I slide the sandwich into the toaster, careful not to let the tomato slices escape from the lettuce fort I built five minutes ago. There's a cucumber too, sliced very thin so it won't threaten my plan of "clean eating."
I'm on my diet—again, always, forever—because Mommy said the body is a home you live in for life. "My child, take care of it. I'm not strict, but I'm not a saint either," she used to say whenever she caught me dipping fries in gravy. She was never a food police, but her reminders about eating right and taking care of your body were consistent, like a weather app that notifies you before it rains.
The kitchen light is still sleepy, the sun still low; a line of cold runs across the tiles, and the hum of the toaster sounds like a cat pretending to be innocent. While waiting, I wear my not-too-high, not-too-low black boots—just the right height, like a sensible decision—matching my cream polo and slightly pleated skirt.
The mirror on the ref throws me back a version of me who knows exactly where her eyeliner ends and her patience begins. "Okay," I tell my reflection, "corporate but cute, efficient but edible."
Pop! The sandwich is done. I rescue it with the devotion of a firefighter and take a first bite. Crunch. The bread is warm, the lettuce stubbornly hopeful. I glance at the wall clock I bought on sale because it had a witty quote I've now covered with washi tape: 6:12 a.m. Eight is the start of work. I have time. Time to chew slowly. Time to pretend I won't be running later. Time to negotiate with fate.
Better early than late. Especially in our office, where the word "late" is like an ancient curse. You could lose your job unexpectedly—tsk. Knowing him.
"Good morning, Ms. Bones!" greets Mang Loloy, the building's full-time janitor and part-time philosopher, as I enter the lobby. He's carrying a bucket and dipper like props in a lifetime role.
I give him a smile that's not plastic—the kind that's just natural, because we're both used to mornings like this. "Good morning, Mang Loloy!"
"Early," he says, sweeping away yesterday's dust. "When you're early, luck doesn't beat you to it." He grins. True enough. I always find him there every morning. I suspect he's in the lobby by 4 a.m., talking to the floor tiles about the secrets of hope.
The building swallows me in its familiar cold. Almost everyone I pass greets me, and I return it. We live by these simple exchanges—the nods, the "good mornings," the tiny currencies of being seen. When I reach my cubicle—right in front of the chairman's office—I tilt my head toward his door. Open. Of course. He's early, huh. Fine. I'm not late, so we're both safe. No fireworks. No thunderbolts.
Folders wait on my desk like a fruit stand: red, blue, mustard, forest green. I already know almost by color who they belong to—the color coding of partner companies. It's a system, a secret handshake with myself. I do my rounds, scan schedules, insert new appointments, tame the calendar dragon that breathes meetings and spits to-dos.
"How busy can he be?" I mutter.
When the clock clicks exact, I knock once and step into the lair.
Chairman Kane, white long-sleeve polo, sleeves rolled, brows furrowed at the laptop as if spreadsheets committed a personal crime. I will admit—quietly, internally, and only this once—that he looks hot. Hence the women who trip and fall for him, then never get back up. Poor things. Gravity is undefeated.
I clear my throat. He looks up. Stands. Steps close.
The morning ritual begins: I slip the white suit onto his shoulders, smoothing fabric like I'm ironing the world. Then the necktie. He can't tie it properly. Or he refuses to learn. I suspect both. I loop the silk, pull, and snug the knot. Part of my job, part of my choreography. My fingers memorize him in a strictly non-poetic, entirely administrative way: collars, angles, settle, done.
"Thanks," he says, like the word costs him a discount.
I smile the efficient smile. When I step out, I remove it immediately. I slide into my chair, pivot to my screen, and open the second life I don't bring to work meetings: my YouTube channel. Three and a half million subscribers—numbers I still don't fully comprehend. It's like owning a city, but your city loves to comment. My latest upload sits there like a cat claiming a sunny square: 2.6 million views, 2.2 million likes, 500 unlikes. Numbers that glow, numbers that sting.
