The night had left me drained, and yet sleep came in fragments, never whole, never restful. I must have been carrying the weight of everything—the messages from Nalyn, the endless arguments that had no winners, the heaviness of always being the one to hold everything together—because when I finally closed my eyes, my mind spun a story so vivid I swore it was reality.
In the dream, Noah had been accepted to a job. Not just any job, but one that felt like a turning point. He had walked with me to the company where I worked, his hand brushing mine in quiet solidarity, his eyes alive with determination. I remembered the way his smile softened the sharp edges of my anxiety. I had felt, for the first time in months, that maybe things would finally shift in our favor—that maybe I wasn't carrying everything alone anymore.
The dream was detailed, almost cruelly so. I could feel the morning air brushing against my skin as we walked, could hear the quiet laughter we shared when Neven's little expressions crossed my mind, could even taste the relief that flooded me when Noah told me he had finally been given a chance. It was so real I believed it, so real that when I stirred awake at noon, the illusion clung to me like dew on grass.
But reality, as always, was less forgiving.
I blinked at the clock—12:00 NN. My body had betrayed me, falling into a deep, exhausted sleep after the previous day's chaos. For a moment, I lay still, confused. The dream replayed itself in my mind with merciless clarity, and I reached for my phone almost instinctively, half expecting to see a congratulatory message from Noah. There was none.
It was only then that the truth settled in: it had all been a dream. A figment of my weary imagination, stitched together by hope and desperation. My chest ached, both from disappointment and from the realization that I had wanted it too much.
I forced myself out of bed, shaking off the remnants of that false happiness. There was no time to dwell on illusions. I had my routine to complete, tasks that didn't care for whether I felt strong or fragile. After washing up and preparing for work, I stepped outside with Noah by my side. We walked together toward my company, the city heat pressing down on us, the hum of tricycles and jeepneys mixing with our silence.
Halfway there, a memory struck me: Neven's face. The little ways he mimicked us, the sparkle in his eyes whenever he wanted something, the pout when we didn't immediately give in. For a moment, my heart twisted with longing, remembering the days when we felt whole—when laughter was easy, when the weight of judgment and intervention hadn't yet poisoned our small family. I didn't realize how deeply I was lost in thought until Noah's hand brushed mine again and I saw that we were already standing at the entrance of the company.
We parted ways there—me toward my shift, him toward the interview scheduled in the same building. He looked nervous but tried to mask it with a crooked smile. "Wish me luck," he said.
I nodded, squeezing his hand. "You'll be fine. Just be yourself."
Inside, I busied myself with the morning workload, but my mind drifted constantly to Noah. I checked my phone whenever I could, waiting for updates. During break, a message finally came through.
Interview's going okay so far. They've moved me to another round. Good thing I brought my jacket—it's freezing inside. My skin's getting dry already, haha.
I smiled faintly, relief loosening the knot in my stomach. I typed back quickly:
Just hang in there. You'll get through it. I'll be cheering from here.
The hours blurred together. By lunch break, I checked my phone again, eager for news. My chest tightened when I saw his latest message:
Didn't make it.
No flourish, no sugarcoating—just the plain, heavy truth. I stared at the words for a long time, the echoes of my dream rushing back to taunt me. For a second, I felt numb. I had already told myself not to expect too much, but the sting was still there. Disappointment has a way of slipping past even the strongest defenses.
I drew a deep breath and told myself not to crumble. Maybe this wasn't his time. Maybe there was something bigger, something better, waiting for him. I had to believe that. If I didn't, the weight of our reality would crush me whole.
When my shift ended and I finally returned home at midnight, exhaustion pressed down on me like a second skin. Yet instead of collapsing into bed, I reached for my phone and checked updates on the novel I had been writing—the one place where I could turn my pain into words, my chaos into something that made sense. Writing had become my refuge, the corner of my world where I still had control.
But before that refuge, there was the day itself.
At work, my friends had noticed the way I kept checking my phone, the heaviness etched on my face no matter how hard I tried to hide it. Rica, ever the playful one, leaned against my desk with a mischievous grin.
"So," she began, "did Noah finally land the job, or are we still rooting for Plan B?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Plan B?"
She giggled. "You know—Ken. The one who's been eyeing you since forever. If Noah doesn't step up soon, I swear Ken might just swoop in."
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "Serenya, stop. I'm married. I have Neven. Don't start with that nonsense."
But she was relentless. "What nonsense? I'm just saying, Ken actually has a job. Stable. Responsible. And don't even get me started on Jerry—quiet, dependable, the type who cooks dinner while you're resting. Honestly, I ship you with him more than Ken."
From the next desk, Iris joined in, smirking. "I agree with Rica. Jerry is low-key husband material. Imagine coming home tired and finding him making adobo for you and Neven. Tell me that's not tempting."
I shook my head, though a small laugh escaped despite myself. "You two are ridiculous. I can't believe this is what you talk about when I'm obviously stressed."
"That's exactly why we're talking about it," Serenya said, poking my arm. "Because you need a little distraction. Your life is already like a teleserye—full of drama. All it's missing is a love triangle."
Their laughter was contagious, and I found myself smiling more genuinely than I had in days. For a brief moment, the heaviness lifted. It wasn't that their jokes erased the problem, but they reminded me that I wasn't alone, that there were still corners of my life filled with lightness and care.
"Fine," I finally relented, playing along. "If you're going to pair me off in your imaginary stories, at least make sure the guy knows how to do the laundry. I'm tired enough as it is."
That sent all three of us into a fit of laughter, drawing curious glances from nearby desks. For a moment, it was easy to forget the storm waiting outside those office walls.
Later that night, when the laughter was just a memory and silence wrapped around me again, I replayed Noah's words in my mind. Didn't make it. Simple, heavy, final. But beneath that disappointment, a thread of resilience stirred in me.
I had always carried more than I thought I could. And though I often longed for rest, for a partner who could shoulder the weight alongside me, I knew I couldn't let go of hope. Maybe not this job, maybe not today—but someday. Someday Noah would find the place where his efforts bore fruit. Someday the anticipation I had long nurtured would not fade into ashes but blossom into something steady and true.
Until then, there was Neven. There was work. There was writing. And there was me—still standing, still enduring, still holding onto the belief that though life had been undesired in many ways, it was not without meaning.
When I finally opened my draft and let my fingers glide across the screen, the words poured out raw and unfiltered. They told of a girl who dreamed of peace, who fought battles no one saw, who carried the weight of love and disappointment alike. A girl who, even when everything else failed, still chose to believe that better days might come.
And as the words filled the blank spaces, I realized something: maybe the dream wasn't real, maybe Noah hadn't gotten the job, maybe life was still unbearably heavy—but in this act of writing, I was reclaiming something. A piece of myself, a fragment of my hope, a reminder that stories—even my own—didn't end just because a chapter did.
They kept going. And so would I.