My phone buzzes in my hand, and my heart jumps at the unfamiliar number. What is this now? Another debt collector? I had my doubts, but for a moment, I let myself hope—maybe it's Karen this time, calling to tell me they've reconsidered, that the higher-ups realized how much of an asset I'd be despite everything. When Karen's voice comes through, soft and careful, that flicker of hope extinguishes.
"Hi, Ermita, it's Karen," she says, and I already know where this is going. There's a beat of silence before she sighs, like even she's exhausted by the weight of the call. "I'm calling to let you know we've decided not to move forward with your application."
I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to react. Another rejection. Another door slammed in my face. I swallow the familiar tightness rising in my throat and respond with the best neutral tone I can muster. "I see."
"I just want you to know, I really tried," she adds quickly. "I fought for you, but the higher-ups are worried about the... attention. They don't want to take any liabilities."
I nod, even though she can't see me. "I understand." The words taste bitter in my mouth. There's nothing to understand. My debts are piling up, and I still haven't found a way to salvage my career.
"I really wish you the best of luck, Ermita." Karen says, her voice soft, sincere. "You're going to land somewhere. I know it."
I barely manage a "thanks" before the call ends. For a second, I just stand there in the hot Manila afternoon, gripping my phone so hard my fingers ache, as if holding onto it could somehow tether me back to the life I had before everything went sideways. But there's no time to drown in it. I promised Cass I'd come over.
Her apartment is only a few blocks away, tucked into one of those gleaming high-rises, posh even for BGC standard. The kind of place I used to imagine myself living in when things were still going right. Now it feels like I'm trespassing on someone else's dream. The sun bears down mercilessly as I walk, the sticky heat gluing my shirt to my skin. By the time I reach her building and step into the icy-cold lobby, I'm half-melted. I punch the elevator button harder than necessary, ride it up, and when the doors chime open, I shuffle to her unit.
Before I can even knock properly, the door swings open and Cass is there, grinning like she's been waiting for me to show up with news worth celebrating. "Ermita! Finally!" she exclaims, stepping aside with a theatrical gasp as she looks me up and down. "God, you look like you crawled out of a grave."
Cass backs into the apartment, tightening the bandana on top of her head with one hand while kicking the door shut behind her with her heel. She's wearing an overalls that looks baggy and comfy, her legs crossing over one another as she half-dances across the spotless floor. She hums a tune under her breath, grabs a coaster and flicks it onto the coffee table with the careless aim of someone who never misses a shot.
"Nice to see you too," I reply, but there's no bite in it. She's right. I do look like hell. Before she can continue with her quick appraisal, I invite myself in. Her apartment smells like fresh lavender and clean laundry, the opposite of the mess waiting for me back at home. It's pristine, as always, with minimalist furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that bathe the room in soft, natural light.
"Want something to drink?" she calls out, already heading toward the kitchen. "Jericho made some weird hipster kalamansi juice earlier, but I also have iced tea if you want to play it safe."
"Iced tea will do," I call after her, settling onto the couch. As I sink into the cushions, I take a deep breath, the tension from the day slowly loosening its grip on me.
Cass reappears a moment later, handing me a tall glass beading with condensation, then folding herself into the opposite end of the couch like a cat claiming its sunny spot. She watches me, eyes sharp and curious. "Alright, spill. What's the latest disaster?"
I shrug, taking a long sip before answering. "Same story. Though this time, the recruiter called and told me she tried her best to get me the job but the higher-ups don't want to deal with liabilities." I make air quotes around the word "liabilities", my voice tinged with sarcasm.
Cass rolls her eyes, her disdain immediate. "What BS. Did they even look at your resume? You're, like, stupid qualified."
"Apparently it's not enough to wipe the stain off my record. I mean, they're not wrong. Sending porn to a foreign dignitary isn't exactly the best look."
She waves her head animatedly, the strands of her messy bun following her movement. "It was an accident. Anyone with a brain would know that."
"Exactly. For the record, I told the recruiter I'm not a porn addict."
Cass lets out a bark of laughter so loud I'm sure the neighbors hear it. She sets her drink down, clutching her stomach, tears springing to her eyes. "You what? Oh my God, I would have paid to see her face!"
