Yuna's POV
So, it's Saturday morning—or, well, it should be.
But nope, I woke up late because my stupid alarm clock decided to give up on life overnight.
No beep, no buzz, just dead silence. Like it knew I needed it the most and said
"Nope, not today."
I blinked at the clock on my bedside table and nearly had a heart attack. 10:15 AM. Ten-fifteen! I was supposed to be in full practice mode by now.
Instead, I'd slept through the entire morning. Classic Yuna.
Finally having my own room at Tita Rosa's was a win. The walls were still a little rough, and sure, the place could use a deep clean, but this was my space.
My messy little bubble where I could be totally me without interruptions. I set up my mic, ready to start my vocal warm-ups and catch up.
Just as I was finally getting into it, the lights flickered—and then poof—total blackout. Whole neighborhood went dark.
Of course.
I sat there in the dark, blinking, feeling like I was living in a weird indie movie. No music, no lights, nothing but the quiet creaks of the house and my own heavy sighs.
Then I heard Tita Rosa's footsteps coming up the stairs. She popped her head in with that warm, easy smile she always has—the kind that somehow makes even the worst days feel a little better.
"Power's out everywhere," she said, her voice calm like this was no big deal.
"They say it should be back by noon. In the meantime, how about some coffee? Or maybe I can make pancakes?"
I couldn't help but grin. Tita Rosa was the best disaster handler I'd ever met—totally chill and way too doting for her own good.
She walked in, flicked on a flashlight app on her phone, and waved it around like it was some kind of magic wand.
"Look at you, dramatic queen. Maybe this blackout's the universe telling you to take a break."
"I don't have time for breaks," I said, but honestly, I wanted to laugh. I was tired, frustrated, and a little defeated, but she made it feel like maybe I'd survive this chaotic weekend after all.
"Relax," she said, ruffling my hair like I was a kid again.
"You've got this. Just maybe not today."
I nodded, letting some of the stress slide off.
Broken alarm, blackout chaos, late wake-up—it was all just part of the mess. But this room, this space, was mine. And somehow, that made it all feel a little less overwhelming.
I looked out the window into the quiet neighborhood, took a deep breath, and promised myself: no matter how many curveballs came my way, I'd keep going.
Because the competition's coming.
And bad luck? Yeah, it's annoying. But it's not beating me.
But then Tita Rosa's phone suddenly burst to life again, her loud voice echoing through the house.
"Yes, Auntie! No, I swear, he said he'd call after lunch!" She was caught up in some wild family drama, totally unaware that her volume was basically a personal attack on my already fragile concentration.
Her loud chatter filled every corner of the house like a relentless radio stuck on max volume. I tried to focus, but nope — zero chance.
I peeled off my headphones, rubbed my eyes, and decided maybe it was time to shift gears and work on my lyrics instead.
If I could get the words down tight, maybe the music would come together faster. I opened my laptop with a flicker of hope. But as soon as I started typing, the screen froze, then went completely black.
Dead.
I stared at it in disbelief, my chest tightening a bit.
"Seriously?" I muttered, slamming the laptop shut. All the hours I poured into those lyrics — just gone, like a bad magic trick.
I sighed and grabbed my printed lyric sheets—the old-school backup plan. I thought maybe I could rewrite or tweak by hand while waiting for the power.
But of course, fate wasn't done messing with me. As I reached for my coffee, my clumsy fingers betrayed me, and the steaming mug tipped, spilling hot coffee all over the pages.
Ink bled and letters blurred, turning my precious work into a sad, soggy mess.
"Are you kidding me?" I groaned, frantically blotting the mess with paper towels. No saving that disaster.
Next, I reached for my phone, hoping to at least get some words typed before the battery died. I pressed the power button.
Nothing.
Dead.
Completely dead.
I rummaged through my backpack, under pillows, kitchen drawers—looking for my charger. Nothing.
And then it hit me, like a slow-motion epiphany.
