Chapter 9 Ivan the Jobless

DENZEL'S POV

Rule #9: Laughter is fine, but not when it's used to hide the sinking.

"Careful with that," I called out as Ivan tried to balance three sardine cans, two packs of instant ramen, and a whole loaf of bread on one arm-like he was auditioning for a discounted juggling act.

"I got it," he said, already dropping one of the ramen packs.

I bent to pick it up and tossed it back onto the kitchen counter. "You keep this up, Kuya, and you'll qualify for the circus."

Kuya-a term we used for older guys, even if not by blood-fit him perfectly.

"Circus sounds like stable work. Do they offer benefits?"

Ma let out a tired sigh from the sink. "You two. I can barely think."

The kitchen smelled of hot oil, garlic, and quiet desperation. It was past 7 p.m., and we were all running on fumes. Our cramped apartment-just enough space for three-was dimly lit and warm in a way that smothered rather than soothed, heavy with all the things we didn't say aloud.

Ivan leaned against the counter and cracked open one of the cans. "Can we agree that sardines are the national emergency food of the Philippines?"

"You say that like we have a choice," I muttered.

"Hey, you're the one who said fish was brain food. I'm trying to keep my optimism nourished."

I rolled my eyes but didn't argue. Ivan always cracked jokes when things got hard. It was his way of shielding us-his voice got lighter the more everything else weighed down.

We all had our masks. His just wore a smile.

Ma turned away from the sink, her eyes tired behind her smudged reading glasses. "I got another call from the hospital today."

My body went still. "Is it Dad?"

She nodded, brushing damp hair out of her face. "They're adjusting his medication again. The doctor recommended another consult. With a therapist. For you. For me. For Ivan."

Ivan snorted. "Great. Let's all go cry together. Group trauma bonding."

"Ivan," Ma warned.

"Sorry."

I reached for the letter that had been left on the dining table-an official-looking envelope, creased at the corners. The name of the hospital was printed in bold at the top.

It wasn't a bill yet. It was a notice. But we knew what it meant. A new wave was coming.

"We can't afford therapy," I said quietly.

"We can't afford not to," Ma said, her voice barely above a whisper.

No one spoke after that.

I stared at the cracked tiles, trying to count them like it could distract me from everything else crumbling.

Ivan broke the silence a few minutes later. "I applied to three more jobs today."

"Which ones?" I asked.

"A delivery company, a tech start-up, and a local food truck that said 'we accept resilient souls' in the ad."

I snorted. "That sounds fake."

"It probably is. But I sent my resumé anyway. Maybe I'll become a professional food taster."

"You hate anything with spice."

"Guess I'll suffer in the name of legacy."

Ma sat down slowly at the table, pressing her palm to her forehead. "I should've asked for more overtime."

"No," I said firmly. "You're already working too much."

"Exactly," Ivan added. "You overwork, Denzel overstresses, and I overcompensate with charm. It's a family routine."

"Not a sustainable one," I murmured.

We finished our sardines and rice in silence.

Later that night, I sat in my room, the light from my desk lamp spilling over my chess notebook. The pages were marked with notations, tournament sketches, and hypothetical plays. But I couldn't focus.

My phone buzzed beside me, cutting through the silence like it had something urgent to say.

Luke: tell me your favorite move on the board

I stared at the message.

Me: Sicilian Defense. Why?

Luke: just curious. also sounds hot

Me: it's aggressive. tactical.

Luke: just like you *heart emoji*

I put the phone down and pushed my notebook away.

Then picked it up again.

Me: what's your favorite move?

Luke: dancing away from drama lol

I smiled despite myself.

Footsteps passed outside my room. Ivan, probably heading to the balcony for fresh air and another hopeful scroll through job listings.

I opened a new note on my phone.

Dad's next medication adjustment: schedule?

Ivan: follow up on delivery gig?

Chess rematch with Bia – stay sharp.

