The day I left the hospital, the sky looked brighter than I remembered.

  Not dramatic.

  Not heavenly.

  Just… clear.

  “This should be all.” I picked up everything that could be picked. This would be my last day in the hospital. I tried moving my body, doing some light stretching to check if there was still muscle pain.

  “I really am lucky because I experienced death once, and it is really painful.” Hopefully, if I ever die again, it will be quick so that I won’t feel anything.

  My father handled the discharge papers while my mother stood beside me, one hand lightly holding my arm as if I might disappear again.

  “I can walk,” I told her. She had been constantly checking on me during my stay in the hospital. I was truly touched, and the guilt I had for neglecting them in my past life was eating me up. I always said to myself, “I’m going to pay them back 100 times for the care they gave me.”

  “I know,” she said. But she didn’t let go. Instead, she held me tighter.

  I didn’t ask her to. Even though I didn’t manage to have a child in my past life, I understood the pain of seeing your child in pain but not being able to do anything to ease it.

  “Let us go to your father.” We stood and went to the hall. We walked a little and passed many patients whom my mother greeted. Several of them were children, for it was a place for children. I almost forgot that I have the body of a 13-year-old right now.

  “Do you feel anything?” my mother asked.

  I checked my body again and replied, “I am okay.” I started to enjoy the care of my mother and my body’s recovery when we saw my father.

  “Let’s wait here a little bit.” My mother reminded me and asked me to sit on the bench at the side of the hall.

  I watched my father from a short distance. His shoulders were slightly hunched as he spoke to the nurse. He nodded often. Too often.

  I know my parents are not well off. Maybe the reason why I was late to be brought to the hospital was because they were worried about the bills.

  “There you are!” My father said while heading toward us. He put on a smile over his worried face, masking the trouble there. Now I felt guilty.

  I noticed the way he folded the receipt before putting it in his wallet.

  Carefully.

  As if the paper itself mattered.

  “Money, this might be the reason why I chose to have a stable life back in my first life,” I said to myself. In this country, in the Philippines, medical insurance is close to impossible. People can’t afford it. People don’t even trust that the government will take care of them when they get sick. So they always try to avoid being hospitalized, even when in pain.

  In my first life, I never asked how much my hospital stay would cost.

  I never asked how much anything cost.

  Now I understood.

  —

  The ride home was quiet.

  The vehicle smelled of dust and sunlight. My mother sat close beside me. My father drove slower than usual, both hands firm on the steering wheel.

  Every small bump in the road made my body tense, but the pain was manageable.

  I stared outside the window. I was thinking about my next move, trying to remember a winning lotto number from my past life. But I couldn’t even remember what happened yesterday, so how could I remember 20-plus years ago?

  “How hateful,” I spoke in my mind. It was infuriating how useless I was, dragging our family into debt.

  “It shall pass,” I followed. Life was never easy. I was lucky enough to be back in my life. I started to look around to ease the boredom.

  The streets looked the same.

  And completely different.

  Children ran along the sidewalk in uniforms too big for them. A vendor pushed a cart under the heat. Laundry swayed from balconies.

  Things I once walked past without seeing. Now I was starting to appreciate them. Maybe dying once makes me appreciate these little things.

  “Finally home!” my mother exclaimed.

  The ride home was tense because sometimes my mother looked at me and saw that I still felt a little pain whenever we hit a bump.

  “Really, this ride feels like the longest ride I’ve ever had,” my father replied. You could see how tired he was during the drive. Every time I winced in pain, my mother blamed him for driving crudely, but he was really careful and below the speed limit.

  When we reached home, I stood still at the doorway.

  The house felt smaller than my memory.

  Lower ceiling.

  Narrow hallway.

  Paint slightly peeling near the corners.

  But it felt warmer than any apartment I had ever owned.

  My mother opened the door and stepped aside.

  “Careful,” she said softly.

  I walked in slowly.

  My old room waited at the end of the hallway.

  The same wooden cabinet.

  The same desk with chipped paint.

  The same curtain I once thought was ugly.

  I touched the desk with my fingertips.

  In my first life, I replaced furniture without thinking.

  Here, every scratch had history.

  I sat on the edge of the bed.

  It creaked.

  It was perfect.

