Back in the National City, the long bus ride had drained every bit of strength I had left. By the time I arrived at our small rented space, it was almost noon. I placed my bag on the couch, removed my shoes, and simply sat there for a moment—breathing. The stillness felt heavier than rest, the kind that comes after days of trying to hold everything together.
After an hour of rest, I began my usual routine. Swept the floor. Changed the bedsheet. Arranged my things. I tried to focus on the small, mundane acts that somehow kept my thoughts from spiraling. By two-thirty, I was dressed for work again—hair tied, face washed, badge clipped to my collar. My shift was from 3:00 PM to 12:00 midnight (GST), and I was already adjusting my body clock again, something that never got easier no matter how long I'd been doing it.
When I arrived at the office, I was greeted by the familiar hum of keyboards and chatter. "Hey, Noira!" a cheerful voice called. I turned and saw Ashley—once my teammate during my probation months—approaching with open arms.
"Ash!" I smiled, hugging her tightly. "It's been forever!"
"Girl, you look more stressed but still pretty," she teased, pulling back with a grin. "How's everything? Work? Life? Noah?"
I let out a short laugh. "All in survival mode," I replied honestly.
Ashley giggled. "Same here. Welcome to adulthood." We both laughed, though it was the kind that hides a sigh beneath it.
We caught up for a while, exchanging small updates about our new teams, who got promoted, and who left. It was nice—almost normal. But then the clock reminded me that normal had its limits. I waved goodbye and went straight to my desk.
My first call for the day was with a client named Naomi, who wanted to modify the dates on her reservation. I walked her through the process, patient but alert. By the time I hung up, my voice already felt dry. That was when my team leader, Elisa, approached.
She raised her hand slightly, motioning. "Noira, after that call, come to the small room, please."
I nodded quickly. "Yes, T. Just finishing this one."
When I followed her inside, Elisa smiled warmly. "Coaching time," she said. "Let's sit for a bit."
We began the session with the usual greeting. "How are you, Noira? Be honest."
I shrugged. "So far, so good… trying to keep everything balanced."
"Hmm," she nodded knowingly. "You always say that, but I can see the tiredness in your eyes."
I chuckled nervously. "It's the midnight shift."
She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "You know, I've been there. Married young. Had to support the family. And dealing with in-laws who act like they own your life? Been there too."
I froze for a second—surprised at her bluntness. She continued softly, "People like that… they're not lions, Noira. Lions protect their pride. Those people are hyenas—laughing, waiting for your weakness, feeding on your effort. Don't let them define what kind of woman or wife you are."
Her words hit hard. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Sometimes it's just… too much. They don't even see how much I'm trying."
Elisa smiled faintly. "You don't need them to see it. Just make sure you don't forget it."
After that, we discussed my work metrics—my CSAT scores were low, as usual. She gave me feedback, practical advice, and a half-smile. "You've got the heart for this job, Noira. Just remember—empathy isn't just for clients. You owe some to yourself, too."
I nodded, quietly grateful. "Thanks, T. I'll try harder."
"Not harder," she corrected. "Smarter."
By lunchtime, the tension had softened. Our team gathered in the pantry, forming a small circle of comfort in the middle of exhaustion. The table was crowded with rice meals, reheated leftovers, and laughter.
Mommy Emily, our unofficial team mom, pointed at me with her fork. "You, Noira—you're too thin again! Eat more, ha?"
I laughed awkwardly. "I'm eating, Mommy."
"Not enough! Look, you didn't even get vegetables!" she scolded, moving the bowl of sautéed greens closer to my plate.
I grimaced, but before I could protest, Zarah rolled her eyes dramatically. "Ang arte mo, Noira," she said, laughing.
Everyone burst into laughter as I reluctantly scooped a spoonful of vegetables and shoved it into my mouth, my face twisted in mock suffering. "Happy now?" I mumbled through a bite.
"Very!" Emily replied triumphantly, clapping her hands.
"See?" Ana added between giggles. "That's what happens when you have too many moms at work."
Serenya leaned in with her usual teasing grin. "At least these moms don't send you toxic messages."
I snorted. "Yeah, these ones just force-feed you instead."
That made everyone laugh even louder. For a few moments, I forgot the heaviness at home—the pressure, the judgment, the silent expectations. Here, I wasn't a wife struggling to hold things together. I was just Noira—tired, stubborn, laughing, surviving.
After lunch, we all returned to our desks for another round of calls. Time stretched and folded into one long blur of voices, complaints, and empathy scripts. Around 10 PM, I was already fighting the urge to doze off when Deo from the compliance team walked by, clipboard in hand.
"Team, we need volunteers for overtime tomorrow," he announced. "Only seven hundred hours, don't worry—it's paid."
TL Elisa turned to us. "Who can render one hour or two hour each? Raise your hand."
Most of us hesitated, but I eventually lifted mine. "I'll do it," I said quietly.
Elisa nodded, jotting my name down. "Thanks, Noira. You're consistent."
I smiled faintly, though deep down, I was just calculating how much that extra hour could add to my next paycheck.
When the clock finally hit midnight, the sound of logging out echoed like a collective sigh of freedom. I packed up, waved goodbye to the team, and walked out of the building with the cool night air wrapping around me. The streets were dim and mostly empty, the city's neon signs flickering like restless dreams.
As I walked toward the bus stop, I thought about the day—how it began with exhaustion and ended with a strange sense of strength. I remembered Elisa's words: "You owe some empathy to yourself, too."
Maybe that was what I'd been missing all along—not just survival, but compassion for the woman trying so hard to survive.
When I finally reached home, it was already past 1 AM. I placed my bag on the table and glanced at my phone. No new messages from Noah. No updates. Just silence.
I sighed and whispered to myself, "Another day done."
Then I opened my notebook—the one where I wrote ideas for my novel—and began typing, letting the words pour out like breath I'd been holding all day. Maybe that was my kind of healing. Not through rest, but through the stories I could still tell, even when my own felt too heavy to carry.
That night, before I fell asleep, I thought about Neven—his tiny smile, his laugh, the way he clung to me whenever I came home. I smiled faintly in the dark.
Maybe this was the point of it all: to keep going, not because life was kind, but because he deserved a mother who wouldn't stop trying.
Between exhaustion and hope, I closed my eyes—and let sleep take me gently for once.