Therapy bill...how much?

I stared at the last line.

How much.

It felt like a question tied to everything else in my life lately.

How much can we take?

How much can I carry?

How much longer until something breaks?

I closed the note. Shut off the lamp.

In the dark, I heard Ivan's muffled voice outside the window, humming a tune under his breath.

For now, we were still afloat.

Just barely.

-

LUKE'S POV

If she rolls her eyes at you, she probably cares. If she doesn't, you're not even in the game.

The thing about texting Denzel Ramos is that it feels like playing chess-except I don't know the rules, and she's already five moves ahead.

She replies fast, but short. Dry but not cold. Honest, but just enough to make me want to figure her out more.

That's why I sent the "just like you" text. And regretted it five seconds later. I stared at the screen longer than I'll ever admit, and when she didn't reply, I tossed my phone across the bed like it burned me.

Now it was morning. And I couldn't stop replaying the silence.

"You're awfully quiet," Nate said beside me as we walked across the Mater Carmeli campus.

"Just thinking."

"About the rematch?"

"About the chess girl."

Nate let out a low whistle. "Still?"

"Always," I muttered.

He laughed. "Dude, if she got any more in your head, you'd need an eviction notice."

"She's different."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No. I mean... She doesn't try to be liked. She doesn't flirt back. She doesn't even laugh at my jokes."

"Tragic."

"Shut up."

The thing is-I like people. People like me. That was the usual rhythm.

But Denzel? She resists rhythm. She's a wall of logic, sharp replies, and carefully measured silences. And somehow, that made every reaction from her feel like a win.

I opened our chat again.

Me: You ignored my heart emoji.

Me: Should I file a complaint?

No reply.

Of course.

"Still ghosted?" Nate peeked over my shoulder.

"She's not ghosting. She's thinking."

"Or she's treating you like a background tab."

I sighed. "Still counts. I'm in the browser."

"You're hopeless."

We reached the gym, and I saw Basti already there, sitting alone on the bench with his earphones in. He looked like someone who woke up brooding and drank black coffee brewed from unresolved feelings.

"You talk to him yet?" Nate asked.

"About what?"

He gave me a look. "About Denzel. About the fact that you're obviously interested. And that he might be too."

I shook my head. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Yet."

The rest of practice blurred. I spiked hard, missed two serves, and nearly collided with Tim at the net. Coach yelled something about focus, but my head wasn't in the game.

It was somewhere else.

After practice, I hung back by the water station while the others changed.

My phone buzzed.

Denzel: you're annoying

Denzel: but in a weirdly tolerable way

I grinned.

Me: is that your way of saying you like me?

Denzel: that's my way of saying don't push your luck

Me: too late

I stared at the screen. Not a heart. Not a flirt. But she replied.

And suddenly, that was enough.

On the way out, I saw Rheiza near the courtyard. I caught up with her.

"Hey, question."

She raised an eyebrow. "If this is about Denzel, I'm charging emotional rent."

I chuckled. "I wanted to ask why you're here. I think it's the first time I saw you in Mater Carmeli. Quite a pretty romantic coincidence for me to find you exactly when."

She stared at me for a moment, like she was deciding to blush or look away. She decided both.

And then I proceeded to ask what I actually wanted to ask.

"Do you think she likes him?"

"Finally, you're asking." She rolled her eyes. "Depends. Who's him?"

"Basti."

She studied me. "I think she's confused. I think she's scared. And I think she doesn't like how often she thinks about both of you."

Not the answer I was hoping for. Not even close.

"Do I even have a chance?"

Rheiza tilted her head. "You don't flirt with Denzel the way you do with other girls."

"I don't?"

"No. With her, you're careful."

I blinked.

That night, I sat on my bed staring at my phone again. No texts. No jokes. Just one open note.

Denzel: hard to read

Basti: harder to beat

Me: still trying

I pressed save and closed my eyes.

Let the games begin.