Chapter 10 – The Weight He Carried
Conor's hands trembled slightly as he stacked the last pile of papers on his desk. His office wasn't grand—just a small corner filled with stale air and the constant tapping of keyboards. The fluorescent lights above flickered occasionally, casting shadows that made the place feel colder than it already was.
"Conor!"
The voice was sharp, cutting through the noise of the office. His boss, Mr. Dela Cruz, stood by the doorway with a file in his hand, his face tight with irritation.
"Yes, sir?" Conor asked carefully, already bracing himself.
Mr. Dela Cruz tossed the file onto Conor's desk, the papers scattering slightly. "This report—wrong. Completely wrong. Do you even bother double-checking your work?"
Conor's throat tightened. He recognized the handwriting. It wasn't his. It belonged to his workmate, Paulo, who had left the file on his desk earlier, saying he was in a rush.
"I—I thought Paulo handled this one—"
"Don't blame others for your incompetence," the boss snapped. "I expect better. Fix it. Now."
The room felt suffocating as Mr. Dela Cruz stormed off. Conor lowered his gaze to the messy report. He could speak up. He could tell the truth. But his lips pressed into a thin line, and he silently gathered the papers.
It wasn't the first time.
Every mistake, every oversight—somehow it landed on him. Paulo always had a way of slipping out of responsibility, flashing that easy grin that fooled everyone. And Conor... he was too tired to fight back. Too tired to argue.
He stayed late that night, fixing errors he didn't make. His eyes burned from staring at the screen, but he kept typing, the quiet hum of the office filling the silence after everyone else had gone home.
A thought crossed his mind, bitter and unshakable: If I disappeared, would anyone even notice?
The next morning was no different.
"Conor, why isn't the data updated yet?"
"Conor, double-check this, you always mess things up."
"Conor, stay behind and clean this up."
Every word chipped at him, each one hammering the idea that he was nothing more than a shadow in the office—someone to dump the blame on, someone to scold, someone invisible enough that his silence was taken as weakness.
During lunch, while others laughed and shared food, Conor sat alone with a simple sandwich, scrolling through his phone. His brother Jaime's name popped up in his photos—a picture from months ago, Jaime smiling after paying off one of Conor's bills.
Guilt pricked his chest.
Jaime had done so much for him, quietly supporting him even when Conor pretended he was fine. Every peso Jaime lent, every meal he covered, it all piled up like a debt Conor couldn't ignore.
That was why he endured it. The scolding. The unfair blame. The endless nights.
I have to repay him, Conor told himself as he chewed his sandwich mechanically. I can't let Jaime carry me forever.
But no matter how hard he tried, the world seemed determined to break him down.
That evening, as Conor prepared to leave, Paulo strolled over, whistling. "Hey, Conor, can you handle this one for me? My girlfriend's waiting, and I really can't stay late tonight."
Conor stared at the thick file Paulo placed on his desk.
"Paulo, I already—"
"Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver." Paulo clapped him on the shoulder and left before Conor could protest.
The office grew quiet again.
Conor sighed, shoulders sagging under the weight of work that wasn't his. He opened the file and forced himself to keep going, even as his chest felt heavy.
By the time he stepped outside, the city was asleep. His reflection in the darkened glass windows looked like a stranger—eyes tired, skin pale, expression hollow.
And yet, he whispered to himself:
I have to keep going. For Jaime.
Part 2)
The following week was a blur of deadlines and tension. Conor woke up earlier, went home later, yet no one seemed to notice. He was always there—quiet, dependable, invisible.
But being dependable came with a cost.
"Conor!" Mr. Dela Cruz's voice echoed again one morning. His brows furrowed as he waved a crumpled memo. "Explain this mess. Numbers don't match the projections. Who's responsible?"
Conor froze. He remembered clearly. Paulo had prepared the projections while Conor had been too buried in corrections to check them.
Still, his voice came out low. "I'll fix it, sir."
"You'd better," the boss barked. "Or don't bother showing up tomorrow."
The warning stung, though it wasn't new. Conor lowered his head, clutching the memo with trembling fingers. Paulo, from his corner, looked away, pretending to type something important.
For a brief second, anger flickered in Conor's chest—raw, desperate, loud. He wanted to shout, to tell the truth, to stop carrying Paulo's mistakes.
But instead, he swallowed the words. I can't risk losing this job. I need it—for Jaime.
