Title: Strings and Sonnets

In the quiet coastal town of Lagonoy, where the salty wind carried the scent of the sea through rustling coconut trees, Lagonoy High School was a world of its own. It was June, the rainy season barely brushing the edges of the school year. In a section just above the canteen, in a room that hummed with idle chatter and chalk dust, a first-year student named Arvin strummed his guitar during lunch breaks.

Arvin was known to his classmates as a "jammer" — a boy with unruly hair, a quiet smile, and a voice like warm taho. He wasn't loud or flashy, but his music turned heads, and sometimes even stilled noisy rooms. He often sang under the acacia tree behind the gym, where the breeze made his voice dance through the leaves.

He shared a section with Rina, the tennis girl with soft eyes and a sharper backhand, and every now and then, she'd tease him for singing love songs when he'd never even had a crush. "All those love songs, but you don't even have someone to write about," she'd say.

But Arvin did have a heart that listened. He watched people closely, quietly inspired by moments others missed. And lately, he had been watching something unfold in the star section—a love story between Isaac, the quiet poet, and Ella, the class muse with ink-stained fingers. Their story wasn't loud. It moved like rain on glass: slow, soft, sincere.

He also noticed Rina's subtle closeness with Levi, the badminton player from Isaac and Ella's class. They weren't a couple, not yet, but there was a rhythm to their presence—a volley of glances, a shared laughter, the way they waited for each other after training.

One Friday, Arvin sat by the edge of the school's concrete bleachers, tuning his guitar under the gold-and-pink sky. Isaac happened to walk past, a small notebook clutched in his hand. Arvin stood and caught his attention.

"Hey, Isaac," Arvin began, voice uncertain. "Can I ask you something?"

Isaac blinked, pausing. "About what?"

"I want to write a song. But... I want it to sound like one of your poems. The kind that really hits the heart."

Isaac smiled, looking down at his notebook. "That can work. But the best songs still come from your own story."

"That's the thing," Arvin said, almost whispering. "I don't think I have one. But I want to make something that feels like a love letter to all kinds of love."

So began their after-class meetings under the bleachers, in the library corners, and by the music room. Isaac would share stanzas, and Arvin would hum melodies around them. It was slow work, but joyful.

"You know," Isaac said one afternoon, "a song is like a poem too. But with breath and waves. Here, listen to this."

Arvin wrote the lyrics in his notebook, line by line:

Song of the Quiet Heart

Between laughter and glances,

There are stories we often miss.

In every smile, there lies a question,

"Would you love me too, even if I never say it?"

In every step on silent paths,

Beats a heart unsure but brave.

Love doesn't always scream,

Sometimes it's just a song that feels like grace.

For you who loves in silence,

For you who speaks in verse.

For you who chose to wait,

And for you who hopes to be heard.

In the end, everything becomes a song,

A tale of feelings long endured.

But through the rhythm of truth I bring,

I hope you'll know me without the words "I love you."

Rina read the lyrics one afternoon and said, "Why does it feel like you're writing from experience now, Arvin?"

"Maybe because I've been watching some stories happen," he replied with a small grin.

By the school's Foundation Day, Arvin signed up to perform in the program. It was the first time he would sing something original. The courtyard was filled with students, booths, and the smell of fishballs and turon.

He stood with his guitar, heart pounding. In the front row sat Isaac and Ella, hands nearly touching. Behind them, Levi nudged Rina. And somewhere along the left wing of the crowd was a girl Arvin had never really spoken to—a chess player named Mara from the star section.

She was known for her stoic nature, hair always tied in a clean ponytail, and the way she played chess like she saw ten moves ahead. Arvin had seen her play once, expression unreadable, like a queen biding her time.

But that day, Mara wasn't thinking about chess. She was watching Arvin.

The moment his voice rose through the first verse of Song of the Quiet Heart, the crowd quieted. It wasn't just a song. It was a letter, a confession, and a prayer in melody. His voice trembled in the beginning, but Isaac nodded at him from the crowd, and Arvin found his rhythm.

When he finished, there was applause, of course. But more than that, there was a silence that lingered—the kind of silence that follows something genuine.

Later, as he was packing up his guitar, someone tapped his shoulder.

"Arvin, right?"

He turned and saw Mara. She was smiling, though it was a small, reserved smile.

"Y-yeah," he said. "You're Mara? The chess varsity?"

She nodded. "I just wanted to say your song was beautiful. It felt like... it struck something I didn't know I wanted to feel."

He blinked, surprised. "Really?"

"Yes. Would it be okay if I listened to it again sometime? Between all the logic and strategy... I think I want to hear something that speaks from the heart."

And just like that, the boy who sang other people's stories began to write his own.

They didn't become lovers right away. Arvin and Mara met often at the acacia tree—sometimes to talk, sometimes to listen, sometimes just to be there. Arvin would bring his guitar. Mara would bring her chessboard.

Their love didn't move in grand gestures. It moved like lyrics turning into music, like strategy softened by melody. It moved slow. But it moved.

And for Arvin, that was the kind of love he never thought he'd write about—a love that didn't start with heartbreak or fireworks, but with quiet applause, borrowed poetry, and the courage to sing from the heart.

End.