I lean back and get comfortable on the couch. "I'm sick of everyone judging me."
Still wiping her eyes, Cass shifts closer and nudges my knee with hers. "You're a mess, Erms. But you're my mess." She flashes me a wicked grin. "And honestly, I needed the entertainment. Jericho's been in Zoom hell all day, droning on about quarterly reports. You're saving my sanity."
From the back room, Jericho's muffled voice echoes through the apartment, thick with business jargon. I tense automatically. It's not that Jericho's openly hostile; it's the subtle way he looks at me sometimes, like he's wondering why Cass still bothers. And as if summoned, he steps into the living room, carrying a small tray with toasted pan de sal and a bowl of liver spread on one hand, and a cellphone stuck close to his ear on the other. He's barefoot, dressed in a fitted grey shirt and loose house shorts, the picture of someone who works out before lunch and considers plating an art form.
He places the tray gently on the coffee table. "Merienda," he says to Cass, then gives me a brief nod. "Hi." His voice is curt, polite in the technical sense. Without waiting for a response, he turns and walks back toward the back room. The soft click of the door follows a second later.
I glance down at the liver spread, unamused.
Cass doesn't even flinch. She reaches for a slice of pan de sal, spreads a generous amount of the dip, and pops it into her mouth. "He made the liver spread from scratch," she says between bites. "Can you believe that?"
I raise an eyebrow. "He's a Renaissance man. Cold energy, warm snacks."
She grins. "He knows what he's good at. That's the trade-off."
I shake it off. Not here for that.
"How's work?" I ask instead.
Cass groans dramatically, throwing her head back into the couch cushions. "Chaos. Photoshoots. Last-minute client demands. Divas throwing tantrums because their lighting wasn't 'emotional' enough. I also got this huge photoshoot this weekend. I'll be super busy."
"You'll crush it." Sugarcoating isn't one of my fortes, so she knows I mean it. The truth is that she's one of the best in the industry. If anyone can navigate high-maintenance clients with a smile and a casual flip of her middle finger, it's Cass. "I wouldn't worry too much. You always deliver."
I, too, had once been a respected professional in my field, but I screwed that one up. With my credibility gone, the people who once looked up to me now treat me like a joke. Comparing my career with my best friend seems petty. But it's hard not to. Especially when I see her charging forward, while I'm stuck here in this hole I dug for myself.
Cass may have noticed the change in my mood, because she flashes me a kinder smile, a real one. "That goes for you too. You just need one idiot brave enough to hire you. And once they do, you'll blow them away." Her eyes soften, and I know she's watching me closely. "You're great at what you do, so don't give up." Tapping my knee, she adds, "I'll use my connections to get you a job. Just hang in there." There's a promise of conviction in her eyes, a determination I've seen her carry when she's making her plans.
"Thanks, Cass." Even if she doesn't get me a job, just the effort itself is enough for me. Not wanting to be a sourpuss, I direct the conversation to a more positive, lighter direction. "By the way, I think Lolita misses you."
"Oh!" She smiles at the mention of her cranky old cat. "How's that furball?"
"She's fine. Still acting like she runs the place."
Cassandra snickers, shaking her head. "I miss that little tyrant. I still can't believe I gave her to you, but Jericho's cat allergy was getting a bit much, it was the right call. Take care of her, okay?"
"Of course," I say, though I feel a pang of guilt. Lolita deserves better than the mess I've been living in.
"Bring her over sometime," Cassandra adds, giving me a serious look. "I want to see her again."
"I will," I promise, though I have no idea when I'll find the time.
She lifts her glass in a mock toast. "To comeback queens."
I clink my glass against hers, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe it might be possible.
We spend the rest of the evening sprawled on her couch, talking about everything and nothing—clients, gossip, the absurdity of artisanal coffee. The easy rhythm of our friendship settles around me like a blanket. When I finally peel myself off her couch to leave, the city has shifted into night. The towers of BGC glow against the dark sky, sharp and cold and a little too perfect. The streets are quieter now. As I wait for a cab, the world feels just a little too big, and me a little too small.
By the time I get back to my own condo in Makati, the silence is almost deafening. The smell hits me before I even step inside. A mix of old food, stale air, and cat litter that hasn't been changed in days. I drop my bag by the door, surveying the mess that's become my life.