By evening, the office had emptied again. The hum of the old air conditioner was his only company. Conor sat hunched at his desk, correcting Paulo's numbers, line by line.
Every time his eyelids drooped, he pinched himself awake. The glow of the monitor blurred, his head pounding from staring at spreadsheets. His hands ached, but he didn't stop.
At 1:47 a.m., he saved the final file. His chest felt heavy, yet there was a strange relief—like finishing a marathon no one cheered him for.
He pulled out his small notebook from the drawer. His diary. The one place he could speak honestly.
His pen hovered before scribbling:
"Another long night. Fixed Paulo's errors again. Boss scolded me. I wanted to tell him the truth, but... I couldn't. I don't want to lose this job. I need to pay Jaime back somehow. I hate myself for being weak. Sometimes, I wonder if it would be easier if I just disappeared. Would anyone even care? Would it even matter?"
The ink smudged as his hand trembled. He shut the notebook quickly, afraid of the words staring back at him.
The next day didn't bring relief.
Paulo, cheerful as always, leaned over Conor's desk. "Bro, you're the best. Boss didn't even mention the projections today. Guess you fixed it, huh?"
Conor looked at him, silent. Paulo didn't notice the bitterness behind his tired eyes. He simply grinned and patted Conor's shoulder.
"See? Teamwork, right?"
Conor forced a nod. His throat burned, but he said nothing.
The world had a cruel way of rewarding silence. Paulo walked away free, smiling. Conor remained in chains, invisible and exhausted.
That night, Jaime called.
"Hey, Conor," his brother's voice was warm, a small comfort against the weight pressing on him. "I transferred some money for your rent, just in case. Don't stress, okay?"
Conor's chest twisted. He leaned against his bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
"Jaime... you didn't have to," Conor whispered, voice low, almost breaking.
"It's fine. You're my brother. That's what family does."
Family. The word should've comforted him, but guilt gnawed instead. Jaime had already done so much. Conor wanted to give back, to prove he wasn't just a burden.
So he forced a smile Jaime couldn't see. "Thanks, bro. I'll pay you back. Soon."
"Don't worry about it."
But Conor did. Every single day.
Later, in the quiet of his room, Conor reopened his diary.
"Jaime sent me money again. I hate myself for needing it. I should be the one helping him, not the other way around. I'll work harder. No matter how much they scold me. No matter how unfair it is. I'll endure it. For him. But... God, I'm so tired. I don't know how much longer I can pretend I'm okay."
His pen slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a dull sound. Conor buried his face in his hands, tears slipping through despite his effort to hold them back.
The silence of his room felt heavy, suffocating, the kind that whispered unwanted thoughts in his ear.
What if Jaime didn't have to carry me anymore? What if the world didn't have to deal with me at all?
He shook his head violently, as if he could scatter the thoughts away. But they lingered, sharp and cruel.
The next morning, Conor wore his best mask again. He dressed neatly, greeted his coworkers politely, and kept his head down.
"Conor, coffee run," one of them ordered casually, tossing a bill on his desk.
He took it without protest.
"Conor, cover my shift, will you?"
He agreed without hesitation.
Day after day, he became the office's ghost servant—always there, always reliable, never acknowledged.
Inside, though, the cracks deepened. And no one saw it. No one cared.
(Final Part – Conor's Sacrifice)
The days bled into each other like ink spilled across paper—messy, dark, and impossible to clean. Conor lived in cycles: wake up before dawn, drag himself to work, survive the barrage of scolding and blame, stay late fixing mistakes that weren't his, then come home to an empty room where silence gnawed at his soul.
Every morning, he reminded himself of one thing: Jaime.
His older brother's face was a tether, the single anchor stopping him from drifting into despair. Whenever exhaustion pressed down on him, Conor whispered the promise he had made silently a hundred times: I'll repay him. No matter what. I'll make him proud one day.
But promises were heavy, and his body was beginning to crumble under the weight.
It happened one Thursday afternoon.
"Conor, why isn't this finished yet?" Mr. Dela Cruz barked, slamming his hand on the desk.
Conor flinched, sweat prickling the back of his neck. He had been working nonstop, his eyes burning, his hands stiff from typing. Still, the files piled faster than he could clear them.
"I'm almost done, sir," he whispered.
"Almost doesn't count. Do I have to babysit you?"