  That evening, my mother cooked something simple.

  Vegetables.

  Egg.

  Soup.

  Nothing special.

  We ate together at the small table.

  No television.

  No phones.

  Just the sound of spoons touching bowls.

  In my previous life, I ate most of my meals alone.

  Or in restaurants filled with people who barely knew me.

  Here, the food tasted fuller.

  I chewed slowly.

  My father asked, “Does it still hurt?”

  “A little,” I answered honestly.

  He nodded.

  That was enough conversation for him.

  And strangely, it felt complete.

  The next morning, I woke to the sound of sweeping. How nostalgic. I missed this sound and smell in the morning. A few years from now, you can’t smell the grass anymore in the morning.

  My mother was already cleaning the front yard. I also heard my father cooking breakfast. It was a habit of mine to always wake up early to revise manuscripts, lesson plans, and more. I managed to carry that habit into this life. However, I don’t treat it as a disadvantage to wake up early. Now that I think about it, back in my days I tended to waste so much time doing useless things at night, so I always woke up in the afternoon. This was specifically true when there was no class. I only started waking up early in my twenties when I had to work part-time to go to college.

  I sat up carefully and watched sunlight stretch across my room.

  No machines.

  No IV stand.

  No hospital smell.

  Just home.

  I stood and tested my balance.

  Weak.

  But steady.

  “I have to heal quickly so that I won’t be a burden to my parents,” I told myself and started doing easy exercises to help my body recover.

  After doing some simple stretching and warm-up, I stepped outside. My mother looked surprised.

  “You should rest.”

  “I am resting,” I said. “I just want to sit here.” I was really bored. Being in the hospital really affected my physical and mental health. The latter was caused by boredom.

  She handed me a small towel without thinking.

  “Then hold this,” my mother calmly told me.

  Days passed slowly.

  Not blurred like in the hospital.

  Each one felt deliberate.

  I helped wash dishes, even when my mother told me to stop.

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  I folded laundry beside her.

  I sat near my father in the evenings while he watched the news.

  We ate together, sang karaoke together, and played card games. I am an only child and was still recovering, so I stayed at home most of the time, spending time with my mother. My father worked in the morning and came back in the afternoon. I sometimes helped my mother clean the house, which I also did in my past life, so it wasn’t shocking for them. But in my past life, I helped because I knew it was my duty. Deep in my heart, if I didn’t have to do it, I wouldn’t have done it. In this life, it is different. I enjoy doing it for my parents.

  Here, there was nothing urgent.

  Just time.

  And I finally noticed how fragile it felt.

  One afternoon, I found an old photo album tucked in the cabinet. It was an ordinary album that looked like a book, with plastic covers on each page where we could put four photos.

  “Such a treasure!” I shouted, gaining the attention of my parents.

  I brought it to the table.

  My mother laughed softly when she saw it.

  “You were so thin,” she said, pointing at a picture of me in elementary school.

  I looked at my body and started to be disappointed. “I still am,” I replied. In my past life, my body was not as skinny as this. I was lean but carried muscle.

  She shook her head.

  My father leaned over to look. “This photo was taken by your uncle during your graduation,” he pointed out.

  I asked to flip the album. It came to a picture of me as a child without wearing anything. Everybody laughed. I felt slightly embarrassed but still joined them in laughing.

  For a moment, the three of us stood close together, flipping through old photographs.

  I realized something quietly:

  In my first life, I thought I was building something important.

  But I had left the foundation unattended.

  By the end of the week, my strength returned enough for short walks outside.

  Neighbors greeted me.

  “Recovered already?”

  “Be careful next time.”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Where should I go?” I asked myself. I walked around and saw some of my childhood friends. We greeted each other and talked. Some asked me to play with them. But my mental age wouldn’t allow it, so I rejected them and said I was still recovering. I promised to play with them soon. So I spent my time watching them play, which made me envious and want to join them. But I had already told them I couldn’t play, so I could only cry in my heart, blaming my pride.

  One evening, as the sky turned orange, my mother called from the kitchen.

  “Dinner!”

  My father and I were watching the basketball league when she called. He gave me a look, signaling that I should take the food to him so he could watch and eat in the living room. However, I gave him a sign back that I couldn’t smile. In the end, my mother came to us and removed the TV plug so everyone ate in the kitchen.

