In the summer of 2004, Quezon City, Philippines, was a bustling hub where students from across Asia flocked to learn English at a bargain, and private education came at a price families could afford. The dry season stretched long, making every step on the street feel like the sun was pressing down hard enough to turn pale skin to bronze.

 Kids played hopscotch barefoot, while boys spent their afternoons shooting hoops beneath the sprawling oak trees draped in Spanish moss, the sound of their laughter mingling with the scent of warm asphalt and the thick perfume parents doused on their children before sending them off.

Malls were the heartbeat of the city, a refuge from the heat and a social ground for those seeking leisure in the limited ways available back then—teledramas, PC cafes, and imported culture through movies and games just beginning to trickle in from overseas. For most, the options to socialize were limited to the local neighborhoods, churches, and those familiar storefronts in every mall.

I often found myself among local Buddhist monks, surrounded by Korean, Japanese, and Chinese folk, despite being enrolled in a Catholic school. My mother, fascinated by charms and traditions from different Asian cultures, dragged me along to visit these monks. 

While religion didn’t captivate me, the monks' kindness did—they shared their culture and stories, and though they couldn’t draw or write in public, we exchanged tales of integrity, love, and kindness through spoken word. Those visits were a world apart from the Catholic environment of my school, where bickering between Catholics and Protestants felt commonplace, and the kids often seemed unruly.

"Do you ever get tired of it?" I'd asked my aunt one afternoon, Bible in one hand, poetry book in the other. She just smiled, her eyes twinkling in that way that said she knew something I didn't.

"Every tradition has its beauty," she said softly. "You just have to find what speaks to you."

School was another story. I was often cast as a writer or an orator for speech events that I didn’t enjoy—memorizing lines felt like a chore, but the adults found it charming. My mother was thrilled whenever I won medals, and my father, always the pragmatist, saw it as practice for something greater.

Our school, a bastion of Catholic tradition run by Franciscan nuns, was a place where uniformity was paramount. Every morning, we were herded into the grand auditorium, a cavernous space with towering ceilings and intricate stained glass windows. There, we would sing hymns, recite prayers, and listen to sermons that often felt like hours long.

But for those who weren’t Catholic, the auditorium was a place to be avoided. The school had a peculiar policy: if you weren’t Catholic, you weren’t obligated to attend the religious services. However, instead of being excused entirely, you were consigned to a solitary room, supervised by a single teacher. It was a lonely and isolating experience, a stark contrast to the communal atmosphere of the auditorium.

I, a Catholic, found myself in this predicament. The thought of being alone in a room for an entire hour filled me with dread. But I was also terrified of the auditorium’s towering staircase. The sheer height and steep incline sent shivers down my spine.

Determined to avoid both the isolation and the vertigo, I devised a plan. I would pretend to be a Protestant. The Protestant students were allowed to attend a separate religious service in the auditorium, and I figured that if I could blend in with them, I could avoid the solitary confinement.

I never believed in gods. Not in the way my mother did, clutching her rosary beads in the dim glow of candlelight, whispering prayers that never seemed to reach where they were meant to go. My brother had been the first to pull the curtain back, introducing me to Athena, Hercules, and Zeus, to Buddha and Sun Wukong, myths and legends that belonged to a time before we were even dust. It unraveled something in me. If gods could exist in such abundance, if divinity could be worn in so many forms, then what was the truth? Or worse—was there any truth at all?

Lying about being Protestant was, in hindsight, a poor decision. I’d done it on a whim, a small rebellion laced with an even smaller sense of amusement. My Muslim friends and I, knowing full well the consequences, signed ourselves up for a service we had no intention of attending. Detention was a certainty. A sermon on Jesus and the saints was a given. And yet, there was something satisfying in knowing we’d manipulated the system, if only for a moment.

With a mixture of courage and trepidation, I joined the Protestant group. As we entered the auditorium, I pretended to be familiar with the hymns and prayers. I sang along, albeit quietly, and tried to mimic the gestures and expressions of the other students.

To my surprise, it worked. No one seemed to notice that I was an imposter. The Protestant service was a stark contrast to the Catholic one. Instead of solemn hymns and Latin prayers, we sang upbeat gospel songs and engaged in lively discussions. I found myself enjoying the experience. The music was uplifting, and the atmosphere was far more relaxed than the stuffy formality of the Catholic service.

From then on, I continued to attend the Protestant service. It became a refuge for me, a place where I could escape the rigid confines of Catholic tradition. And though I knew I was technically lying, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at having found a way to navigate the school’s strict rules and find a sense of belonging.

