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You massage your shoulder as you walk around the newly renovated SL gymnasium. Sleek LED screens have replaced the peeling scoreboards from your student days. Brand new volleyball nets, still rigid from unuse, hang on equally flawless net stands. At the other end of the court, a giant tarpaulin with your face on it welcomes students and guests to the grand re-opening of the venue.
You feel yourself wince. At your photo or at your shoulder acting up, you can’t quite tell; either way, you know you’ve shaken too many hands today.
As a “distinguished athlete and alumnus”, you were invited to the ribbon-cutting ceremony as guest speaker. Officially, the name is SL Gymnasium, but what the students call it is SR gymnasium, short for Saint Ramos Gymnasium. When asked, Director Jules would explain that it only got sponsored because of the consecutive golds during your stint as national team captain.
And well.
Here you are.
Back where it all started.
Before the season MVPs, endorsements, and gold medals. Before three shoulder surgeries in the span of five years.
When you close your eyes, you could still see the team bowing to Coach Jules. You could hear yourself stomping out after a bad game.
(You could feel the cool painted floor against your back, your chest still heaving after too many suicides. The tip of a ballpoint pen glides along the side of your finger.
“Ano na naman ‘yan?” you ask, once you recover your breath.
The other girl doesn’t look up from where she’s doodling on your hand. “Reminder lang, bago ka maging volleyball superstar.”
You take a peek at the drawing and snort, your ribs protesting the movement.
It’s a volleyball, precisely lined and shaded, with a haphazardly drawn smiley on top.
“Sige ka, papa-tattoo ko ‘yan.”
She looks up then, grinning widely at you, eyes so bright you have to shield your eyes.)
An incredible surge of fondness overtakes you, but you’re dragged out of your nostalgia by a loud crash and a frantic “sorry!”
Your eyes fly open to the sight of your blown up face lying crumpled on the floor, a familiar figure trying to get its tarpaulin stand to stay upright.
Ace, painfully awkward and handsome in the San Lorenzo coaching uniform, looks at you like a deer caught in the headlights. You’re already walking towards her even before you can make a conscious decision, a deep warm ache blossoming inside your chest with every step that you take.
"Sorry," she says, wrestling with the metal contraption which eventually folds in on itself. “Sorry.”
“Wala ka pa ring bagong vocab?” you tease, falling back into old habits easily.
She rolls her eyes goodnaturedly, crouching down as she haphazardly gathers the scattered segments on the ground. “Sor— may kukunin lang ako, mabilis lang.”
You bend down to help her, trying your best not to seem as petulant as you suddenly feel. The flimsy metal still creaks in your grip, anyway.
“‘Di ka na nga nag-hi kaninang ribbon-cutting, nagmamadali ka pa. Iniiwasan mo ata ako eh.”
“Uy, hindi ah!” she exclaims, shaking her head earnestly. “May inasikaso lang ako para sa camp kaya umalis agad ako kanina. Tsaka, busy ka na sa mga sponsors. Ayoko na dumagdag.”
You shrug. “I would’ve made time for you.”
“Sus. Narinig ko na yan.”
The bar you’re holding slips out of your grip and onto the floor. An unpleasant din reverberates throughout the hall. Somehow, the silence that follows is much louder.
Ace looks away, eyes downcast as she starts fixing the mess that you made. ”Sorry. ‘Di ko rin alam ba’t ko sinabi yun.”
Your voice gets stuck in your throat. It’s almost funny — you’ve both had a decade to heal from a highschool heartbreak, yet neither of you can look each other in the eye.
It was an amicable breakup, for the most part. There were no screaming matches — Ace didn’t like fighting and between your training schedule and coursework, you just didn’t have the energy. There was no blame thrown around when date nights turned into nap nights, and went from bi-weekly, to monthly, to none at all.
And when Ace, after not having seen you outside of a video call or a TV screen in weeks, eventually asked if you thought you two should break up, there was also no surprise.
When your voice returns, it comes out as a whisper.
“Are you happy?”