  In my first life, I often let calls ring twice before answering.

  I am thankful that God gave me the chance to eat like this with them again. Throughout the dinner, the smile on my face never faded.

  Later that night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

  On the desk near the window sat a stack of school books.

  The new semester would begin soon.

  I felt no dread.

  No excitement either.

  I’ll just live it fully.

  I turned to my side and listened to the faint sounds of my parents moving in the other room.

  I closed my eyes and felt at peace.

  Good.

  —

  After I woke up, I started to take a bath and fix myself up. An additional habit I carried from my past life was maintaining my appearance. I looked at the mirror, seeing my child self. If I rate myself now, I am still a 9 out of 10. Not bad. I started to wear my uniform and arrange my hair. I looked neat and innocent. Then I went downstairs to eat breakfast.

  The morning of the first day of school felt strangely familiar.

  Not because I was excited.

  But because I already knew how it would unfold.

  I passed one of the mirrors in the living room. It was a full-body mirror. We had this since way back an old mirror with a horse and box design on the sides.

  My uniform hung slightly loose on my thinner frame. I adjusted the collar in front of the mirror.

  The face staring back at me had no lines of exhaustion. No dark circles from grading papers late at night. No quiet heaviness behind the eyes.

  I exhaled slowly.

  “Let’s see how you do this time,” I muttered.

  Then I went into the kitchen and ate my breakfast sinangag and egg. A typical Filipino breakfast. I think most households right now have the same breakfast. No matter how rich or poor you are, this breakfast is standard.

  “Ready?” my mother asked after I finished eating.

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. In my first life, I barely remembered this morning. I must have rushed through it.

  She fixed my collar.

  Then she stepped back to look at me properly.

  She said, “Study well,” like it was a matter of life and death, which gave me a little pressure. But I brushed it off because I am 13 with 35 years of experience the ideal employee most companies want.

  “I will,” I answered.

  And this time, I meant more than grades.

  The school gate looked smaller than I remembered.

  “Hey, hey, hey, do you have a pen? I forgot mine,” said one student.

  “You can just buy one in the canteen later,” the other student replied.

  You could see several faces. Some were anxious, some were excited.

  Students crowded near the entrance, laughing too loudly and shoving each other.

  I walked through slowly.

  The air smelled like dust and old cement. A bit of fresh paint could also be smelled on the newly repainted gate, which was done during Brigada Eskwela where parents and students help organize and repair the school during the break.

  Voices overlapped.

  Familiar faces passed by.

  And then

  Recognition.

  There.

  Near the staircase.

  A group of boys leaned against the wall.

  I remembered them.

  In my first life, their jokes had cut deeper than I admitted. Not cruel enough to report. Not harmless enough to ignore.

  One of them glanced at me.

  For a second, his expression showed nothing.

  Then he smirked slightly.

  Ah.

  So it begins again.

  But something inside me remained still.

  In my previous life, I tried to avoid them. Admittedly, I was bullied during this time. These guys took my money meant for food. It lasted for about a year before they were caught by one of the teachers and suspended.

  In my previous life, I usually changed routes. Pretended not to hear.

  Today was a little different. From the boy they once bullied and the one who experienced the pain of death, I simply walked past.

  Not fast.

  Not slow.

  They laughed at something, maybe about me, maybe not. It didn’t matter. I have different priorities now. I want to leave this school and start earning money so I can help my parents.

  I had already seen how their stories ended. Time had softened them in my memory. Some started working early. Some became fathers at a young age. Some got addicted to drugs and died during the Digong administration.

  And standing here now, they looked smaller than the fear I once gave them.

  Inside the classroom, desks were arranged in imperfect rows.

  Sunlight entered from the left-side windows, just like before.

  “Do you know what the first subject is?” one classmate asked.

  “I also don’t know,” the chubby classmate replied.

  “Have you prepared your introduction?” one student asked nervously.

  “I’m feeling bloated because of nervousness,” another replied.

  As I entered the classroom, familiarity hit me. I knew the seating arrangement, my seatmates, and where I used to sit.

  Last row.

  Near the window.