Then came the day she walked into my life—a girl shy of 13, just like me. Yongsun Kim, or Michelle as she preferred in English, stood nervously at the front of the classroom, clutching an ornate pendant from her hometown in Gangseo-gu, Korea, just south of the Han River. Mrs. Saladinan, our teacher, urged us to talk to her, to make her feel welcome. I couldn’t help but wonder what brought her all the way to Manila, to this humid city where the language was foreign, and the culture was just as distant.

Yongsun, a delicate flower from Korea's affluent suburbs, was sent to the Philippines by her doting parents. Her family, a lineage of lawyers and educators, had decided that a stint in the tropics would be the perfect way to immerse her in a new culture while honing her English skills. After all, what better place to learn a language than in a country where it’s spoken fluently?

And so, the young heiress found herself in the care of her grandparents, who had retired to the idyllic countryside. While the experience was undoubtedly enriching, Yongsun couldn’t shake the feeling of being a fish out of water. Her shyness and limited English made it difficult for her to connect with the locals.

To her delight, however, she discovered a hidden gem: the pristine beaches of the Philippines. The warm, turquoise waters and soft, golden sands were a far cry from the bustling metropolis she was accustomed to. Yongsun was eager to explore this new world and learn to swim, but her fear of water held her back.

"Do you want to sit with us?" I asked, my voice hesitant, yet hopeful.

She nodded, her smile shy but genuine. "Yes, thank you."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I wasn’t sure why, but I felt drawn to her. Maybe it was her gentle demeanor or the way she lit up when she spoke in her broken English. We bonded quickly over shared chicken strips in the canteen, a language barrier that seemed less daunting with each passing day.

Yong was different. I didn’t know it at first. To me, she was another face in the blur of adolescence, another student trying to find her place. But she became my angel. We haunted the same corners of the city, sharing meals that made my stomach ache from too much laughter, talking endlessly about the worlds we wished we belonged to—kingdoms of swords and sorcery, of warriors and magic. Her broken English was endearing, but to me, it was more than that. It made her seem like a real sorcerer, her words half-incantations, half-mysteries waiting to be unraveled. She hated that comparison. It annoyed her to no end. So, one day, I spun her a story—a tale of a mute princess whose voice could only be restored by a kiss. She rolled her eyes, laughed, and hugged me instead. "You are silly," she said, but she never stopped listening.

One day, she approached me with a hopeful glint in her eye, asking if I would join her in swimming lessons. My heart skipped a beat. I was terrified of water myself, but the thought of helping Yongsun overcome her fear was too enticing to resist.

"You like Harry Potter?" I asked, catching sight of the book she was holding. Her eyes sparkled as she nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes! But... hard to read," she admitted, her accent thick but endearing. "Can you help?"

"Of course," I replied, smiling. "We can read it together."

One day, Mrs. Saladinan, our stern yet compassionate teacher, took me aside. She expressed concern about my grades, a gentle nudge to strive for higher achievements. Her words, though delivered with a gentle touch, carried the weight of expectation. She proposed a challenge: if I could help Yongsun improve her grades, she would personally see to it that I became an honor student.

The prospect of academic excellence was alluring, but it meant sacrificing time with my friends, Al and Ryan. They understood my dilemma, their friendship a comforting balm in the face of my decision. Yet, another layer of complexity was added when Alyana and Aimee, two classmates who shared a school bus with Yongsun, began spending more time with her.

Yongsun, ever the loyal companion, was reluctant to let me drift away. She held onto my arm with a possessive grip, her eyes pleading for my undivided attention. Her shyness, a constant companion, made her even more clingy. She wanted me to be hers and hers alone, her first and only friend. Our peers found our inseparable bond amusing, but I was determined to honor her wishes.

To ensure that I could spend more time with Yongsun, I approached my mother with a request: an increase in my allowance. Back then, a hundred pesos was a substantial sum, a small fortune that could buy countless treats and toys. But I had a different purpose in mind. With the extra money, I purchased English and Korean language textbooks, hoping to accelerate Yongsun's learning.

Together, we spent countless hours at the library, Mrs. Orosco, the kindly librarian, guiding us through the Dewey Decimal System. I read aloud from fantasy and romance novels, my voice a soothing melody that helped Yongsun grasp the nuances of the English language. Aimee, the class president, joined our study sessions, her intelligence and leadership skills proving invaluable.

She taught me Hangul, her handwriting careful and deliberate as she guided my hands over the unfamiliar strokes. I, in turn, taught her cursive, the looping letters foreign beneath her fingertips. Of everyone in our world, she was the only one who never looked down on me for being middle class. The only one who played with me like it didn’t matter. And because of that, I thought the world of her.

