Title: Birdie and Love

In the blue-and-green corridors of Lagonoy High School, first-year students bustled through the beginning months of their new routines. Laughter echoed from the covered court, recitations bounced from classroom walls, and the breeze from the ocean made the palm trees outside the school sway with sleepy grace.

Among the promising students of Grade 7 - Mabini, the so-called star section, sat Levi Dela Cruz, a boy with an easy smile, calloused palms, and a permanent badminton racket poking out of his backpack. He wasn't the loudest in class, nor the smartest, but he carried an energy that felt like a shuttlecock midair: light, fast, and unexpectedly graceful.

His classmates included the quiet poet Isaac and the sunshine girl Ella, whose blossoming story had begun with hidden poems. Levi sometimes teased Isaac about the whole thing, but deep down, he admired it. The quiet courage of loving from afar.

But Levi's own story began with something simpler.

A serve.

It was after school, mid-July, when he first saw her.

He was walking past the tennis court near the back of the school, having just finished a grueling practice match. His shirt clung to him with sweat, his feet ached, but he heard the distinct sound of a tennis ball bouncing cleanly against asphalt and stopped.

There she was.

A girl in a white cap and navy-blue PE joggers, moving with sharp precision, her ponytail swinging with every stride. Her backhand wasn't perfect, but her focus was fierce. She grunted quietly as she returned each volley, paired with a fourth-year student who gave clear instructions.

Something about her caught his attention.

Maybe it was her discipline.

Maybe it was how she smiled after each mistake.

Maybe it was just her.

He stood there too long, because the fourth-year student eventually called a break and the girl looked up.

Their eyes met.

And Levi, smooth-talker of section Mabini, suddenly forgot how to walk properly. He stumbled away with a rushed "Uh, sorry!" and a bashful grin, as she tilted her head, confused but amused.

Days passed. Weeks.

He learned her name from another PE classmate: Rina Villareal, from Grade 7 - Emerald.

A tennis scholar. Quiet, hardworking, not into social media much. Preferred books over trends. Wore her hair in a ponytail even outside training.

She didn't know he existed. But Levi couldn't stop thinking about her.

He started hanging out near the tennis courts during breaks, pretending to tie his shoelaces for far longer than necessary. Occasionally, he'd see her practicing serves or running drills. Once, she sat under the talisay tree and ate pandesal by herself. He wanted to say hi. Wanted to ask about her racket. Wanted to offer water.

But each time, he froze.

"Why are you always zoning out lately?" Isaac asked one afternoon.

"No reason," Levi said, grinning.

But poetry, he realized, wasn't just Isaac's thing.

Because suddenly, everything about Rina made him want to write something in the air.

His chance came unexpectedly.

Intramurals Week.

Lagonoy High held a mixed doubles exhibition match between different sports clubs. Levi's badminton team was paired with the tennis team for a "friendly cross-sport rally."

He nearly dropped his Gatorade when Coach Dan announced, "Levi, you and Rina. Team A."

They met formally for the first time by the court entrance.

"You're the guy who stared at me during practice," she said casually, adjusting her cap.

He blushed so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet.

"I wasn't staring. I was... admiring... your backhand."

She laughed.

Not at him. Just at the honesty.

And in that moment, something shifted.

Their chemistry wasn't immediate, but it was curious. On the court, she was steady. He was fast. She calculated her movements. He relied on instinct. At first, they collided more than collaborated, but with every round, their rhythm grew clearer.

"You're good at reading the shuttle," she said during a water break.

"You're good at pretending you don't notice people watching you," he shot back.

She smiled, wide and open. "That obvious?"

"To me," he said.

Their team won. Barely. But the real reward was something else.

At the end of the match, she nudged his shoulder.

"Thanks for playing nice. I don't usually like team sports."

"I do," he said. "Especially with you."

That night, he couldn't sleep.

Not because of the game.

But because of the way she said his name.

The slow part came after.

They didn't suddenly become close. She was still in a different section. He still had badminton tournaments. She had early-morning tennis drills. But they started meeting on Fridays under the talisay tree.

Sometimes, they shared merienda: turon, banana cue, iced coffee from the canteen.

Sometimes, they just talked.

"Why tennis?" he asked one afternoon.

"My brother played. He taught me. I guess I just never stopped. You?"

"My lolo," Levi said, smiling. "He was a provincial champ. Said badminton was like life. Fast, unpredictable, but fun if you kept moving."

She liked that.

He liked that she liked it.

Once, he gave her a shuttlecock with her name written on the feathers.

"So you remember me when you practice."

She looked at it, surprised. Then gently tucked it in her bag.

"Corny," she said.

"Memorable," he said.

One stormy afternoon, when classes were cut early, they found themselves hiding from the rain under the eaves of the gym.

The wind howled. Thunder cracked. Rina hugged her knees, shivering slightly.

Levi pulled off his jacket and offered it without a word.

She didn't refuse.

"You ever write things down?" he asked suddenly.

"Like a journal?"

He nodded.

She hesitated. "I write letters I never send."

He stared at her, struck. "Me too."

They laughed, shyly.

The storm didn't feel as loud after that.

By October, Levi knew.

He liked her. Not just for her serves or her smile or how she tied her shoelaces in double knots. He liked the quiet strength she carried. The way she listened more than she spoke. The way she never forced a laugh.

He didn't know how to say it. But he knew he wanted to.

So he did what Isaac would do.

He wrote.

On the last day of the sports festival, as clubs exchanged souvenirs and photo collages, Levi folded a note into the shape of a birdie shuttle.

Inside, five stanzas.

In rallies and rhythm, I found something true,

A name echoed clearer than the sound of my shoes.

You swing like the sun, bold and bright,

And I chase your shadow like a moth to light.

I don't know love, not really,

But I know how your silence feels like home.

In a world of noise and digital haze,

You make the court feel like a poem.

Would it be strange to ask for time,

Not all, just pieces, little and kind?

To share laughter near the old gym wall,

Or stories over milktea, nothing grand, nothing small.

I don't expect a serve returned,

But here I stand, feet firm, heart learned.

If there's a game worth playing more than any,

It's the chance of knowing you completely.

So here I say, not loud but true,

Rina, may I rally life with you?

He left it inside her tennis bag before the photo op. Then went home, heart pacing harder than any championship match.

Monday arrived.

Rina wasn't in her usual seat under the talisay. He thought maybe it was too much. Too early. Too soon.

But as the final bell rang, he heard footsteps behind him.

"Badminton boy."

He turned.

Rina stood there, holding the paper birdie.

"You dropped this," she said.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

"Next Friday. Talisay tree. Banana cue and iced coffee. My treat."

His heart fluttered.

"So that's a yes?"

"That's a maybe," she said, turning. "Depending on how good your drop shot is."

He laughed.

"Challenge accepted."

As she walked away, Levi felt the world slow down. Like the soft arc of a shuttlecock descending. Like a moment suspended in air.

Not love yet.

But the start of something steady.

Something that moved.

Something that—like badminton and tennis—needed practice, rhythm, and care.

And maybe, just maybe, would turn into a love that never missed a serve.

End.