for extra credit, ma'am. Just the chance to learn from someone who left the city for something…different."
There it was—a challenge, unspoken but clear. It wasn't unusual for students to be curious about my background, but few brought it up so directly. I regarded him, weighing my response.
"I believe there's value in places like San Miguel," I replied. "And I hope that's something I can help you all discover."
He nodded thoughtfully, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "I look forward to it, Professor."
As he walked away, I felt an unexpected ripple of intrigue. It wasn't often I met someone who could so deftly stir up questions in me I'd thought I'd already answered.
Heading down the hall to the literature club, I pushed the morning's events aside, though a quiet thrill lingered in my mind. I had chosen this life—simple, unassuming, and free from the expectations of my family's world. Or so I thought.
The literature club met in an old classroom tucked away in a quieter wing of the campus. The members—a small but passionate group—were a mix of students from different years, each drawn by their love for words. Mateo sat eagerly near the front, his face lighting up as I entered.
"Good afternoon, everyone," I greeted, settling in at the desk. "How's everyone doing?"
There were murmurs of excitement. These meetings were one of the few places they could explore their ideas without worrying about grades. It was a freedom I cherished as much as they did.
"Mateo mentioned he has a poem to share," I said, glancing at him.
He blushed, glanced down at his notebook, and began reading. His words captured a struggle I understood all too well—a meditation on belonging and identity, the divide between his family's world and his own aspirations. When he finished, the room fell silent.
"That was beautiful, Mateo," I said, my voice warm with admiration. "Thank you for sharing that."
A few students nodded, and one even gave Mateo a pat on the back. These were the moments I lived for—the quiet, powerful connections that only literature could create. Here, I felt I'd made the right choice, one that my family might never truly understand.
When the meeting ended, I checked my phone, expecting another reminder from Celia. But instead, it was from my mother.
"Azra, darling, don't forget about your fitting on Friday. I've designed something special for you. You'll love it."
A frown creased my brow. My mother's fittings were beautiful but carried the weight of expectation, a reminder of the polished, refined world she wanted me to embrace. I typed a quick reply:
"I'll be there, Mom. Thanks."
As I left the club room, my thoughts drifted to my family and the inevitable pull they always seemed to have. No matter how far I tried to drift, they were always there—a weight I couldn't fully shed.
That evening, as I walked back toward my office, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Marco, strolling with his hands in his pockets and an unreadable look in his eyes.
"Mind if I walk with you, Professor Amarante?"
I nodded. "Of course. How's San Miguel so far?"
"It's…different," he said after a moment. "But there's a simplicity here that I like."
I felt his gaze on me. "I wanted to ask…why here? Why did you choose this place?"
I looked at him, considering the weight of his question. "To make a difference," I replied. "I believe there's value in finding one's own path, no matter where it leads."
Marco nodded, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Thank you for sharing, Professor."
As I watched him walk away, his words echoed softly in my mind.