BongLeni Anthologies

Pan De Coco

—  𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚  —

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—  𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚  —

Leni doesn’t like sweet bread.

At least, that’s what she says. She says it offhandedly while thumbing through a folder of policy briefs, in between bites of a tuna sandwich on whole wheat, or while glancing up from her glasses with that wry, tired smile that makes it impossible to tell if she’s joking.

“More of a savory person kasi ako,” she says. “Inaantok ako pag nakakalasa ng matamis sa umaga. Masyado namang rich ang coconut. Ayoko naman ng carbs ng gantong oras.”

It’s delivered with the flat precision of someone who’s said it often enough to make it true. Her staff parrots it now—“Wag n'yong dalhan ng sweets si Ma'am, she’ll feed them to us.” It’s a fact of office life. Like the smell of photocopier ink or the constant low hum of the air-conditioning that never quite works right.

But sometimes—on random, unremarkable Tuesdays, or long, gray Thursdays that feel like they’ve folded in on themselves—there’s a paper bag waiting on her desk when she walks in.

No note. No fanfare. Just that bag—slightly crumpled, always warm, soft with oil stains where the bread has melted against its wax paper lining. Inside, the unmistakable scent of sugar and butter, of something baked slowly and lovingly. Pan de coco. Ensaymada. Maybe a cheese roll from that obscure little bakery on the corner of somewhere and memory.

No one ever sees who leaves it.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t comment. She just opens her laptop and moves the bag slightly to the side, as though it had always been part of the furniture.

Still, her aide asked once. It was late afternoon, the sunlight slanting gold across the linoleum, and the room smelled faintly of coffee and floor polish.

“Ma’am,” her assistant began, teasing, “may bisita po ba kayo kanina? May nag-iwan po nito oh.”

Leni didn’t look up from her screen.

“Wala naman,” she said smoothly, eyes unreadable. “Baka vendor lang ‘yan sa labas.”

But her fingers had stilled on the keyboard. Just for a moment. Just enough.

Because it wasn’t a vendor. Of course it wasn’t.

She knew who it was—had known for months, maybe years. She could almost hear the footsteps behind the quiet delivery: careful, deliberate, the kind of footsteps that tried not to linger too long. He never left a note, but she imagined he wanted to. Imagined him standing outside the door, the paper bag in his hand, wondering whether it was too much or not enough.

And she never ate it right away.

She’d let it sit there for a while, untouched, pretending it wasn’t calling her name. But by the end of the day, the bag would be empty—quietly, casually. As if it hadn’t mattered. As if the sweetness hadn’t softened something inside her ribcage, something she didn’t want her staff to see.