  My seatmate’s name is Jomarie, one of my childhood friends. He lives in San Miguel, two barangays before mine. In front of me is the gay student in our class, Reniel. I forgot where he lives because we are not really close.

  In my first life, I chose that seat because it was safe. Not too visible. Not too invisible.

  Today, I chose the same seat.

  Not out of fear.

  Out of familiarity.

  As I sat down, someone dropped their bag on the desk beside mine.

  “Hey.”

  I looked up.

  Jomarie.

  He looked exactly the same as in my old photos. Slightly messy hair. Bright eyes. The kind of smile that came easily.

  “You look thinner,” he said casually.

  I almost laughed.

  “You say that like I was fat before.”

  He grinned. “You were.”

  I stared at him for a moment longer than necessary.

  In my first life, we drifted apart without a fight.

  No dramatic fallout.

  No betrayal.

  Just busyness.

  Missed messages.

  Skipped reunions.

  I had chosen work over weekends.

  Deadlines over dinners.

  Prestige over presence.

  And one day, we simply stopped calling.

  He didn’t know that yet.

  To him, this was just another school year.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just… recovering.”

  He nodded. “Heard you got really sick.”

  “Slightly dramatic, apparently.”

  He laughed. The sound felt familiar. How nostalgic.

  The teacher entered shortly after.

  I recognized her immediately.

  In my first life, she once told me:

  “You’re capable, but you lack spark.”

  It irritated me for years.

  Now, watching her place the attendance sheets on the desk, I felt something different.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  I was capable. However, spark required risk. Even though I eventually made it, the struggle really hit me. I was just lucky. Other people who take the same path 90% of them won’t make it. Sometimes being safe means success.

  She began calling names.

  When she reached mine, I answered clearly.

  She looked at me for a second longer than expected.

  I almost smiled.

  As the day moved forward, I observed more than I spoke.

  I watched who sat with whom. Who interrupted. Who tried too hard to impress.

  I know this is a waste of energy. No matter how much you try to please your teachers, even if they favor you, you can’t be saved if you have bad grades. It’s the same in adult life. It doesn’t matter much. You need to provide results for them to keep you. You need good grades to avoid failing.

  In my first life, I did the same as them. Only later did I realize how useless it was.

  When lunchtime arrived, my friend nudged me.

  “Canteen?”

  I hesitated for only a second.

  In my previous life, I often skipped moments like this. The canteen was hell in school where all the bullies gathered.

  “I have something to finish,” I used to say.

  To avoid getting my money taken.

  However, today was different. I stood up.

  “Let’s go.”

  The canteen was loud and chaotic. Plastic chairs scraped against the floor. Someone argued about change. Someone spilled juice.

  We sat at a corner table after buying simple bread with cheese inside.

  I observed the people beside us because they were talking about something interesting.

  “Our English teacher is merciless. First day, and we already have a quiz?” one student said.

  The other student talked about how strict and merciless she was. I know this English teacher. She is one of the “hell-mode” teachers, notorious for failing several students.

  I listened to them complain while eating my food.

  “I’m nervous she’ll be our next teacher,” Jomarie said after eavesdropping.

  “I think we’ll be fine as long as we’re careful,” I replied. If I fail this subject after all the experience I have from my past life, I should just hang myself on the wall.

  After a while, he calmed down and talked about random things video games, a classmate’s haircut, and a rumor about a teacher.

  I listened and laughed with him, enjoying our food.

  As classes ended, students rushed toward the gate.

  “Argh!” My head. I felt so tired that even my 12-hour shifts in my past life couldn’t compare. Pretending to listen is really exhausting. The quality of the class was horrible, especially in the afternoon when my body just wanted to sleep. My head kept spinning, and my eyes wanted to shut.

  “Finally, I am out!” I exclaimed to myself.

  “Jomarie is really different. It’s the first day of class, and he already cut the last subject. He really is different,” I sighed as I picked up my things and walked outside.

  As I stepped out, I glanced back at the building. A few years from now, this building will be demolished and replaced with a bigger one, about five floors high.

  I remembered that I donated some of my research earnings to this school as payback for taking care of me during my time here.

  I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and headed home.

  Tomorrow will come.

  And I’ll be here again.

  “Argh… my head.”