26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLoewKS2nfO
The auditorium was packed—parents, students, faculty. Everyone dressed for celebration, not war.
But Ruthie Villanueva? She was dressed to kill.
Her black dress shimmered with cold elegance as she stood backstage, arms folded, eyes narrowed. Her signature smirk was in place, the one that made freshmen tremble and teachers choose their words carefully.
“Ready ka na, Joy?” she asked, her voice dripping with sweet venom.
Joy Asuncion, standing beside her, clutched her cue cards like they were the only solid thing in her world. She nodded, too fast, too eager to please.
“Good,” Ruthie whispered, just loud enough. “Kasi wala ka nang choice.”
The lights dimmed. Applause erupted.
Ruthie walked out first, head high, every step measured. She was student council president, debate team captain, valedictorian candidate—the school’s untouchable queen. But to those who knew the rumors, she was more than that.
She was ruthless.
“Good evening,” Ruthie began, mic in hand, her voice calm and cutting. “Tonight, we honor excellence. But more importantly… we expose mediocrity.”
The audience laughed—awkward, confused. Joy stepped onto the stage behind her, smiling nervously. Ruthie didn’t look at her.
“Let’s start with a poem,” Ruthie announced. “Written by none other than Joy Asuncion.”
Joy’s eyes widened. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Ruthie gestured to the screen behind them. Lines of Joy’s handwriting appeared—messy, raw, personal. A poem Joy had never shared publicly. A poem from her private notebook.
The crowd went still.
Joy stared at the words in horror. “I am not the girl they cheer for. I am the echo behind the applause.”
“Touching, di ba?” Ruthie said sweetly. “But when you plagiarize Sylvia Plath and think no one will notice… that’s not art. That’s desperation.”
Gasps. Whispers.
“Ruthie…” Joy whispered, tears brimming.
Ruthie turned, finally facing her. “Next time, if you’re going to fake depth, at least don’t lift lines from Google.”
Joy ran off the stage.
Ruthie turned back to the mic, as if nothing had happened. “On to the next award…”
The applause came late. Uneasy. Shaky.
Later that night, in the girls’ bathroom, two juniors whispered as they re-applied lip gloss.
“Grabe si Ruthie. Ang harsh.”
“Pero ang galing niya magsalita. Parang… may dahilan.”
“Dahilan? She just humiliated someone onstage!”
“Eh baka naman may ginawa si Joy?”
The bathroom door creaked open.
Ruthie walked in, her heels echoing like gunshots.
The girls scattered.
She stared at herself in the mirror, removing her earrings with slow precision. Her reflection didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.
From her bag, she pulled out the notebook.
Joy’s notebook.
She opened it to the same poem.
Her fingers brushed the pages like a secret.
“I am not the girl they cheer for. I am the echo behind the applause.”
She knew that feeling.
Intimately.
Painfully.
But no one ever asked why the villain knew how to wound so precisely.
Because no one ever asked what happened before the claws came out.
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