Why the heck was I even hunting for a charger during a blackout? No electricity meant no charging. Duh.
I just stared at the useless, dead phone in my hand, feeling the universe officially trolling me.
"Of course," I muttered, plopping down on the floor.
"Why would this day be anything less than a disaster?"
My stomach growled, reminding me that breakfast was still a no-show. I scrambled to the kitchen to whip up something quick, maybe toast or eggs, hoping at least food wouldn't betray me.
But apparently, the universe had a twisted sense of humor. The toast burned black in seconds, smoke curled up, and the smoke alarm started its shrill protest.
I slammed the toaster off and fanned the smoke away like a maniac.
I threw the ruined toast in the trash and leaned against the counter, face in my hands.
Then, like a ray of sunshine cutting through the storm, Tita Rosa appeared again, calm and smiling that chill, doting smile she always wore.
"Maybe the universe is just testing how much you want this," she said softly, as if the chaos was no big deal.
I couldn't help but laugh through my frustration. "If this is a test, I'm failing spectacularly."
She ruffled my hair like I was a kid again.
"Nope. You're just human. You'll get through this. One mess at a time."
I looked around the disaster zone that was my morning, took a deep breath, and nodded.
Maybe I couldn't control everything—not the broken alarm, the blackout, the tech meltdowns, or even the coffee apocalypse.
But at least I had this room. This space. My little chaotic kingdom where I could still fight back.
Just as I was starting to feel a tiny spark of hope—that maybe, just maybe, the morning couldn't get any worse—that's when Bruno, the neighborhood's oversized slobber machine, decided to crash my personal chaos party.
The door to my room swung open without warning, and there he was, this giant mutt with a tail wagging like it had its own beat, barreling inside like he owned the place.
My carefully scattered lyric sheets—pages I'd been obsessively scribbling on for hours—went flying everywhere. They fluttered through the air like confetti caught in a freak windstorm.
I scrambled, desperate to catch even one, but Bruno's wagging tail knocked over my water bottle. Clear water spilled, pooling quickly across my desk and floor, threatening to soak everything.
"Bruno! No, no, no!" I half-laughed, half-panicked, flailing as if trying to wrestle a tornado.
The dog just looked at me with those big, dumb eyes like I was the ultimate killjoy at his surprise party.
I dropped down on my knees, holding out my hands like I'd seen on those calm-animal TV shows.
"Easy, boy. It's okay, calm down," I whispered, trying not to sound as frantic as I felt.
But then, as if fate wasn't done laughing at me, my uncle's old guitar—leaning quietly against the corner wall like a fragile memory—caught under my elbow as I reached for a lyric sheet.
Snap.
The sharp twang of the high E string breaking echoed in the stillness, like a slap in the face.
I froze, eyes locked on the snapped string, heart sinking in my chest. It wasn't just any guitar—it was my uncle's
"Are you kidding me?" I muttered, voice tight with frustration and disappointment, feeling the weight of failure settle heavy on my shoulders.
Bruno, ever the innocent culprit, cocked his head at me, clearly thinking, Why are you so worked up over a stupid string?
I slumped down onto the floor amidst the sea of scattered papers, the damp spots where water had seeped into the lyric sheets, the broken string lying like a tiny severed lifeline on the carpet.
My stomach growled again, but now it was the background noise to a storm of exhaustion, irritation, and that stubborn flicker of determination that refused to be snuffed out.
Tita Rosa's calm voice echoed in my mind: "You're just human. You'll get through this. One mess at a time."
Yeah. One mess at a time.
I picked up a soggy lyric sheet, smoothing it with trembling fingers, wishing it wasn't ruined by coffee or water stains. I looked around the room—my chaotic kingdom of disasters: the broken guitar string, the mess of papers, Bruno's wagging tail, and me, a walking catastrophe.
But somehow, even through all this madness, it still felt like home.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered, "Okay, Yuna. You've got this. One string, one note, one messy day at a time."
To be continued...