The student council chamber at the University of Manila was nothing short of overbuilt. Mahogany panels lined the walls, as if they were debating international treaties, not club funding. A framed portrait of Principal Shepherd hung slightly crooked behind the podium, watching the room with the glazed detachment of a man who hadn't read a student policy since 2003.
At precisely 8:45 AM, Jamie stepped into the chamber, heels muted against the polished floor. Her appearance was characteristically sharp: slate-gray blazer, black trousers, minimal makeup, hair tied back with surgical precision. She walked like someone who owned the floor before anyone else entered.
She placed her documents on the central table—handouts, color-coded charts, and two backup copies of the council bylaws. A simple click on her tablet activated the projector. Behind her, the title slide appeared:
"Fiscal Transparency and Structural Reform Initiative – Draft 1.3"
Jamie exhaled. Clean. Clear. Predictable.
One by one, council members trickled in—some groggy, some gossiping about prom night, most pretending they hadn't watched the rooftop video clip at least five times. Stephanie entered with a thermos and earbuds, nodded at Jamie, and took her place by the media seat.
"Jamie," said Thea, sitting beside her, "your slides are intimidating."
"They're slides, not shurikens," Jamie replied.
"That's not a denial."
At 9:02, the doors opened again.
He walked in like he owned the airspace. Untucked shirt, navy jacket slung over his shoulder, coffee in one hand, student council ID hanging loosely from his neck. Bernard. He looked relaxed, dangerously so. Like a student who hadn't studied but somehow knew he'd pass.
"Nice turnout," he said, flashing a grin at no one in particular.
Jamie didn't look up from her notes.
He sat three chairs down from her, greeted a few members with casual nods, and leaned back like the chair was a hammock. His coffee lid hissed open. He took a long sip and let out a contented "ahh" that echoed too far.
At 9:05, Mrs. Jackson walked in, dragging a trolley with a squeaky wheel. She wore a pearl green blazer and an expression that said she'd rather be watching Murder, She Wrote.
"Let's begin," she croaked, smacking her gavel. "Agenda: new fiscal proposal and debate on club funding structure."
Jamie stood. "Thank you, Mrs. Jackson. As co-president, I'm submitting a reform initiative intended to promote budget transparency, equalize student org allocations, and align our disbursement model with measurable outcomes."
She passed out folders. Bernard flipped his open and stared blankly.
"My proposal involves merit-based assessments, quarterly disclosures, and council accountability for all active funds." Her voice was crisp, her delivery clean. "If adopted, this plan will reduce waste by twenty percent."
One of the council members—Marco from the robotics club—raised a hand. "And how do you define 'merit'?"
"By engagement, performance, community contribution, and attendance metrics," Jamie answered immediately.
"So... spreadsheets," said Bernard, still leaning back.
Jamie turned slightly. "Systems."
"Spreadsheets," he repeated, louder this time. "You're giving every club a performance review?"
Jamie held her gaze. "You gave a live concert at prom without a permit."
"That wasn't a concert. That was a mercy interruption."
The room chuckled. Jamie's jaw didn't move.
Mrs. Jackson cleared her throat. "Please allow counterpoints after initial presentation."
Jamie clicked her remote. "As shown on slide three, the data suggests—"
"I have an alternate proposal," Bernard said, standing slowly.
Jamie narrowed her eyes.
"No offense to the numbers," he began, "but most of the clubs that need help the most are the ones that look bad on paper. The chess club? Four members. But they coach local public schools for free. The beatbox group? Technically broke, but their last collab went viral."
A few council members nodded. Arnie whispered, "He's gonna improvise this whole thing."
"I say we do a three-month trial period," Bernard continued. "We keep the current funding system, but let clubs apply for Jamie's merit fund as a supplement. Not as a replacement."
Jamie's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing yet.
Bernard picked up one of her handouts. "This is good. It's just... cold. Let's see it work before we overhaul everything."
Mrs. Jackson blinked. "So, your motion is to test her policy as a secondary funding model?"
"Exactly. Real-world application. Like a beta version."
Jamie exhaled through her nose. "That introduces redundancy. Chaos. And subjective favoritism."