Warm, brown eyes blink at you, painful in its familiarity. Instead of answering, Ace abandons the recalcitrant tarpaulin stand and lowers herself completely to sit down on the floor. She crosses her legs beneath her and gestures for you to do the same.
“Hirap naman niyan," she complains, smiling self-consciously as her gaze roams around the gymnasium. She takes her time answering, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to hurry. "I’m content, I think?”
“‘Di naman yan yung tanong ko.”
Ace presses her lips together and hums. “I love coaching and teaching. Gusto ko yung buhay ko rito.”
“But?”
She steals a glance at you, your eyes meeting for a moment before she quickly looks away.
“I could be happier, I guess.”
You nod in understanding — if there was anybody on this earth who could relate to that, it would be you.
The silence that follows is loaded, but comfortable. A wiser person would not have broken it, but there’s another question on the tip of your tongue, one that’s been nagging at you for years. It used to keep you up at night when you first broke up. A full decade later, it still sends you into the occasional spiral.
“Do you think we could have tried harder? That I should have tried harder?”
Ace blows air through pursed lips, clearly taken aback. "Wow. Um. I think… ginawa mo naman yung best mo. Yung best natin. But... we were just kids. We didn’t stand a chance.”
She runs her fingers through her hair as she speaks. A single gray hair sticks out from the top of her head, shining under the gym's fluorescent lights. “‘Di ko talaga dapat sinabi yun, eh. I never blamed you. Alam mo naman yun, di ba? It’s just… having you back here. Nakakabaliw. Para akong high school ulit.”
You wipe your sweaty hands on your slacks. High school is one way to describe it, for sure.
The dimple that used to drive you crazy is still there. She’s still sporting the wolf cut from before, but the cut of her jaw is sharper, and there are crows’ feet starting around her eyes.
Across from you, Ace bites her lip and fiddles with a loose thread on her slacks, a gesture so familiar that it makes you slightly dizzy. It’s like you’re seeing double whenever you look at her — this older, worldlier Ace on top of an awkward, sweet teenager who used to hold your heart in the palm of her hand.
She keeps fidgeting, and your vision stops spinning enough for you to nudge her feet with your own. “Itanong mo na.”
Ace smiles sheepishly. “Naging… kayo ba ulit ni Arnie?”
For a second, all you can do is stare at her.
Back when you were still together, you and Ace were on the opposite ends of the jealousy spectrum. An anonymously given snack in her locker could ruin your day; Ace could have walked in on you half naked with another lesbian, and she would have assumed you were asking for fashion advice.
Nothing could make her jealous.
Except Arnie.
It was your fault really, pointing her out during that one training camp, but you swear it was because you felt nothing anymore. Not nostalgia, not even animosity — just plain strategy. It didn't help, however, that you and Arnie ended up on the same team in university.
Ace never really said anything about it directly. But you do know that whenever you and Arnie would get interviewed together, you would most likely find Ace on an empty basketball court, doing free throws with a sullen expression on her face.
It was one of those things you two struggled with back then — her tendency to isolate whenever she was upset. She had a hard time dealing with negative emotions, and she struggled even more when it had to do with you. Added to your busy schedule, it eventually piled up into something even your type-A personality couldn’t sort through.
Now, in the middle of a conversation that came ten years too late, your stomach does somersaults while you try your best not to be presumptuous.
“No. It was never a good match," you explain, watching her face for a reaction. The corner of her lips quirk just slightly, and you take that as a good sign. "Pareho kaming masyadong intense about volleyball. And…”
You take another glance at her. This time, she meets your gaze head on.
"Kahit nung naging kami, 'di naman yun talaga seryoso," you confess, voice surprisingly steady despite the thunderous beat in your ears. “Isa lang naman talaga yung naging seryoso.”
An unreadable expression crosses her face, and it dawns on you once again how much time has passed since you were together. Silence stretches between the two of you, thick and heavy like tar. The thudding inside your chest becomes nearly unbearable and you’re two seconds away from backtracking when Ace replies.
