Ronnabelle Lora

Out of My League | Pages: Short Story | Fiction

Article (news)

ABS-CBN Studios

<div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236306162SS-OOML-01.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>Yana was the kind of woman people noticed the moment she entered a room. Not just because she was beautiful—though she undeniably was—but also because she carried herself with a quiet brightness that made the world feel lighter. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236326264SS-OOML-02.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>She was smart, warm, and cheerful in a way that never felt forced. Looking at her made me feel like everything was somehow going to be okay.</p><p>Like everyone else, I watched from afar when she won Miss Philippines and went on to compete internationally. She didn’t bring home the crown, but she carried herself with so much grace that it didn’t seem to matter. To me, she had already won something more important.</p><p>She had captured my heart. </p><div> </div><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236339566SS-OOML-03.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Women like Yana belonged to another world. A world composed of cameras, admiration, and endless opportunities. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236368125SS-OOML-04.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>I was just a middle-aged talk show producer with a growing belly, a permanently tired face, and a job that kept me behind the scenes. The only thing people ever complimented about me were my easy smile, my warm demeanor for everyone, and my extra thoughtfulness for the small people around me.</p><p>Nothing extraordinary.</p><p>Nothing of which would ever belong in Yana’s world. </p><div> </div><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236382784SS-OOML-05.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>So when she became a guest on the talk show I was producing, I treated it like any other booking. Professional. Routine. It was just another day at work.</p><p>But when she arrived, she walked straight toward me and smiled like we had known each other for years. </p><div style="text-align:center">  </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236403145SS-OOML-06.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>“I know you,” she said.</p><p>I laughed awkwardly. “From the show?” </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236418505SS-OOML-07.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>“No,” she said gently. “From a long time ago. From a medical mission you joined in college.”</p><p>I was flattered, of course. But I couldn’t remember it. College was a blur of projects, outreach work, and volunteer programs. I must have attended dozens.</p><p>Still, after that day we started texting. Nothing serious. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236432585SS-OOML-08.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>Casual messages about the show, story ideas, sometimes a joke or two about how chaotic production days could get. To me, it was just friendly conversation. She was way out of my league. I never allowed my mind to go anywhere beyond friendship. </p><p>Meanwhile, rumors around her never stopped. There was long list of suitors made up of businessmen, celebrities, and influential families. </p><p>I didn’t belong anywhere near that list. </p><p>Then something unexpected happened. </p><div><br/></div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236645827SS-OOML-09.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>Yana became a regular host on the show.</p><p>It turned out she was brilliant in conversations—articulate, thoughtful, and quick-witted. The audience loved her, and the network did too. Soon she was part of our weekly routine.</p><p>And slowly, quietly, something began to grow between us. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236660226SS-OOML-10.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>At first, it was just little things. The way she would linger after tapings just to talk. The way she remembered my coffee order. The way she laughed at my worst jokes.</p><p>There were nights I couldn’t sleep, wondering if what I felt meant anything at all.</p><p>My best friend tried to bring me back to reality. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236680464SS-OOML-11.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>“Careful,” he warned. “You might just be misreading her kindness. Or worse—she could just be keeping you close because you’re the producer.”</p><p>But that never made sense to me. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236699805SS-OOML-12.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>Yana didn’t need anything from me. She had more endorsements, more opportunities, more connections than I could ever offer. If anything, she was the one living a bigger life.</p><p>Still, I buried my feelings. Better to protect our friendship than risk humiliating myself. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236715767SS-OOML-13.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>So I became distant.</p><p>Not intentionally—but enough that she noticed.</p><p>One evening after a late taping, when most of the crew had already left, she approached me. </p><div> </div><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236732005SS-OOML-14.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>“Why are you suddenly cold to me?” she asked.</p><p>I froze.</p><p>“I’m not,” I said quickly.</p><div> </div><p>She studied me for a moment, and then sighed softly.</p><p>“I know I have a special place in your heart,” she said. “And you have one in mine too.”</p><p>My heart stopped.</p><p>“For a long time,” she added. “Even before any of this.” </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236751647SS-OOML-15.