Bernard gestured to the room. "Or it introduces breathing room."
Jamie stepped forward. "You just undermined the entire reform by labeling it optional. You can't call it a test and expect participation."
He met her eyes. "Why not?"
"Because people need structure, not hand-holding."
"And maybe they need both."
The room quieted. Even Stephanie looked up.
Jamie turned back to the screen and closed the presentation. "Then let's vote."
Mrs. Jackson raised an eyebrow. "No closing arguments?"
Jamie's voice was firm. "Let the work speak for itself."
Bernard smirked. "That's what I'm afraid of."
As the voting ballots were passed out, the tension in the room hung like static. The room had stopped being a student council session. It was a war room.
Jamie didn't look at Bernard.
He didn't look away from her.
----
The ballots were counted quickly—handwritten slips passed forward, eyes darting around the chamber like it was a poker table and someone just went all in. Mrs. Jackson squinted at the results and made a noise like a hiccup and a sigh mated halfway through.
"We're tied," she announced. "Five votes for Narumi's reform, five for Medrano's alternative."
There was a ripple of tension. Someone coughed. Stephanie muttered "anticlimactic" under her breath and opened a bag of sour cream chips.
Jamie didn't flinch. She just stared ahead, arms folded, her expression unreadable except for a subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"According to protocol," Mrs. Jackson continued, "if no consensus is reached, the motion is tabled until a compromise is submitted."
Jamie spoke, still looking straight ahead. "Or until one side adjusts their proposal."
"Or that," Mrs. Jackson agreed, already scribbling in her planner like she'd rather be anywhere else.
Bernard leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. "Guess it's a tie then. I'd call that balance."
Jamie turned to him, slowly. "You'd call anything that delays structure a win."
"I'd call anything that prevents tyranny a win," he replied without missing a beat.
She stood. "Structure isn't tyranny."
"And chaos isn't democracy."
The room stiffened. Thea gave Arnie a look like, Are we about to witness a murder?
Jamie approached the front table, collected her materials with quiet precision, then turned back to him. "This could've been done in thirty minutes. Instead, you turned it into a circus."
"Not a circus," Bernard replied, rising as well. "Just a reminder that people aren't spreadsheets."
She stepped closer, voice lower. "No. But leaders have a responsibility to build systems that work without needing charm to carry them."
"And some systems," he said, matching her volume and distance, "need to be reminded that people don't exist to serve efficiency."
Mrs. Jackson banged her gavel once. "This is a council session, not a breakup argument."
Bernard gave her a mock salute. "Understood, ma'am."
Jamie turned sharply and exited the chamber without another word, her heels clicking like punctuation marks.
Ten Minutes Later – Student Council Hallway
Jamie stood at the far end of the corridor, one hand pressed flat against the wall, breathing slow and even. But her other hand was clenched so tightly around her binder that the leather was creasing. She stared at the floor tiles like they owed her an apology.
Footsteps behind her. Light, casual. Predictable.
"You always walk out like that when something doesn't go your way?" Bernard asked.
She didn't turn around. "Only when I'm trying not to scream."
"That's progress."
She exhaled. "You undermined a policy I worked two weeks on."
"I offered a revision."
"You hijacked it with your signature 'charmingly disruptive' style."
He came to stand beside her, leaning against the opposite wall. "Look, I'm not against structure. I just think your version of structure smells a little like control."
She turned to face him. "It's called leadership."
"It's called micromanagement."
"God," she said, exasperated, "do you ever stop turning everything into a joke?"
Bernard's grin faded. "You think I'm joking?"
"You always are."
"No," he said, quieter now. "You just think that because if I'm not joking, it means I'm serious. And if I'm serious, then maybe I actually care."
That made her stop. She blinked once. He didn't smile. Didn't back off. Just looked at her like he had during prom—not as a rival, not even as a flirt.
As something else.
"You don't get to flip this around on me," she said, voice low.
"I'm not flipping it," he said. "I'm just pointing out the obvious."
"Which is?"
"That you hate being out of control more than you hate me."
She took a step back. "This isn't about control."
"It always is. That's your whole game, isn't it? Win. Own the narrative. Be too perfect to criticize."