“Tagal na pala talaga, no?” she muses, a faraway look in her eyes. “Alam mo? Lagi kong pinapanood mga games mo. I’m so proud of you, Jana.”
“Thank you. Pero bakit parang ang lungkot mo naman maging proud?”
“‘Di naman,” she says, the rueful smile on her face belying her denial. “Nanghihinayang lang ako. Lagi kitang napapanood, eh. Friends naman tayo sa facebook. But I never got to tell you how proud I was, not even once. ‘Di ko nga alam kung may karapatan pa ‘kong maging proud, eh. I mean — you’re the Jana Ramos. Sino ba naman ako?”
Ace’s jerks suddenly after that, and it takes a moment for you to realize that it’s because your hand has found hers. It’s a lightning bolt to both of you, and for a few seconds you both sit stock-still.
“Of course, I’d want you to be proud of me,” you plead, still reeling from the contact. “You’re you. Tsaka anong “the Jana Ramos” ka diyan? Ako pa rin ‘to, no.”
Her gaze stays fixed on your entwined hands, and you can see the exact moment when she spots the tattoo on your finger — a perfect volleyball with a haphazard smiley on top.
“Pero hindi eh.”
She lets go of your hand gently, the loss washing over you like a bucket of ice. For ten years, you’ve only seen curated versions of each other. You on screen, her on her sparse social media. For all that matters, Ace is right — she is a stranger, and so are you.
It feels a lot like you’re being dumped all over again, except this time, you have had a decade. She’s not the same Ace who didn’t know how to handle her feelings. You’re not the same Jana who didn’t choose the one battle she should’ve fought.
You’re strangers — but that also means you have a second chance.
“Then get to know me again.”
Ace looks at you dumbfoundedly, but you soldier on.
“Get to know me again,” you repeat with more conviction. “I’m not just visiting, Ace. I’m staying.”
And this is the first time you ever said it out loud, but it feels like releasing a breath you’ve been holding for so long. Seeing Ace in her coaching uniform, walking the grounds of your former school — you’re reminded of how Ace helped you regain your love for volleyball.
You don’t want to lose that again.
“For surgery ulit ako this year,” you explain. “Pang-apat na. Sabi ni doc, I could probably play for a few more years but eventually… you know.”
This time, Ace is the one who reaches out to hold your hand. It still feels like a lightning bolt to your system. It puts all soothing balms to shame.
“I’m sorry, Jana.”
You shake your head. “I’m okay, I swear. This is…a fresh start.”
Ace smiles a little at the callback, but her worry stays firmly in place. “Sure ka talagang okay ka lang?”
“Weirdly enough, oo,” you answer, and it’s the lightest you’ve felt in years. “I mean, it’s hard, of course. Volleyball na yung naging buhay ko for so long, di ba? But it has to end, at some point. At least, this way I’m the one making the decision, imbis na yung injury ko yung magde-decide for me when the time comes.
“Besides, I’ve received offers to coach din,” you continue. “Masaya naman ako when I was coaching the younger athletes nung camp. So baka i-try ko yung ganun — yung fun-fun lang.”
Ace looks at your face intently, scanning for any signs of a lie. Your resolve must show in your face because the worry in her eyes disappears, instantly replaced by a mischievous glint.
“Okay, halika.”
Without explanation, Ace tugs at your uninjured arm and pulls the both of you to a standing position. At your confused expression, Ace grins widely and extends her hand.
“Hi, my name is Ace, short for Maria Isabel Pilar Asuncion. I’m the Physical Education department head and basketball coach at San Lorenzo Catholic School for Girls. My favorite color is yellow.”
Laughter bubbles out of you, free and unfiltered.
You are Jana, short for Ma. Jana Dorothy Santos Ramos. You are a professional volleyball player and the Philippine volleyball team captain, for now. Your favorite color is blue.
Standing in front of you is Ace Asuncion, dimples in full display, eyes blindingly bright as she offers you her hand.
You are Jana, Ace's hand is in yours, and a fresh start has never felt so much like home.