Chapter 7:
The Name And The Search

The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind her, and the sound seemed to echo through every quiet corner of the penthouse. Arthur stood frozen in place for a long time, his hand still hovering near the handle, as if he could reach out and pull her back just by wishing hard enough. The faint, clean scent of lemon cleaner and coconut shampoo lingered in the air-her scent-and it felt like the only thing keeping the room from feeling completely empty.

He let his hand fall slowly to his side, his shoulders slumping with a quiet heaviness he couldn't explain. He turned back to the living room, his steps slower than usual, and sank deep into the plush leather sofa. The silence here was different now-no longer just quiet, but hollow, like it had been waiting for something and now it had slipped away again.

His brand‑new MacBook sat open on the marble coffee table, its sleek silver casing glowing softly in the warm lamp light. The half‑finished business report on the screen blurred before his eyes; he couldn't recall a single word he'd typed earlier that day. Without really deciding to, he pulled the laptop closer, his fingers moving almost on their own, and opened a new browser tab.

It's just curiosity, he told himself, though the excuse felt thin even to his own ears. Just... making sure she's who she says she is. That's all.

He typed in fragments first: "cleaning agency Ateneo student", "curly‑haired cleaner Manila", but nothing came up. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair in frustration-until his gaze landed on the small crumpled schedule slip she'd tucked under the edge of the side table when she'd arrived. He reached for it carefully, like it was something fragile, and there it was, written in quick, looping, neat handwriting: Hannah L.

His heart did a strange, stupid little flip in his chest. Hannah. Just saying the name softly in his mind made it feel like something real, something he could hold onto.

He typed it into the search bar, adding "Ateneo de Manila University" at the end. Hundreds of results scrolled past-until one profile photo made his breath catch.

It was her.

He leaned in closer, elbows on his knees, and scrolled through her page slowly, as if he might miss something important. There were no polished influencer shots, no carefully curated outfits, no fake smiles for the camera. Every single photo was raw, messy, and so entirely her that he found himself smiling without even realizing it:

- There she was, hunched over a steaming bowl of instant noodles, chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth, wild curls falling all over her face like she didn't care one bit.

- A ridiculous edited selfie where her face was stretched wide in a goofy, over‑the‑top grin, showing every tooth, no shame at all.

- Another silly edit where her head was pasted onto a chubby yellow cartoon figure holding a tiny knife, captioned in messy letters: "when someone says I missed a spot 🗡️🤣".

- A sleepy, candid shot where she was dozing at a dining table, a buttery croissant dangling comically from her lips, half‑eaten fruit still scattered across her plate.

- Photos of her with an elderly woman he guessed was her grandmother-flour dusted all over both their faces, laughing so hard they were bent over the kitchen counter.

- A blurry snapshot of her holding up a crumpled exam paper, grinning with tired triumph, the caption reading: "SURVIVED MIDTERMS!!! send snacks 🙏".

- One quiet, unsmiling photo of her sitting by a hospital window, hands folded tightly in her lap, that made his chest ache with a sudden, sharp understanding of how much she carried.

He read every silly caption, every short update, every casual post about running late for work, forgetting her umbrella, or stealing extra rice from the convenience store. He laughed out loud-soft, genuine, a sound he hadn't heard from himself in months-at her rants about traffic and her gushing posts about Disha Landicho's new film.

Then he stopped, staring at his own faint reflection in the dark edge of the screen.

What am I doing? he thought, a strange mix of embarrassment and something far deeper settling over him. Stalking her social media like some boy with a crush? I'm Arthur Chen. I don't do this. I don't get distracted by cleaners. I don't stay home from parties just to stare at photos of a girl who barely speaks to me.

It felt foolish. It felt too much. He should close the tab. He should get dressed. He should go to the party, laugh with his friends, drink too much, and forget all about the girl with the curls and the mop.

But he didn't close the tab. He didn't move to get up. He just saved the page to his bookmarks, shut the laptop gently, and rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. I just want to make sure she's okay, he told himself again, and this time he almost believed it.

His phone buzzed against the table, loud and insistent, breaking the quiet. He picked it up, and the name Azrael Xie lit up bright against the dark screen. He took a breath before answering, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Hey."

"Dude. Where on earth are you?" Azrael's voice was sharp, clear, and already surrounded by the faint thrum of music and chatter-exactly the kind of noise Arthur usually lived for. "Everyone's asking for you. You said you'd be here an hour ago! This is your spot-you practically own the VIP section!"

Arthur glanced toward the door, toward the empty space where Hannah had stood, toward the faint scent of lemon still in the air. He thought of the knife meme, the croissant, the way her eyes had lit up when she talked about Disha. He thought of how hollow the parties felt now, how every beautiful, polished face he saw just reminded him of her.

"Not coming," he said simply, quieter than he meant to.

There was a long pause on the other end. "Arthur? You good? Are you sick? Did something happen?"

"I'm fine. Just... not in the mood."

"Since when is Arthur Chen 'not in the mood' for a party?" Azrael pressed, sounding genuinely confused now. "This isn't you. Is everything okay?"

Arthur leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes. "Everything's fine. I'll catch you guys next time. Have a drink for me."

He hung up before his friend could argue, dropped the phone onto the cushion beside him, and let the silence wrap around him again. The noise, the lights, the crowds, the girls who smiled at him like he was a prize-none of it mattered anymore. Somewhere along the way, without him even noticing, the only thing that felt real had become the girl who scolded him for being messy, who ate noodles like she was starving, who ran away every time he got too close.

He reached into his wallet, his fingers brushing the smooth leather until they found the single dark curl he'd tucked away days before. He pulled it out, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly in the soft light.

Hannah, he said to himself, letting the name settle warm in his chest. What are you hiding? And why am I so desperate to find out?