Jamie's voice went icy. "You don't know me."
"I know you hide behind bulletproof logic because emotion is too messy for you."
"Better than hiding behind charm because vulnerability would actually require substance."
That one hit. Bernard blinked.
"Wow," he said softly. "There it is."
She crossed her arms, breathing harder now. "You don't get to lecture me like you're the injured party here."
"I'm not," he said. "But I'm also not the villain in your psychological drama."
Silence. Then:
"Why did you help me at prom?" she asked, almost against her will.
Bernard didn't answer right away. "Because I didn't like watching you panic."
Jamie's arms loosened. "I wasn't panicking."
"You were freezing. That's your version of panic."
She didn't deny it.
Another pause.
He shifted his weight, looked away. "I wasn't trying to embarrass you today. I just... think people need to feel seen before they agree to be ruled."
Jamie looked at him for a long moment.
"You confuse me," she admitted.
He met her eyes again. "Good. That means I'm getting somewhere."
Before she could reply, the hallway door creaked open. Thea stepped out, holding her tablet and a concerned expression.
"Everything alright?" she asked, looking between them.
"Peachy," Jamie said, instantly composed.
Bernard gave a mock bow. "Madam Co-President."
He turned and walked off, leaving Jamie and Thea in silence.
Thea studied her. "So... what was that?"
Jamie didn't answer. She just stared at the space he'd occupied seconds ago.
And for once, she didn't have a name for what she felt.
---
Later that afternoon, the campus cafeteria was a low buzz of trays clattering, group chats dissecting the debate, and muted laughter. Everything looked normal on the surface—students eating, typing, flirting, dozing—but near the corner booth under the "Student Leaders Wall of Fame," a storm brewed beneath practiced expressions.
Jamie sat with her usual straight posture, untouched matcha latte on the table, tablet beside her, screen dim. Her fingers tapped the table's edge in a precise, slow rhythm. Thea sat across from her, legs crossed, quietly nibbling on a shrimp bun.
"You okay?" Thea asked, glancing up.
Jamie's jaw twitched. "Fine."
"You look like you're trying not to stab someone with a butter knife."
"That would be inefficient," Jamie muttered. "Too blunt."
Thea raised an eyebrow. "Ah. So it's Bernard."
Jamie's eyes flicked to her. "It's not—"
Thea held up a hand. "Save it. You've been tapping the Fibonacci sequence into the table for five minutes."
Jamie looked down at her hand and stopped.
Thea leaned in slightly, resting her chin on her palm. "It's not that he won, right? Because he didn't. It's that... he didn't lose."
Jamie took a breath. "He didn't plan. He improvised. That's not leadership."
"That's instinct."
"That's reckless."
"That's your word for 'unexpected.'"
Jamie said nothing.
Thea leaned back. "Look, I'm not Team Bernard. I'm Team 'Stop Pretending You Don't Enjoy Fighting With Him.' You're not mad he challenged you. You're mad he made you feel something."
Jamie's gaze sharpened. "Are you diagnosing me now?"
"I mean, yeah. I majored in Psychology for three semesters."
"You dropped out."
Thea grinned. "Exactly. So I'm unlicensed and dangerous."
Before Jamie could reply, her phone buzzed on the table. A message from her father.
"Saw the debate. You looked terrifying. I'm proud."
She allowed a small smile, then locked the phone and pushed it aside.
Across campus, in a sun-drenched corridor of the arts building, Bernard stood at a vending machine, aggressively tapping the side as it threatened to eat his last ten pesos.
"Come on, man," he muttered. "You gave birth to my Kit-Kat, you can deliver it."
Behind him, Arnie leaned on a column, arms crossed. "You always get violent when you're emotionally compromised."
Bernard glanced over his shoulder. "I'm not emotionally compromised."
"Sure," Arnie said. "And I'm not wearing mismatched socks again."
"You're not."
"I am. Look."
Bernard groaned and turned back to the machine. "I didn't mean to blow up the vote. I just... didn't expect it to matter this much."
Arnie stepped forward. "It mattered because it was her plan."
"I didn't sabotage it."
"No. But you split the room. You matched her. That's never happened before."
Bernard looked down at the now-dispensed Kit-Kat. "She's probably furious."
