In the quiet coastal town of Lagonoy, nestled in the Bicol Region of the Philippines, time moved gently. Tricycles hummed through sun-drenched streets, sari-sari stores buzzed with gossip and chismis, and the waves whispered lullabies against the shore.
At Lagonoy High School, tucked behind a basketball court and a mango tree older than anyone alive could remember, Isaac Ramirez sat in the back row of Grade 7 - Mabini. He was the quiet one. The boy who kept to himself, whose notebooks were filled with verses no one read, and whose eyes often wandered out the window rather than the blackboard.
But his heart belonged to someone in that very room.
Ella Manalo.
Bright, kind, confident. She was the girl who answered when no one raised their hands, who organized class cleaning schedules without being asked, who always had a pen ready to lend. Her laughter was music. Her presence, like morning sunlight on a Monday.
Isaac fell for her not suddenly, but slowly—like the tide creeping up the sand. Quietly. Without warning. Without expecting anything in return.
But Isaac wasn't brave. Not in the way boys in teleseryes were brave. He couldn't look her in the eye for too long. He could barely say more than "Good morning." But he had his words—secret, sacred words. So he turned to the only thing he had:
Poetry.
The first poem he ever wrote for her was only four lines, scrawled on the back of a scratch paper he kept hidden in his Math notebook:
Your laughter is a song I don't deserve to hear,
But I listen anyway, from a bench that's never near.
You speak, and the world feels less gray,
Even if I'm too quiet to say.
He didn't sign it with a name. Only the letter I.
He slipped it into her Values notebook one afternoon, left behind on her desk when class ended. He rushed out before anyone could ask what he was doing.
The next day, he saw her read it. Her eyes scanned the lines, her lips formed the words silently, then curled into a smile. She didn't look around. She simply folded the paper neatly and tucked it into the back pocket of her notebook.
Isaac's heart nearly jumped out of his chest.
That day, Ella glanced at him longer than usual. Not suspiciously. Just softly. Like she saw something she hadn't noticed before.
He wrote another one the following week. Then another.
Tucked inside her Filipino book.
Left in her locker.
Hidden inside the pocket of her clearbook during English period.
You don't know me, not really,
But I know how you twirl your pen when you think.
I know the way you bite your lip when you're nervous,
And how you always say "Sorry po" to the guard who blocks the gate.
You're kindness turned human,
A sunshine girl in a rainy world.
And always signed: I
It became a quiet tradition. She never asked who. But she kept the poems. Sometimes, she'd write a reply on the back of one and leave it taped to the underside of a chair.
Dear I,
Sometimes, your words feel like songs I didn't know I needed.
He never wrote love poems for anyone else. Just her.
August came with grey skies and contests for Buwan ng Wika. Ella, ever the dependable class officer, was helping organize the poetry reading event.
When the announcement for anonymous poem submissions came, Isaac knew. It was time.
He spent three days on it. The poem had to be perfect. Not flowery, not dramatic. Just honest. Just him.
He submitted it without a name. Only I.
On contest day, students gathered under the covered court. The microphone crackled. One by one, selected students read the submitted poems aloud.
When it was Isaac's turn to be read, a classmate went up and began:
If courage had a rhythm,
It would sound like this heart,
Beating too loud every time you're near.
If silence were a language,
You'd know I've been screaming your name for a year.
You, the girl who hums when she draws,
Who says thank you to jeepney drivers,
Who laughs without apology.
You are my favorite stanza in a life full of commas.
If love had a name,
I'd write yours in every line,
Because every poem I make ends up sounding like you.
This is me,
Not brave,
But true.
Would you be the girl who rhymes with me?
Because I never want this poem to end.
Silence followed.
Then applause. Loud. Cheerful. But Ella didn't clap.
She stood.
And walked.
Not toward the stage.
Toward him.
Everyone watched as she stopped in front of Isaac, cheeks flushed.
"Did you write that?" she asked softly.
He nodded. His throat dry. The world suddenly too loud.
Ella pulled something from her pocket. A folded sheet of paper. One of his poems.
"I was hoping it was you," she whispered. "I just didn't know how to ask."
He took a breath. Then pulled one last poem from his own pocket, crumpled but clean. He handed it to her.
I don't know how to ask the way boys do in movies,
So I'll ask like this:
Will you sit beside me when it rains?
Will you walk with me through canteen lines,
Even when the pancit is cold and the gulay too salty?
Will you laugh at my puns, even when they don't land?_
Will you be my favorite poem,
The one I never want to finish?
Because in a world full of noise,
You are the quiet I want to write into forever.
Will you be mine?
My rhythm, my rhyme,
My Ella.
She read it, smiling through a mist of tears.
Then nodded.
"I'd love to be your girlfriend."
The covered court erupted in cheers and teasing whistles, but in that moment, all Isaac heard was her voice, soft as the wind that kissed the rice fields outside.
And so began a love story—not grand, not dramatic, but gentle.
Like verses passed in silence.
Like a love that rhymes.