España Rains
Chapter 1: España Rains
Manila, July 1990
It began, as many Manila stories do, with rain.
The clouds had been threatening since morning, hanging heavy over the rooftops of Sampaloc, draping the University Belt in a gray veil. By four in the afternoon, the skies broke loose, spilling onto the sidewalks in flow, and the España floodwaters rose like clockwork, claiming the ankles of innocent students and the tires of stranded jeepneys.
Juan Crisologo stood under the shade of the UST Engineering building, his right hand blackened with grease, his left holding a small adjustable wrench. Beside him, his secondhand bicycle — a battered, rust-kissed Japanese model he rebuilt himself — lay on its side, the chain off its cog again.
He sighed. It had been a long day of differential equations, lab work, and a professor who didn’t believe in umbrellas. The rain wasn’t helping.
Just as he leaned down to fit the chain back into place, he heard hurried footsteps and the soft thud of someone slipping on the wet tiles.
“Ay, leche!”
A girl fell — not hard, but enough to drop the books in her arms and slide half a meter across the slick path. Her red canvas sneakers splashed water onto his jeans, and her floral skirt billowed out like a crumpled parachute.
Juan without thinking reached out. “Uy, miss—okay ka lang?”
She groaned, brushing wet hair from her face. “I managed, even though the sidewalk made it worse.”
He blinked. The girl had a face that didn’t belong to chaos — fair skin flushed from the fall, deep brown eyes, and lips that curved naturally upward, even when annoyed. Her bangs were soaked. Her large marketing textbook had landed in a puddle.
“I think your book’s learning how to swim,” Juan said.
She turned, saw the damage, and laughed — an unexpectedly soft, A musical sound touched Juan in a way he didn’t know was possible, warming a part of him even during the storm.
“Marketing 121,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, that’s ₱180 gone forever.”
Juan bent to pick it up and handed it to her. “Not completely. Dry it with a fan. Works on old blueprints.”
She took the book, their fingers brushing for a moment. “Thanks. And sorry about the splash. Did I hit your…bike?”
Juan glanced at it. “It’s used to getting hurt.”
She laugh quietly. “I’m Malaya,” she offered, squeezing out her skirt as gracefully as one could.
“Juan,” he said simply.
She glanced at his hands. “Engineering?”
He nodded. “Mechanical.”
“Ah. Makes sense.” She looked down at the wrench in his hand. “You fix things.”
Juan shrugged. “Try to.”
He wanted to ask Marketing ka?, but she was already nodding toward the rain. “I was on my way to the Commerce building, but I guess I’ll be stuck here a while.”
“You can wait here,” Juan said before thinking. “I mean…if you want.”
She smiled, and it did something to the space between his ribs.
“I wouldn’t mind. Better company than the rain.”
They stood side by side under the narrow roof, strangers but not quite. The rain roared, drowning out most sounds, but between them, something quieter began — something not spoken aloud. Not yet.
Juan glanced at her sideways. She had pulled out a tissue and was gently wiping the pages of her book.
Malaya caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. “So, Juan-the-Mechanic…do you believe in signs?”
He tilted his head. “Like…zodiac?”
She laughed again. “No. Like…this.” She waved at the rain, the bicycle, her fall. “Maybe we weren’t supposed to meet. Or maybe we were.”
Juan looked at the puddles, the wheels of his bike still spinning slowly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But if we were… then I’m glad you tripped.”
She smiled. “That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.”
The rain continued falling, washing over España and carving the beginning of a story neither of them saw coming.
And somewhere — between grease-stained palms and soggy textbooks — a love that didn’t have a name yet was quietly born.