"She is," Arnie confirmed. "Which is great. You're in her head."
Bernard didn't smile. He cracked the chocolate bar in half and offered one piece.
"You ever piss someone off so much you start liking them?"
Arnie raised an eyebrow. "Oh no. You've got the syndrome."
"What syndrome?"
"The enemy-to-maybe? Dangerous stuff. Starts with sarcasm. Ends with soft gazes under lamplight."
"I haven't gazed."
"Yet."
Back in the cafeteria, Jamie stood abruptly.
"I need air," she said.
Thea stood too. "Want company?"
"No."
Jamie walked through the hallway with clipped strides, turning corners like she was chasing a deadline. She didn't stop until she reached the garden courtyard behind the main library—a quiet place with low stone benches and a koi pond that smelled faintly of overchlorinated serenity.
She sat down, exhaling, and pressed her palms flat against the bench like grounding anchors.
"You look like you're meditating," said a voice behind her.
She didn't need to turn. She already knew.
Bernard approached slowly, holding two paper cups of iced tea.
"I didn't bring peace offerings," he said, setting one beside her. "But if you want to interpret it that way, I won't stop you."
Jamie didn't touch the tea. "You always follow people?"
"No. Just you. I like the challenge."
"Is that what I am to you? A challenge?"
"No," he said, sitting beside her. "You're more like a Rubik's cube that electrocutes me if I get it wrong."
She stared at him. "You're not funny."
"You smiled a little."
"That was a twitch."
"Still counts."
Silence again.
Then Jamie asked, "Why do you keep doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Showing up. After ruining everything."
"I didn't ruin anything. I disagreed."
"You turned my plan into a deadlock."
Bernard tilted his head. "Maybe. Or maybe I kept it from becoming law without consent."
"You think you're some kind of balance?"
"I think I'm the only one who makes you actually feel anything during these debates."
She didn't answer.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You want to hate me. You work so hard at it. But I think part of you is curious."
Jamie's voice was low. "Curious about what?"
"About why I don't fall in line. Why I don't fold under pressure. Why I look at you and don't flinch."
"I don't need anyone to flinch."
"No," he said. "But you're used to it."
That hung in the air like fog.
Jamie looked at the tea. She didn't drink it. But she didn't push it away either.
Bernard stood, brushing off his pants. "Anyway. I said my part. Enjoy your meditation."
He turned and walked back toward the building.
Jamie sat still, staring at the koi fish circling below the pond's surface.
Just when she thought he was gone, his voice floated back:
"For the record... I don't regret interrupting Kael."
She glanced over her shoulder, but he was already gone.
--
Two days later, the student council reconvened.
The room was ten degrees warmer than it should've been. Not literally—the air conditioning worked fine—but emotionally, it was oven-hot. Everyone came prepared for war: folders thicker, laptops charged, voices pre-cleared by lemon tea and lozenges. No one wanted to repeat what happened last time.
Jamie sat at the front, arms crossed, her new proposal open beside her. No projector this time. No slides. Just numbers and certainty.
Across the table, Bernard looked... disarmingly relaxed. Same casual jacket, this time paired with a shirt that had only one button undone. He was spinning a pen between his fingers—an old habit when he needed to look bored but alert.
Mrs. Jackson, seated at the head of the U-shaped table, glanced at the clock.
"Alright," she said, adjusting her glasses. "We're here today to hear final amendments to both budget proposals before a concluding vote. Miss Jamie, you may begin."
Jamie stood without fanfare. "I've made slight revisions. The quarterly audits remain, but I've added a new appeal mechanism for clubs to contest funding decisions. A three-member review panel—neutral, nonpartisan, elected by the council."
There were nods. Even a soft hmm from the arts rep, who'd previously voted against her.
Jamie continued, voice clear and unwavering. "This addresses concerns about fairness while keeping structure intact. No chaos. No personality-driven decisions. Just policy."
She sat down and adjusted her cuffs with surgical precision.
Mrs. Jackson looked to Bernard. "And your counter?"
Bernard stood and walked a slow semicircle around the front of the room, speaking without notes.