The kitchen is a disaster—dishes piled in the sink, leftovers from three days ago still sitting on the counter. There's a mountain of laundry I've been avoiding for weeks, and Lolita's toys are scattered all over the floor. The whole place reeks of neglect.
Lolita, the old Siberian grey cat, pads over to me, meowing her usual greeting. She's slower these days, her movements more deliberate, but she still demands attention like she's the queen of this crumbling kingdom.
"Hey, girl," I say, crouching down to scratch behind her ears, her long fur feels soft and fluffy to the touch. "Hungry?"
She meows again, louder this time, and I head to the kitchen to fill her bowl. As I scoop the last bit of cat food into her dish, I realize the bag is empty. Perfect. Another thing to add to the list of expenses I can barely afford.
Lolita was a gift from Cass—kind of a forced gift. When Cassandra started to live together with Jericho, she practically shoved Lolita into my arms. "You need something to take care of," she'd said, like it was a done deal. And she wasn't wrong. Lolita has been my constant companion, the only one who doesn't care about my failures.
I head to the bedroom, shedding my clothes and collapsing onto the bed. The sheets are tangled and the air in the room is stuffy, but I'm too exhausted to care. As I close my eyes, I try to push the day's events out of my mind. Tomorrow is another day, another chance to start over.
___________
Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting stripes of light across the bedroom. I wake up to Lolita's insistent meowing from the kitchen, telling me it's time to get up. After a quick shower and changing into whatever clean clothes I can get my hands on, I gather up the trash, grab my bag, and head outside.
The hallway is quiet, except for the sharp clack of heels. I throw my trash in the garbage disposal area, and glance up just in time to see Miss Alcantara, making her way down the hall. Her eyes land on me, and immediately, her lips curl into that familiar sneer. She's wearing a floral blouse and white slacks, her grey hair pulled into a severe bun. She looks me up and down, her nose twitching slightly as if she can smell the failure clinging to me.
"You should really clean yourself up, dear," she says, her voice dripping with condescension. "It's not becoming to walk around like that."
I glance down at my wrinkled clothes—a faded black shirt paired with thin jogger pants—and my unkempt long hair. Yeah, I look like I've been run over by a bus, but it's none of her business.
Before I can respond, she points to my door. "And don't leave your laundry out in the hallway. It's against the rules."
"It's not against the rules if I pick it up the same day," I say through clenched teeth.
She narrows her eyes. "We'll see what the building staff has to say about that." With a sniff, she walks past me, leaving a faint scent of perfume in her wake.
I sigh, letting my shoulders slump as I continue down the hallway. Too early for this. There's no point in arguing with her. She did the same to the other people who lived on our floor. It's not me she hates, it's the world. I moved into this neighborhood six months ago, and I noticed that she lives alone. Old, lonely, and probably menopausal, Miss Alcantara seemed hell-bent on being a thorn in her neighbors' life.
As planned, I head to the pet grooming clinic to get Lolita's food. The bell above the door chimes as I enter. The clinic is quiet when I walk in, no customers present aside from me. The air cool and smelling faintly of shampoo, cleaning products, and, admittedly, of dog fur. The shelves are lined with cat toys, grooming tools, and treats, but I head straight for the cat food.
"Good morning," the guy who's manning the counter greets me when I approach, tone neutral.
"Morning," I mumble, dropping the cat food on the counter, my eyes on my bag. I dig through the cluttered mess inside, fingers brushing past crumpled receipts and stray lip balm. I'm sure I have my wallet in here…somewhere. I hear him ring up the purchase, and there's a pause, as a few seconds tick by with me just rummaging through the chaos that is my bag. When I finally feel the edge of my wallet, I take it out. I sense him watching me, but I'm too focused on fishing out the cash.
I'm about to hand him the money, but stop midway when he asks, "When are you bringing Lolita in for grooming?". His voice is flat but with a hint of judgment.
I finally lift my eyes from my wad of cash. But before I can say anything, he continues, not missing a beat. "She's old, and her breed needs regular care." He then clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval, "It's cruel to let her walk around with all that fur. Weighs her down," and with a tone carrying a quiet reprimand, he says, "don't be a bad mom."