Chapter 1
The Emerald Spotlight
POV: Patricia Eloise Soriano
They say that in college, you need to "come out of your shell." You have to "socialize," "network," and "make memories." But for someone like me—someone who would much rather have a deep conversation with a fictional character than a real person—those words sound like a death sentence.
I’ve always been the girl in the background. If my life were a movie, I wouldn't even be the lead’s best friend; I’d be "Student A" in the credits, the blurred-out figure in the background of a hallway scene. And honestly? I liked it that way. Safe, quiet, and perfectly invisible. My goal at this university was simple: survive four years, get that diploma, and leave without anyone ever knowing my name.
"Pat! Hurry up, girl! The Grand Rally is starting! They say this is the highlight of the week!"
Milk—short for Milkaela Beatrice Gomez—tugged me away from the attendance sheet. She was the only blockmate persistent enough to drag me out of the library. Milk was the definition of a "social butterfly." She was the type who could strike up a friendship with anyone, from the security guard to the stray cat at the canteen. Me? I needed at least three to five business days of mental preparation before engaging in small talk.
"Milk, it’s hot out there. Besides, I’m not even voting, right? We’re just freshmen; we don't care about campus politics yet," I complained, but it was useless. I was like a wet puppy being dragged toward the open field, where students had already packed into every available square inch.
The heat was suffocating. I could feel my t-shirt sticking to my back with sweat. The scent of trampled grass, the heavy cloud of cheap perfume, and the deafening bass of the giant speakers created a sensory overload for my introverted soul. We had been standing there for nearly three hours. I felt drained. My social battery was at 1%, and I just wanted to go home and disappear under my blankets.
We had already sat through two party-list presentations. The first group wore bright blue, screaming their platforms with so much energy it made my head ache. The second was in red, performing a TikTok-style dance number that felt forced, trying way too hard to pander to the freshmen.
I was bored. Beyond exhausted. I kept checking my phone, pretending to read something just to avoid eye contact with anyone who might try to talk to me. I adjusted the strap of my heavy backpack, feeling the small, plush weight of my green frog keychain against my leg. I squeezed it secretly. Just a few more minutes, I whispered to myself. After this, I’m making a run for it.
"And now, for the final presentation..." the host’s voice boomed across the field. "Let’s welcome... the last but definitely not the least... The Vanguard Party!"
The shift in the atmosphere was instantaneous. If the previous crowds were cheering out of politeness, this one was roaring. It was a different kind of energy—like a current of electricity had suddenly surged through the dry grass. People pushed forward, everyone scrambling for a better view.
A group of students in emerald green shirts sprinted onto the stage. They didn't start with a speech; they started with music. It was a powerful, rhythmic beat that vibrated in my chest. At first, they were just a sea of green to me—synchronized moves, bright smiles, and loud chants.
But then, the formation shifted.
The performers split into two, clearing a wide path in the middle of the stage. From the back, a guy stepped forward.
I don’t know why, but the world seemed to stop. The screams of the students doubled—no, tripled—in volume. I was nearly deafened by Milk screaming right next to my ear, but everything else became background noise.
"OH MY GOD! IT’S HIM! IT’S PRANTICE JACE! THE TOP ONE!" Milk shrieked while jumping. On the side of the stage, I could see Drake Austin Villafuerte, the well-known Vice President, standing poised, watching the crowd as if they owned the entire world.
My gaze drifted up to Prantice Jace Valderama, and for the first time that day, I forgot about the heat. When he reached the center of the stage, he didn't look like he was trying to impress anyone. He looked calm. Confident. He was wearing the same green shirt as the others, but on him, it looked... different. Classy. Magnetic.
Then, the music hit a sharp beat, and he moved.
He led the choreography with a natural grace that was honestly frustrating to watch. Every move was precise; every smile was calculated yet felt genuine. He was the center of the universe, and everyone else was just a planet revolving around him. I found my eyes following him—the way his hair moved, the way he looked so at home under the spotlight. He was like the sun: too bright to ignore, but far too distant to reach.
Suddenly, as he executed a turn and faced our specific direction, the music seemed to fade.
He stopped for a split second. A pause in the routine.
In that sea of thousands, amidst the chaos of screaming fans and waving banners, I felt my heart take a weird, violent trip against my ribcage. For some reason, his gaze seemed to land directly where I was standing.
For a heartbeat, the blurred faces of the crowd vanished. The flags, the speakers, the stage—it all fell away. It was just him, looking down from his pedestal. I felt his eyes lock with mine. It was a sharp, intense moment that felt like it lasted an hour.
A shiver ran down my spine despite the afternoon heat.
No way. You’re delusional, Pat. There are thousands of people here. He doesn't see you. He’s just looking at the crowd in general.
I immediately looked away, my face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the sun. I stared down at my shoes, my heart racing as if I had just run a marathon. My hands shook as I clutched my bag.
Who was he? I didn't even know his full name until Milk screamed it. Prantice Jace. It sounded as expensive and intimidating as he looked. I didn’t know his year, his major, or why his presence felt like a heavy weight on my chest. To me, he was just a stranger. A famous, talented, and impossibly handsome stranger who lived in a completely different world than mine.
I’m just the girl who hides in the library. He’s the guy who owns the stage.
I stayed like that—eyes fixed on the ground—until their performance ended. Even when the crowd chanted his name, I didn’t look back at the stage. I felt exposed, even though I knew it was impossible for him to have actually noticed me.
"I hope we never cross paths again," I whispered to myself as Milk finally led me out of the field.
In my mind, Prantice Jace was a danger to my peace. A distraction I didn't need. Someone like him was meant to be admired from a distance, like a star in the sky, not someone you’d actually encounter in real life.
I touched my frog keychain, the fabric soft against my palm. Green, I thought. Why did he have to be wearing green, too?
I wanted to go back to my quiet life. I wanted to be invisible again. But as I walked away from the field, I couldn't shake the feeling that the invisible thread of fate had already started to pull.
And that stranger in the green shirt? He was the one holding the other end.
