Si Rose At Si Alma ✦ Tested
Alma’s eyes glistened. For the first time, she saw it: Rose wasn’t just calm. She was frozen. And Alma wasn’t just passionate. She was ash-blind, leaving scorch marks on everyone who loved her.
“You’re burning,” Rose replied. “And I’m tired of being the water.”
But one summer, the balance broke.
Their mother used to say, “Si Rose ay ugat, si Alma ay apoy.” Rose is the root. Alma is the fire. SI ROSE AT SI ALMA
Rose closed her eyes. A single tear fell. “And I’ll learn to burn a little. Just enough to live.”
“I’ll learn to be a garden,” Alma said quietly. “Not a wildfire.”
Si Rose ay hindi na ugat lamang. Si Alma ay hindi na apoy lamang. Alma’s eyes glistened
They didn’t fix each other. They didn’t have to.
“You’re drowning,” Alma said. Not a question.
Then Alma did something she never did. She stopped talking. She fetched a comb, a towel, and a pair of proper shears. She sat behind Rose and began to cut. Not fast. Not fiery. Slowly. Gently. And Alma wasn’t just passionate
Alma came home at midnight, her knuckles bruised, her smile too wide. She had punched a landlord who evicted a single mother from her class. “He deserved it,” she said, pressing ice to her hand.
Alma was the youngest. She was a cracked bell on a Sunday morning—loud, beautiful, and impossible to ignore. She danced in a cramped studio above a bakery, teaching kids who couldn’t afford lessons. Her laugh was a thunderclap. Her hair was always dyed a different shade of red. She collected people like stray cats, and they followed her into trouble without question.