From then on, our conversations flowed—halting at times but always filled with warmth. We spoke of many things: math, writing, dreams, and the peculiarities of our cultures. Though her English was limited, and I stumbled through her language as well, our voices carried the same loud enthusiasm and a humor that not everyone around us understood.

"I like painting too," she once told me, her fingers sketching invisible lines in the air as she described her latest project. "But... no good at it."

I laughed, shaking my head. "I'm sure you're better than you think."

She shrugged, smiling at my encouragement, and I couldn’t help but think how she made everything seem brighter. Yongsun wasn’t just another girl; she was kind and selfless in ways that made the rest of us seem selfish by comparison. She was the type who would pull weeds from a neighbor's garden without being asked or stop traffic to help kids cross the road. Every glance from her made me feel guilty for not being more like her, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.

One afternoon, sitting in the shade of a tree with the sun casting dappled patterns on her face, I finally asked, "Do you really want to learn English, Yongsun?"

She nodded, her expression earnest. "Yes, it's why I came here. I want to go back and help my family... and I want to talk to you."

Those words stayed with me, carved into the deepest corners of my heart. She looked forward to our meetings as much as she looked forward to talking to her sister over email each night—something I didn’t fully understand, having never used a computer. But through her, I learned the importance of telling people you miss them, that you love them. She told me I was her reason for never missing a day at school, and from that day, I vowed never to be absent either.

We lived just two blocks from each other, and though I was too embarrassed to have her visit my home, we spent hours talking on the phone. I cherished the time but sometimes felt overwhelmed by her constant presence.

"Do you think people think we're... you know, together?" I asked one day, feeling the blush rise to my cheeks.

She giggled, the sound like music. "Maybe. But I don’t mind."

Her words made my heart race. I wasn’t sure if it was love, but it was something close, something that made every day feel a little brighter, a little more full of promise. We became inseparable—she would buy me flowers, small gifts, and even share her Meiji chocolates with me in the playground. The teasing from our friends about us being more than friends only made us laugh.

There was a time when we raced our Tamiyas at my house, pushing them to the limit, the thrill of speed making our hearts race just as fast. When the inevitable happened, when the teachers found out and confiscated one, she gave hers up instead. "I let go mine so Auntie not scold us," she whispered, hugging me tightly. And in that moment, I knew—she wasn’t just a friend. She was something more. Something irreplaceable.

And just like that, our bond grew deeper. We were fast friends, each other’s confidants, and I knew that no matter where life took us, I’d always hold onto the memory of those days in Quezon City. The girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, who wasn’t afraid to be different, who taught me that even in the simplest moments, there was a world of meaning waiting to be discovered.

One evening, as we sat beneath the canopy of a blossoming mango tree, our hearts entwined in the soft glow of the setting sun, Yongsun and I shared stories of our families. She spoke of her older sister, a bright young girl navigating the challenges of middle school in Korea. A pang of envy washed over her as she listened to my tales of family life.

"It must be wonderful to live with your parents," she sighed, her voice tinged with longing.

I hesitated, my mind drifting back to the early days of my childhood. "We are a family of four," I replied, my tone subdued. "But my siblings and I... we’re not very close."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Why?"

I explained how our busy parents had entrusted our upbringing to our aunts, effectively dividing our family into separate households. Yongsun nodded, her expression a mirror of my own.

"I understand," she said softly. "My grandparents raised me. I was lucky to find you."

A warmth spread through my chest. "We could be family," I suggested, my voice filled with hope. "I see you as my own."

Her eyes sparkled with gratitude. "I would love to meet your family," she replied, her voice a gentle whisper. "I’ve already met your mother, but I want to know the others."

Intrigued by her desire to learn more about my culture, I encouraged her to share stories of her own. She regaled me with tales of Korean folklore, her voice weaving intricate tapestries of mythical creatures and heroic deeds. I was particularly captivated by the tragic love story of Chunyang and Mongryong, a tale that filled me with a profound sense of sadness.

"I would never let anything like that happen to you," I vowed, my heart aching for her.

Her cheeks flushed a rosy hue as she smiled, her eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and affection. "Write our own fairytale someday," she suggested, her voice barely a whisper.

I chuckled, my heart fluttering with a sense of anticipation. "It’s too early for that," I replied, my voice playful. "But perhaps one day..."

"Come to my house," she invited one day, her eyes hopeful. "Meet my grandmother. She wants to know the boy who makes me smile."

And in that moment, I knew I would do anything to keep that smile alive.