Chapitre Un

The bell above the café door jingled for what felt like the hundredth time, and I didn’t even bother looking up before the next order flashed on the screen. Morning rush—my daily battlefield.

I wiped my hands on my apron, already stained with faint patterns of coffee, and glanced at the line of customers snaking almost to the window. People with laptops tucked under their arms, others clutching reusable cups, some tapping their feet impatiently—all waiting for their fuel for the day.

A part of me wanted to sigh, but I forced my shoulders to relax instead.

“Good morning! Welcome to Brew & Bean!” I called out, voice steady despite the growing pressure.

A man in a grey hoodie stepped forward, already reaching for his wallet.

“Cappuccino. Extra foam,” he said without much expression, focused on his phone more than me.

“Name?” I asked.

“Eli.”

I wrote it down quickly and handed the cup off to the barista station. No time to linger, no time to think—because the next customer, a woman juggling two phones and a handbag, stepped up looking like she was ready to collapse.

“Triple-shot espresso,” she said, barely meeting my eyes.

“Coming right up,” I assured her, even though she was already walking away before I finished.

The morning went by in a blur of noise and movement. Steam hissing from the milk frother. Espresso machines growling like engines. Cups clinking. Voices overlapping. Orders being called out. The rhythmic chaos of a place that never seemed to stop.

This was my life.

At least, for now.

By 11:30 a.m., the rush began to thin out. My back ached, and my fingers were sore from gripping cups and tapping buttons on the POS machine. I stole a few seconds to stretch, only to hear my supervisor call from behind me.

“Auren, break’s over in ten. Please restock the lids before you clock back in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, masking my exhaustion with a practiced smile.

I moved to the storage cabinet, grabbed a stack of medium-sized lids, and refilled the dispenser near the counter. Every simple task felt heavier than it should, but I kept moving. Because I didn’t have a choice. Because rent didn’t pay itself. Because life didn’t slow down just because I was tired.

After my short break—four minutes actually spent resting, six minutes spent doing side work—I went right back to the counter.

Lunch rush.

Another storm.

The café filled so fast it felt like someone had opened a floodgate. Students hunting for outlets. Office employees ordering for their entire teams. Tourists pointing at the menu like they’d never seen coffee before.

“Macchiato!"

“Order for Liza!”

“Who got the cold brew with oat milk?”

The noise swallowed everything, including my own thoughts. Still, I worked. I smiled when needed. I apologized when someone complained. I ignored the sting in my feet and the dryness in my throat.

Hours passed.

Slowly, painfully, but steadily.

By the time the evening shift arrived, my body felt heavy, as if every bone had doubled in weight. I clocked out, removed my apron, and stuffed it into my bag. It smelled like coffee and sweat—my daily perfume.

The sun was already dipping, painting the streets orange. I stepped outside, the cool breeze brushing against my overheated skin. For a brief moment, I just stood still. Breathing. Letting the world feel quiet again.

Then I began my walk home.

It wasn’t a short walk, but it was cheaper than taking a jeepney every day. The sidewalk was cracked in some parts, uneven in others. Street vendors were packing up their stalls. Kids chased each other near the sari-sari store on the corner. The normal sounds of an ordinary neighborhood.

I passed a row of closed shops, their shutters rusted and tagged with old paint. My steps grew slower the closer I got to home. Not because I was reluctant—just tired. Bone-deep tired.

Finally, I reached the small apartment building where I rented a cramped unit on the third floor. Paint peeling off the walls. Dim hallway lights that flickered when the wind blew too hard. But it was home. For me.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Silence greeted me.

Relief followed.

I dropped my bag onto the chair and kicked off my shoes, letting my sore feet rest on the cold floor tiles. I headed straight to the sink, washed my hands, then splashed water on my face—washing away the smell of brewed coffee, the stress of impatient customers, and the weight of the day.

For a few seconds, I held onto the edge of the sink, eyes closed, breathing slowly. My whole body begged for rest, but giving in wasn’t an option.

I turned on the dim ceiling light—barely bright enough to cover the whole room—and made my way to the tiny kitchen. Calling it a “kitchen” was generous; it was really just a single counter, a small stove, and shelves I’d reinforced with tape and hope.

I grabbed a pan and set it on the stove. Rice from yesterday. I reheated it while sautéing garlic in a small amount of oil—just enough to bring out the smell but not enough to count as waste. Then I added scrambled eggs. Simple, filling, cheap.

My dinner.

The garlic crackled in the pan, releasing a comforting aroma that filled the small unit. It reminded me of simpler days—days before everything became a cycle of shifts, worries, and sleepless nights.

Once the food was done, I placed it on a chipped plate and sat at the small table where my stack of unopened mail waited. Bills, reminders, payment notices—things I didn’t have the energy to face earlier. But ignoring them didn’t stop reality.

I picked up the first envelope with trembling fingers.

St. Paul’s Memorial Hospital – Billing Department

My stomach tensed. I opened it slowly, as if tearing the paper too fast might make the numbers inside worse.

"Outstanding Balance: ₱62,450

Next due date: Friday"

I swallowed hard. There were two more pages—breakdowns of the chemotherapy sessions, medications, and confinement. My younger brother, Aisen, had been in the hospital for three years now.

Three years of fighting.

Three years of hoping.

Three years of expenses climbing faster than I could earn.

I placed the bills on the table and rubbed the bridge of my nose. The quiet room suddenly felt too heavy, too tight.

“Just a little more,” I whispered to myself. “Just hold on a little more.”

I took another bite of my reheated garlic rice and eggs, though it tasted like cardboard now. Not because of the food—but because of the reality I had to swallow alongside it.

After finishing the plate, I washed the dishes quickly, then checked the time on my phone.

6:42 PM.

My shift at the hotel resto-bar started at 8:00. I had less than an hour to prepare if I wanted to make it on time.

I opened the closet—really just a small cabinet with sliding doors—and pulled out the outfit I used for singing gigs. A simple black dress, modest but clean. Fitted enough to look presentable under the dim stage lights, loose enough so I wouldn’t struggle to breathe between songs.

I laid it on the bed, then sat down to rest my feet for a moment. The silence wrapped around me again. Too quiet. Too honest.

I whispered under my breath, “You’re doing this for Aisen. Keep going.”

After a moment, I stood up again, tied my hair into a neat low ponytail, and touched up the faint makeup left on my face from the morning shift. I added a hint of powder and a soft tint to my lips—not to impress anyone, but because the hotel required singers to look “presentable.”

I changed into the black dress carefully, smoothing the wrinkles as best as I could. Then I grabbed my bag—now smelling faintly of coffee and cheap fabric softener—and checked its contents:

Notebook with song lists.

Two extra masks.

A bottle of water.

My worn-out wallet.

I added the hospital bill on top, folding it once and slipping it inside. A reminder of why I couldn’t skip even a single night.

Before stepping out, I turned off the lights and gave the room one last glance. Small. Cramped. Imperfect.

But it was my anchor.

My starting point.

The place I left every day to fight for a future that still felt so far away.

I locked the door behind me and took a deep breath.

Time for job number two.

Another part of the life I didn’t choose—but was determined to survive.