Behind the boss, Paulo smirked faintly before ducking his head, pretending to type. Conor's fists clenched under the desk, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to shout, to tell Mr. Dela Cruz the truth—that Paulo had dumped his workload again.
But the words died in his throat.
Instead, he nodded meekly. "Yes, sir. I'll finish it tonight."
That night, when the office emptied and the city outside drowned in darkness, Conor stayed. His stomach growled—he had skipped dinner again to meet deadlines. The clock ticked past midnight, but he kept typing, each keystroke a silent scream.
When the final document was uploaded, he collapsed back into his chair, staring at the ceiling. The weight in his chest was unbearable.
He pulled out his diary with trembling hands.
"I worked sixteen hours today. My boss hates me. My coworkers use me. I'm nothing here—just a shadow they can yell at. But I can't quit. If I quit, I'll fail Jaime. He already sacrificed so much for me. I can't be a burden forever. I have to repay him. Even if it kills me."
His handwriting grew shaky at the end, ink smudging with the dampness of his tears. He slammed the notebook shut and buried his face in his arms, shoulders shaking silently in the empty office.
The next weekend, Jaime invited him over for dinner.
"Conor," Jaime said warmly, placing another piece of chicken on his plate. "Eat. You're too thin."
Conor forced a smile, though the lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. His brother's house was filled with laughter and warmth, so different from the cold emptiness of Conor's apartment.
"How's work?" Jaime asked casually.
"It's... fine," Conor lied.
He couldn't tell him. He couldn't let Jaime know that every day felt like a battle he was losing. Jaime already carried enough weight—Conor refused to add to it.
"I've been saving up," Conor said instead, his voice soft. "I'll pay you back soon. Just a little more time."
Jaime frowned, shaking his head. "Conor, you don't need to worry about that. I helped because I wanted to, not because I expect anything in return."
But Conor couldn't accept that. Deep inside, the debt was suffocating him.
"No," he said firmly, though his eyes watered. "I need to. You've always been there for me. I can't... I can't just keep taking."
Jaime reached out, squeezing his shoulder. "You're my brother. That's what matters. Not the money."
Conor forced another smile, but his chest ached.
The following week tested him more than ever. Paulo dumped two major projects on him at the last minute, claiming he had "family matters."
Conor didn't protest. He simply took the files, heart sinking as he realized the hours it would cost him.
By Wednesday, he hadn't slept more than three hours a night. Coffee was the only thing keeping him upright. His hands shook constantly, his head pounding.
Yet, when Jaime called, Conor answered with forced cheer.
"Hey, bro, how are you holding up?"
"I'm good," Conor lied, smiling at the phone though his eyes were bloodshot. "Work's busy, but I'm managing. Don't worry about me."
After the call ended, he crumpled on his bed, clutching his diary.
"Jaime doesn't know. He can't know. I'll carry this alone. If it breaks me, at least I'll know I didn't fail him. Maybe that's enough. Maybe my suffering is the price I have to pay to repay his kindness."
The words blurred as tears spilled. He pressed the diary to his chest, whispering into the dark, "I'm so tired... so tired..."
Friday night arrived, and with it, the breaking point.
Conor had stayed until 2 a.m. finalizing a presentation Paulo was supposed to handle. His boss had already warned him: "One more mistake and you're out."
As Conor staggered home through the empty streets, his vision blurred. His chest felt tight, every breath shallow. By the time he reached his apartment, his legs shook so badly he nearly collapsed at the door.
Inside, he dropped his bag and fell onto his bed fully clothed. His heart raced painfully, his body trembling with exhaustion and something far darker.
With the last of his strength, he grabbed his diary. His pen scratched across the page in desperate strokes:
"I can't do this anymore. I'm breaking. Every day feels like I'm drowning, but I keep smiling for Jaime. He deserves better than a brother like me. He deserves someone strong. Not someone like this. Sometimes I think... maybe he'd be happier if I just disappeared. Maybe everyone would."
The pen slipped from his hand. His eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving.
The room spun. The silence pressed down.
And then—darkness.
When his eyes finally opened again, hours later, the world felt distant, muffled. His body was weak, his thoughts foggy. He didn't remember falling asleep—only the overwhelming weight before it.
A knock echoed from his door. He tried to rise but his limbs refused to obey.
"Conor? It's Jaime."
Panic flared weakly in his chest. Not now. He can't see me like this.
But the door creaked open anyway.
The last thing Conor saw before everything faded again was his brother's shocked face in the doorway.