Mondays. Freaking Mondays. Why were Mondays even created?

  The sizzling of onions sautéing and the birds chirping outside our apartment brought a calming effect as I cooked breakfast in our makeshift kitchen. Yet the fact that it was a Monday drowned all of it.

  I hated Mondays most.

  Some might say that being a teacher was an easy job. According to certain self-important people, we were just teaching students. One of my students even said we were lucky since we only needed to sit to get paid. The audacity of that child made me mad, but I kept my cool and let it slide. After all, I was a licensed professional. So, I acted professionally.

  They were wrong.

  I might be too lazy to explain it all, but I knew how it worked. They didn’t see a teacher’s schedule. Imagine bringing home piles of paperwork just to finish them—work supposedly done during an eight-hour shift that was never feasible.

  And Monday was the worst of all.

  I was about to pour last night’s rice when a rustle behind startled me.

  “Oh, you’re already cooking. I was supposed to do that,” my younger brother said with a yawn.

  He moved silently into the kitchen—like an assassin. I liked calling him that. Vincent had been quiet since birth. He usually handled breakfast, but since I woke up too early, I figured I’d take over.

  Vincent looked half-asleep, though he always did. His sleepy eyes and crooked, small nose added to the effect. But what stood out most was his unusual complexion. His face, down to the left side of his chest, was brown; the rest of his upper body, including his arms, was lighter. His lower body was dark brown, and his right foot was pinkish brown.

  People teased him a lot for this. He was even bullied back in elementary because of it. But to me, it made him unique. And I liked it.

  “Make sure to replace the water gallon and wake Mama up,” I said.

  “They’re awake. Can you serve me a bowl?”

  “Go serve yourself. I’m gonna take a bath. Get me a towel and a pair of boxers.”

  “And?”

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “Went to work. What else?”

  “Pack my lunch. Just rice, alright? I’m just gonna step into the bathroom real quick.”

  I went in and slid out of my baggy shirt—God, how I loved sleeping in baggy clothes. The shower wasn’t fully fixed yet, so I used the tabo. As I poured the cold water over my head, my mind wandered to impossible scenarios. Imagining things was my favorite escape—one that might just come true, considering my “power.”

  But mostly, it was the only productive thing I could do that required so little effort.

  I imagined publishing books. I was into linguistics and literature. In fact, I finished an education degree majoring in English and was currently taking my master’s in English Language Teaching with plans to dive deeper into literature next semester. I loved creating stories out of thin air. Sometimes, my ideas came so suddenly I had to write them down immediately or they’d disappear in seconds. Lately, I’d been writing a lot, even if my drafts felt as “uncooked” as the rice I often undercooked.

  Uncooked writing—what a comparison.

  I didn’t care if my stories sold. I just wanted to share them with readers who might find them interesting. Hopefully, it would happen.

  My thoughts shifted to Chevonne, the girl I liked at the school where I worked. She joined the faculty last year but was assigned to the fourth floor with the lower year levels. I was transferred to the fifth floor last September to cover for a teacher on maternity leave. Last December, just before our Christmas party, the headmaster told me I’d permanently take over 10A because the teacher decided to resign.

  Anyway, back to Chevonne. Though new, she was my age. She taught Science, and I taught English. Again, I hated schools—if I could switch jobs, I would—but she was one of the reasons I stayed.

  I first noticed her during a seminar last summer: Teachers’ Furthering of Knowledge. It was supposed to hone our teaching skills, but honestly, I didn’t gain much. Gardner’s Multiple Intelligences and Bloom’s Taxonomy were familiar from my college days, so I took the seminar for granted.

  Yes, it was my fault. I’d forgiven myself already.

  The one thing that kept me engaged was her. I caught glimpses of her chatting with her friend, her smiles lighting up the room. She wasn’t the typical pabebe girl; she had a charm only I seemed to understand—at least, I liked to think so.

  Pathetic, wasn’t it? Einstein once said, “If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.” Full of crap.

  Some things were too complex to explain. Emotions, for example. Even non-living things, in my view, could express feelings. Sometimes, I imagined the wind whispering a lullaby when I was stressed or singing a comforting tune when I felt isolated. Like a loving mother.

  If only I could understand Chevonne’s feelings, too. How wonderful that would be.

  Vincent pulled me out of my thoughts.

  “Kuya, I can’t find a pair of boxers here!”

  “Dig deeper! They’re probably mixed with my shorts. Or you’re looking in the wrong drawer!”

  “Second to last, right?”

  “Wrong one! It’s in the last drawer, fool. Remember that next time!”