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>Then she opened her wallet.</p><p>Inside was a small, worn photograph.</p><p>It took me a moment to recognize it. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236772806SS-OOML-16.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>In the picture was a younger version of me—skinny, bright-eyed, wearing a volunteer shirt during a college medical mission. My arm was wrapped around a frail little girl in a wheelchair. She looked painfully thin, her eyes hollow with exhaustion.</p><div> </div><p>In the photo, I was feeding her. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236807867SS-OOML-17.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>Yana’s voice trembled slightly.</p><p>“That girl,” she said softly, “was me.”</p><p>My mind went blank. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236825969SS-OOML-18.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>She continued.</p><p>“My mother abandoned me in an orphanage that barely had funding. When your group came for the medical mission, the social workers were overwhelmed. There were too many children.”</p><p>“You noticed me,” she said.</p><p>“You stayed beside me. You fed me. You sang to me. You held me because I was scared.”</p><p>Her voice cracked. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236844488SS-OOML-19.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>“You didn’t leave until I was better.”</p><p>I felt my throat tighten.</p><p>“You and your friends raised funds for the orphanage,” she continued. “You wrote letters to the government asking them to pay attention to us. And they did.” </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236862689SS-OOML-20.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>She looked down at the photograph.</p><p>“I stole this picture from the orphanage bulletin board,” she admitted softly. “I kept it in my wallet all these years.”</p><p>She looked back at me, her eyes shining.</p><p>“When things went wrong in my life, I would look at this picture and remember your smile. It reminded me that there was goodness in the world.” </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236904947SS-OOML-21.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>“I’ve always been alone,” she continued quietly. “When I finally left the orphanage and started building a life, I promised myself that someday I would find you.”</p><p>Her voice dropped to a whisper.</p><p>“And when I finally did… I was afraid to tell you.”</p><p>“I didn’t want you to think I was asking for a favor again. I don’t want to be seen as a victim I was before.”</p><p>She took a breath. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236922647SS-OOML-22.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>“But the truth is… I’ve loved you all my life. Even before we met again.”</p><p>For a long moment, I couldn’t speak.</p><div> </div><p>The fragile girl from that photo—the one with hollow eyes and trembling hands—had grown into the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.</p><p>And she had been carrying my memory in her heart all these years.</p><p>I broke down and cried. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236950589SS-OOML-23.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>Maybe it was heaven’s strange way of returning kindness to the world. Maybe it was simply fate being patient. </p><div>  </div><p>Either way, somehow, impossibly—</p><p>It became us. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236967649SS-OOML-24.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>People around us didn’t understand at first. Many thought it wouldn’t last. But Yana eventually left the talk show to avoid awkwardness and found an even better opportunity. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774236983990SS-OOML-25.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div> </div><p>She is now a Vice President at a Public Relations agency, thriving in a career she built on her own strength. </p><div><br/></div><p>And we’re still here.</p><p>Still us. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774237007128SS-OOML-26.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>We visit the orphanage every few months. We raise funds for the children just like my college friends and I once did. And whenever Yana speaks to them, the kids listen carefully—because she stands before them as proof of what they can become.</p><p>This year, we’re getting married. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774237025329SS-OOML-27.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>It won’t be a grand wedding. No extravagant guest list. No glittering spectacle.</p><p>But half the people attending will be the children and staff from that orphanage. </p><div> </div><div style="text-align:center"><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1774237042909SS-OOML-28.jpg" style="width:960px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><div>  </div><p>And to us, that makes it the most beautiful wedding in the world.</p><div><br/></div><div><br/></div><div><sup><em></em></sup><em></em><em><sup></sup>*Images enhanced using AI filters<br/></em></div><div><em>* All characters and events in this work are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or actual entities is unintentional and coincidental.<sup></sup><sub></sub><sup></sup></em></div>

<p>Pages: Out of My League:<b> </b>In this fictional story, a confession of admiration comes with a price and with lips sealed and hands tied, will destiny work its magic before regret starts to linger?</p>

Pages: Out of My League: In this fictional story, a confession of admiration comes with a price and with lips sealed and hands tied, will destiny work its magic before regret starts to linger?