"I like the revisions," he said. "I really do. But I'm keeping my motion as is. Optional application. Club-based narrative reporting. No central filter. Just trust."
He gave a small shrug, turning to the room. "I think the clubs know what they need. I trust them to ask."
A few reps exchanged glances. One whispered something to another. There was tension, but not hostility—curiosity, maybe. Conflict wrapped in consideration.
Jamie stared straight ahead, fingers tapping the inside of her arm.
Mrs. Jackson nodded once. "We will vote by secret ballot. Only primary members. Fold your slips once and place them in the bowl."
Stephanie, seated behind Jamie, muttered, "Should've brought popcorn."
Thea whispered, "Or a riot shield."
Voting began. One by one, council reps scribbled on small slips of paper and walked them up to the front, depositing them into a transparent bowl. It looked like a raffle, except the prize was control.
Jamie's pen moved fast. Her handwriting was clean, blocky. Deliberate. She folded her slip neatly in half and set it into the bowl without hesitation.
Bernard paused before writing. Not for indecision—just long enough to make it look like he was weighing more than he was.
Mrs. Jackson gave the bowl a swirl, like she was mixing ingredients for a bureaucratic soup. Then she began reading aloud.
"Jamie's proposal... one vote."
Pause.
"Bernard's proposal... one vote."
Another pause. She read through the slips carefully, crossing tallies into a spreadsheet as she went.
At the end of it, she looked up.
"Five to five. Again."
The silence in the room wasn't immediate—it sank in slowly. Someone coughed. Another person cursed under their breath.
Jamie's back straightened. "There's been a mistake."
"No mistake," said Mrs. Jackson, dry as a desert. "Tied again. One more tie and we're going to have to implement neutral arbitration."
Jamie leaned forward. "There has to be a tiebreaker mechanism."
"There is," Bernard said. "It's called compromise."
Her head turned toward him, slowly.
Mrs. Jackson rubbed her temple. "Both motions will be suspended until a unified proposal is submitted. Final warning. The next vote has to be decisive."
The meeting adjourned. Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. The moment deflated like a balloon on a thumbtack.
Jamie didn't leave her seat.
Bernard lingered, waiting near the front, one hand on the table, expression unreadable.
She finally looked up. "You were hoping for this."
"No," he said. "But I expected it."
"You split the room again."
"We split it together."
She exhaled sharply. "Don't you dare pin this on me."
"I'm not," he said. "But we're not working against each other anymore. We're orbiting."
"That's not a flattering metaphor."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Mrs. Jackson exited, muttering something about "youths and migraines."
Jamie gathered her things with precise movements. "I'm not changing my proposal."
"Then we're stuck."
"I'd rather be stuck than pander."
Bernard hesitated. "You think I'm pandering?"
"I think you're pretending to be grassroots because it keeps you popular."
He smiled faintly. "And I think you're pretending to be cold because warmth scares the hell out of you."
Jamie froze.
Then, slowly, she stood. "You're exhausting."
He shrugged. "You're invigorating."
They stood like that for a second too long.
Then Jamie turned and walked out the side exit, her bag slung over her shoulder like armor.
Bernard watched her go.
"Orbiting, huh," said Arnie, appearing from behind the snack counter. "That was poetic."
"Accidentally," Bernard said.
"Deadlock again. You disappointed?"
Bernard sighed. "No."
"You wanted her to win?"
He gave a lopsided smile. "I wanted her to have to talk to me again."
--
The last of the sunlight had drained from the university's windows, casting the student council chamber in dusky gold and shadow. A janitor swept in the hallway with a lopsided rhythm. From somewhere deeper in the building, the faint clatter of vending machine coins echoed.
Jamie sat alone at the council table, hands folded on top of a now-closed binder. The voting bowl sat beside her like a tombstone. Ten slips, split evenly, reflecting a reality she hated more than losing: uncertainty.
She'd replayed the tally twice in her head. Five votes for her reform. Five for Bernard's model. No technical errors. No procedural failures.
Only equilibrium.
She hated equilibrium.
Her eyes drifted to the vacant chair across from her—the one Bernard had slouched in for the last three sessions. She remembered how casually he leaned back, how he twirled that stupid pen like a magician waiting for applause. How his smile could cut through the air and rearrange the room.
