The scent of sampaguitas always reminded Maya of home. Not the four walls she shared with her ever-busy parents in Davao City, but the feeling of warmth, of belonging, that seemed to cling to the air in her Lola Elena’s garden back in Davao del Sur. It was a scent that promised comfort, a gentle whisper of simpler times.
This year, however, the sampaguitas seemed to mock her. Their sweet fragrance drifted through her open window, a constant reminder of everything she’d lost. The scholarship she’d worked tirelessly for, snatched away by a bureaucratic error. The friends who suddenly seemed too busy for her now that she wasn’t going to be studying abroad. Even her boyfriend, Marco, had drifted away, his promises as fleeting as the summer rain.
She buried her face in her pillow, the floral scent suffocating her. “Stupid sampaguitas,” she mumbled, her voice thick with unshed tears.
A soft knock on her door startled her. “Maya? Are you okay?”
It was him. Miguel. The boy next door.
Miguel had always been… there. A constant fixture in her life, like the mango tree in their shared backyard. He was the quiet, unassuming type, always with his nose buried in a book or tinkering with some gadget. They’d grown up together, building forts in the backyard, sharing stories under the star-dusted Davao sky, but somewhere along the way, Maya had outgrown him. He was just Miguel, the boy next door.
“Go away, Miguel,” she said, her voice muffled.
“I heard you crying,” he said, his voice gentle. “Can I come in?”
Maya hesitated. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this, a mess of tangled hair and swollen eyes. But Miguel wasn’t just anyone. He was Miguel.
“Fine,” she mumbled, pushing herself up and wiping her face with the back of her hand.
He entered quietly, his eyes filled with concern. He was taller than she remembered, his lanky frame filled out with a surprising amount of muscle. He still had that same mop of unruly black hair, though, and those kind, hazel eyes that always seemed to see right through her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, settling on the edge of her bed.
Maya hesitated, then the dam finally broke. She poured out her heart to him, the words tumbling out in a rush of anger, frustration, and disappointment. She told him about the scholarship, about Marco, about feeling like her whole world was crumbling around her.
Miguel listened patiently, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer platitudes, just listened. When she was finally done, he simply said, “That sucks, Maya. It really does.”
His honesty surprised her. She’d expected empty reassurances, the usual “everything happens for a reason” spiel. But Miguel didn’t offer any of that. He just acknowledged her pain.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
Maya shrugged, feeling lost and adrift. “I don’t know. Probably just stay here, rot away, and become a bitter old maid.”
Miguel chuckled, a warm, comforting sound. “You? A bitter old maid? I don’t think so. You’re too stubborn for that.”
He paused, then said, “You know, Lola Elena is looking for someone to help her with the garden. She’s getting too old to do it all herself.”
Maya frowned. “Gardening? I don’t know anything about gardening.”
“Lola Elena will teach you,” Miguel said. “Besides, you always loved her sampaguitas.”
The thought of spending time with her Lola Elena, surrounded by the familiar scents and sounds of her garden, was strangely appealing. It wouldn’t solve her problems, but it would be a welcome escape.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
The next morning, Maya found herself on a bus heading to Davao del Sur. The city faded behind her, replaced by lush green rice paddies and coconut trees swaying in the breeze. As the bus rattled along the bumpy road, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation, a flicker of hope in the darkness.
Lola Elena’s garden was even more beautiful than she remembered. Bougainvilleas in vibrant shades of pink and purple cascaded over the walls, orchids clung to the branches of the mango trees, and the air was thick with the sweet fragrance of sampaguitas.
Lola Elena greeted her with a warm hug and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Welcome home, hija,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re exactly what this garden needs.”
The first few days were tough. Maya’s hands were blistered and sore, her back ached, and she felt utterly clueless about everything. She accidentally pruned a prize-winning rose bush, nearly fainted from the heat, and spent an entire afternoon battling a swarm of mosquitos.
But Lola Elena was patient and encouraging. She taught Maya the names of the plants, the secrets of the soil, the rhythm of the seasons. She showed her how to coax life from the earth, how to nurture and care for the delicate balance of nature.
As Maya worked in the garden, she began to feel a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in months. The physical labor was exhausting, but it was also cathartic. As she weeded and watered, she slowly began to weed out the bitterness and resentment that had taken root in her heart.
She also rediscovered the joy of simple things. The feel of the warm earth between her fingers, the vibrant colors of the flowers, the sound of the birds singing in the trees. She learned to appreciate the beauty that surrounded her, the beauty she had been too busy to notice before.
One afternoon, as she was watering the sampaguitas, Miguel arrived. He’d taken a weekend off from his studies in Davao City to visit his grandmother.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the gate. “You look… different.”
Maya smiled, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Different good or different bad?”
“Different good,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You seem… happier.”
Maya shrugged. “Maybe I am. This place… it’s good for me.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon together, wandering through the garden, talking and laughing. Maya found herself looking at Miguel in a new light. He wasn’t just the boy next door anymore. He was kind, intelligent, and surprisingly funny. He was also incredibly supportive, always there to offer a helping hand or a listening ear.
As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the garden, Miguel turned to Maya and said, “You know, I always thought you were amazing, Maya. Even when you were too busy chasing your dreams to notice me.”
Maya blushed, suddenly feeling shy. “Miguel…”
He took her hand, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. “I know you’re going through a tough time, but I also know you’re strong. You’ll figure things out. And I’ll be here for you, every step of the way.”
Maya looked into his eyes, seeing a depth of emotion she had never noticed before. In that moment, surrounded by the scent of sampaguitas and the warmth of the setting sun, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she had found something even better than the dreams she had lost.
She leaned in and kissed him, a soft, tentative kiss that spoke volumes.
The scent of sampaguitas filled the air, no longer a reminder of loss, but a promise of new beginnings. A promise of second chances, of unexpected love, and of finding happiness in the most unlikely of places. And Maya knew, with a certainty that warmed her from the inside out, that she was finally home.
