Seven Juarez jolted awake, heart pounding like a drum solo. His sheets were tangled, damp with sweat, and the echo of a nightmare clung to his mind. A single, massive eye, corrupted and pulsing with sickly crimson veins, had stared at him from a void of darkness, whispering his name in a voice that crawled under his skin. He shuddered, rubbing his face. “Just a dream,” he muttered, glancing at his phone. The alarm hadn’t even gone off yet—6:03 a.m. Typical.
“Seven! Mijo, breakfast!” The warm, familiar voice of his grandmother, Lola Rosa, floated up from the kitchen, cutting through the morning haze. Seven sighed, swinging his legs out of bed. The nightmare’s chill lingered, but the smell of pandesal and fried eggs was already working its magic. He shuffled to the mirror, running a hand through his messy black hair. Just another day at Esguerra Senior High. Nothing special about a Grade 12 guy like him… right?
Downstairs, Lola Rosa was a whirlwind in her floral apron, setting the table with practiced ease. Her gray hair was tied in a neat bun, and her smile was brighter than the morning sun streaming through the window. “You look like you saw a tikbalang, Seven,” she teased, sliding a plate toward him. “Eat up. Can’t be late for school again.”
Seven grinned, grabbing a warm pandesal. “No tikbalang, Lola. Just… weird dreams.” He didn’t mention the corrupted eye. No need to worry her. They ate in comfortable silence, the clink of cutlery mixing with the hum of a morning radio show. Lola Rosa rambled about her garden club, and Seven nodded along, his mind half on the nightmare, half on the math quiz he hadn’t studied for.
After breakfast, Seven threw on his school uniform—crisp white polo, navy slacks, and a tie he barely bothered to knot properly. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, kissed Lola Rosa’s cheek, and stepped out into the bustling streets of their small town. The walk to Esguerra Senior High was short, just a few blocks past sari-sari stores and jeepneys honking in the morning rush. Seven liked walking. It gave him time to think, to shake off weird dreams and focus on surviving another day of senior year.
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The school gates were a chaotic swirl of students—freshmen giggling, jocks tossing a basketball, and seniors like him weaving through the crowd. Seven slipped into the flow, nodding at a few classmates. Esguerra Senior High was big, modern, and always buzzing, but Seven kept to himself mostly. He wasn’t unpopular, just… average. The guy who got decent grades, cracked quiet jokes, and never stood out. Named after the seven heavenly virtues, his parents had hoped he’d be special. So far? Not so much.
In homeroom, Seven slouched at his desk near the window, doodling in his notebook as their teacher, Ms. Santos, started the morning announcements. Her voice was chipper, as usual. “Good morning, everyone! Before we begin, we have a special treat—a new student joining our class today!”
Seven’s pencil paused. A transfer student? In the middle of senior year? Whispers rippled through the room, and heads turned toward the door. Ms. Santos beamed. “Come in, sweetie, and introduce yourself!”
The door creaked open, and in walked a girl who seemed to pull the air out of the room. She wore the standard Esguerra uniform—white blouse, navy skirt—but it looked effortlessly perfect on her. Her dark hair was tied back with a sunflower hairband, a bright pop of color that matched her soft, radiant smile. Seven’s eyes widened. Something about her name, her presence, tugged at a memory he couldn’t place.
The girl stepped to the front, her movements graceful but unassuming. She clasped her hands, her voice soft yet clear. “Good morning, everyone. My name is Eight Hernandez. I hope we can get along.”
The classroom erupted. Guys blushed, some nudging each other with goofy grins. A few girls shot jealous glances, while others whispered about wanting to be her friend. Eight’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes scanned the room—and locked onto Seven for a split second. His heart did a weird flip. Eight Hernandez… why does that sound so familiar?
Ms. Santos clapped her hands. “Wonderful, Eight! You’ll be sitting next to Seven Juarez, right over there.” She pointed, and Seven froze as every head turned his way. Eight nodded, her expression unreadable but her eyes sparkling with something… recognition? As she walked to the desk beside him, a thought flickered in her mind, warm and certain: You’ve become more handsome, my childhood friend.
Seven swallowed, his throat dry. Childhood friend? He racked his brain, but the pieces wouldn’t fit. Not yet. Ms. Santos started the lesson, her chalk scratching the board, but Seven barely heard her. The girl next to him, Eight, was jotting notes with a serene focus, her sunflower hairband catching the light. Something about her felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place—and like the corrupted eye from his nightmare, it made his pulse race.