No matter how kind, how beautiful, or how complete you are, there will always be people who won't like you. They judge before reading the chapter titles, and that's the risk of being in this industry. Even some of the educated—especially the educated—choose the low road on high horses, trampled by their own insecurities. Can't we just be content? Why hurt others just to feel a little higher?
I still remember that first one million. I was so happy—until a comment slid in: "You're just a beauty guru but you're not that pretty though." Classic formula: compliment, then a shove. Of course I was hurt. But I chose not to respond. YouTube trained me to accept that we can't please everyone; we're not ice cream. And if I put on makeup, isn't the point to enhance features? Like salad dressing—it's not the salad, but it helps the lettuce be happy.
"Miss Bones?"
I almost fell off my chair. I swivel. Chairman stands at the door, eyebrows gathered like a meeting. I inhale some air and pretend it's confidence.
"Yes, chairman?" My voice opts for neutral.
"I was asking about my schedules," he says, each word shaped with precision.
Ah. So I drifted. My brain took a micro-vacation. Thank God my cubicle's at the end; nobody saw me blank. I flip the folder open, my fingers on autopilot, mouth following.
"Appointment with Mr. Lim at 9 a.m., Gem's Café. Lunch meeting with Mr. Traje at Umlas' Restaurant. After that, meeting with the accountant group for the project, at 2 p.m. The rest is clear." I keep it crisp, like crackers.
He nods, sighs, recalibrates his expression to something less thunderous. "Get the design layout for our next project from Miss Angel," he says. A beat. "And bring me some snacks. The usual."
"Okay, chairman."
I walk to Angel's department. She's mid-call, headset on, eyebrows choreographing a negotiation. Good thing it wasn't the chairman who came here first—someone might've lost their job to the void. I detour to the mini-kitchen: brew coffee, steal two cookies from the communal jar like a licensed thief, arrange them on a plate to make it look intentional. When I come back, Angel is at her computer, shoulders unclenching.
"Angel," I say gently.
She looks up, smiling that smile employees give one another when they share a boss. "Yes, Miss?"
"Is the layout the chairman asked for done? He says he needs it now."
She nods, reaches for a thick envelope. "All done!" There's pride in her voice, and I respect that sound. Work can be heavy; pride is a good handle.
I thank her, head back, and step into the chairman's office—only to find him with a woman: tanned skin, straight long hair, a short skirt paired with red boots like siren lights. I place the coffee and cookies down, leave the envelope, and feel the woman's eyebrow rise like a drawbridge. We've paused their conversation. I'm the pause. I exit. Who is she? Investor? Partner? Anomaly? She didn't pass through me at the front desk. And that's a thing.
My phone rings. "What?" I say, because that's how I answer my friends when I'm clearly at work.
"Hey, girl!" says Alliana, volume set to "restaurant kitchen."
"Why?"
"Clarita's home! There's a welcome party tonight! You in?"
I stop walking. Clarita—Italy model, runway storm, our group's funny myth. She rarely comes home. "What time?"
"9 p.m.! We convoy or I'll pick you up?"
There's clatter behind her. Someone says "pasta" like it's a religion. "Okay, convoy. I'll bring my car."
"Nice!" She laughs. "Alright—"
"Who else is coming?" I interrupt.
"I don't know! But I'm sure the whole group will be there."
Oh damn.
"At her mansion?"
"Yeah. That's what Enna said." We hang up, and as fate slides its little cue cards, the red-booted woman exits the chairman's office, daggers in her eyes pointed at me. I give her a "What did I do?" look. She flounces off like a runway with attitude. Okay. That was... a mood.
Time is a sly thief. Suddenly, it's 2 p.m. I fix my skirt and tell the chairman that he has a scheduled meeting, pointing at the wall clock for dramatic effect. He gives me a cool "Okay." We move to the meeting room. The team is complete, the projector behaves, and the new project unrolls like a good rug—no snags, no tripping hazards. Smooth. You can feel when plans have been properly thought through; the air is less sticky.
I lift my chin up and sigh. Just another day for me, huh.