Jamie shook her head. No. He wasn't winning. Not really.
But she had to admit something... ugly. Not out loud. Not to anyone. Just here, in this empty chamber where the light barely reached the corners.
He was getting under her skin.
Her fingers tapped the wood in slow, metered beats—once, twice, then stopped.
"Why do you always have to be so... impossible," she whispered, not expecting an answer.
She sighed, stood up, and gathered her things. Her folder, her pen, her pride. As she slung her bag over her shoulder, she paused by the main podium, ran her fingers lightly along its edge. Just two weeks ago, she owned that space. Now, she had to share it—with someone she couldn't predict, couldn't dismiss, and couldn't ignore.
Her heels echoed softly as she exited the chamber and disappeared into the amber twilight.
Meanwhile – Bernard's Spot, University Canteen Rooftop
The canteen rooftop wasn't glamorous. Rust-stained concrete. Three metal chairs, all slightly uneven. One broken vending machine that dispensed snacks like it was rolling dice. But it was private. Elevated. Off the radar.
Bernard leaned against the ledge, sipping an orange soda from a plastic bottle. Arnie sat beside him, one foot propped up on the chair across, chewing on a gummy worm like it was philosophical.
"Deadlock," Arnie said. "Again."
Bernard didn't reply immediately. He just kept looking out at the empty football field below, now lit by tall floodlights and the occasional bug flying suicide missions into them.
"She didn't look surprised," Bernard said finally.
"Because she wasn't."
"She didn't look angry either."
"She hides it."
"She hides everything."
"Except from you," Arnie said.
Bernard glanced at him. "You think so?"
"I know so," Arnie replied. "Dude, she doesn't look at anyone else the way she looks at you. Like you're a disaster she didn't budget for."
Bernard smiled faintly. "I think she wants to throw me off a bridge."
"And yet, here we are. Round four of this weird academic tug-of-war where nobody wins and nobody quits."
Bernard leaned forward, resting his elbows on the ledge. "I thought if I pushed her enough, she'd crack."
"Why? Because that's how your flings usually start?"
"No," Bernard said quietly. "Because I wanted to see what was underneath the precision."
"And?"
"And now I'm the one cracking."
Arnie blinked. "Whoa."
Bernard chuckled softly. "I didn't plan this."
"Sure you didn't," Arnie said. "You're the most chaotic planner I know. You sabotage yourself on purpose just to see what rises from the ashes."
"I thought she was just another rival," Bernard admitted. "Like, someone to push against, keep me sharp."
"But?"
"But she's not pushing against me," he said. "She's pulling something out of me I didn't think I had."
Arnie tilted his head. "Like accountability?"
"Like interest. Real interest. I watch her and I... want to know what she thinks of when she's alone. When she's not performing."
Arnie clapped once, grinning. "My boy has a crush."
"It's not a crush."
"You've monologued about her for three minutes, and your soda's warm."
Bernard looked at the bottle in his hand and groaned. "Okay. Maybe it's a crush."
"Does she know?"
Bernard shook his head. "Not a clue. And if she did, she'd weaponize it."
"True," Arnie nodded. "She'd file it under 'vulnerability' and dismantle it in a five-point presentation."
They both laughed. The tension eased for a moment.
Then Bernard grew quiet again.
"I want to beat her," he said.
"Of course you do."
"But I also don't want her to lose."
Arnie looked at him sideways. "That's complicated."
"Yeah," Bernard said. "She complicates everything."
A beat of silence.
Then Arnie said, "You think she's thinking about you right now?"
Bernard smiled, slow and sad. "I hope not."
"Why?"
"Because I'd hate for her to feel this confused."
Back in her room – Narumi Residence
Jamie stood at her desk, flipping through the latest draft of her reform package. The words blurred. Not from exhaustion, but because her brain wouldn't shut up.
She saw his face during the vote. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just... present. Focused. Listening.
Not to her plan. To her.
She dropped the file back onto her desk and stared at her reflection in the dark window.
"You're not allowed to be this distracted," she whispered.
No response. Just her face, still, precise. Haunted not by failure, but by the absence of resolution.