  “Ah, found it!”

  I changed into my work clothes—a full business suit with a tie—and hopped on my scooter. I bought my pink Honda Beat last year. My friends teased me about the color, but pink was my favorite. The scooter was a splurge, but commuting in Cebu was a nightmare—it saved me so much hassle.

  I started the engine and drove off, heading straight into the hellish prison disguised as a school.

  *****

  I was almost late when I punched in. Some teachers were already finishing their breakfast in the cafeteria.

  I headed to my desk in the faculty office, which was conveniently next to the cafeteria. Each of our areas was divided by low cubicles, the kind where you could still see each other even while sitting down. Transparent glass panels separated each desk; it was a subtle reminder of personal space—where your things belonged and where they didn’t. If you sat next to a friend, though, those boundaries meant nothing. Well, depending on whether you were on good terms that day.

  Put. Grab. Clean. Pour. Drink.

  It was my daily routine.

  Put my bag on the desk.

  Grab my coffee mug, checking if the spoon was untouched and still the same one I always used.

  Clean the inside with hot water from the dispenser, conveniently just an arm’s length away.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Pour my daily elixir, the only thing keeping me functional.

  Drink the bittersweet perfection of the greatest yet cheapest coffee patent ever—Nescafé Original.

  “Josh, it’s the first day of school, and you’re still the same?”

  I turned to see one of my friends in the cafeteria line.

  “What do you mean by that?” I replied lazily.

  “At least say good morning to me! You’ve been doing this whole cold-treatment act for almost three years now. And for God’s sake, it’s the first day of the second half of school!”

  Yeah. Two and a half years of teaching here, and I still didn’t know how I managed to stay this long. Maybe it was the students—aside from my hopeless crush on Chevonne—or maybe the work environment itself. But it was definitely not lesson planning.

  Here would be a fitting analogy, though you might’ve heard it before: If my job were a person, and I were trapped in a room with it, Lenin, and Hitler, holding a gun with only two bullets, I’d shoot my job. Twice.

  That was how much I hated it.

  I ordered my usual breakfast—rice, ham, spam, and a sunny-side-up egg. Eating twice in the morning had become my excuse to hang out with my friends without making it too obvious that I wanted the company. I told the cafeteria staff to list my meal on my tab, then I sat beside Veruca.

  Feisty little Veruca. She was barely four-feet tall and probably deep asleep when God handed out heights.

  I sliced into my egg, took a bite, and asked, “Where are the others?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re here but invisible. Try asking the vacant seats,” she replied with her usual sarcasm.

  “Just like Veruca,” I muttered.

  “Yes, just like me,” she shot back.

  There wasn’t much to talk about when it was just the two of us, so we headed back to the faculty office and prepared for the first period.

  I wished to God to let me survive this day as quickly as possible.

  *****

  The morning classes dragged on as boring as they could be. I loved my students, but I couldn’t shake off how dull teaching felt lately. The experience wasn’t the same as before. Honestly, if not for my students, I wouldn’t have shown up today.

  During lunch, four of my co-teachers were seated at one of the round tables outside the cafeteria. I wanted to join them, hoping to build some connections with the new faculty, but there wasn’t an extra seat left. Holding my lunchbox with just rice, I ordered my viand and pretended to search for a place to sit. In reality, I was just admiring the artistic beauty of the whole cafeteria.

  If there was one thing I genuinely liked about this school, it was the cafeteria.

  Beyond the food, the design and layout stirred the art-loving student inside me. Of all the schools I’d been to, ANHS was the oasis when it came to comfort and design. Ten round tables, each with four bolted chairs, stood out as masterpieces. Circular patterns of twigs and leaves decorated the tabletop. The chairs themselves were crafted intricately—the edges shaped like oak wood, colored in a matching brown shade. The seats, a darker brown, connected to the floor through a single stem resembling a tree stump, all bolted securely.

  I was about to head back to my desk, satisfied with my artistic observations, when someone called out.

  “Josh, come here! Eat with us.”

  It was Veruca, calling from the staircase as she descended to the fourth floor where our old faculty office had been. She was the only one I managed to befriend easily—probably because she was so approachable and easy-going. Just to clarify, I wasn’t the one who introduced myself first. I was too tired for that back then.

  She was like a friend for all ages. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could befriend a monkey—or even the dead rat that once stunk up the fourth floor for weeks.

  And thanks to her, I made two more friends.

  “Where are you eating?” I called back, turning in her direction.

  “In Blanch’s classroom. It’s her students’ ‘Day Off,’ so they’ve already gone home.”

  “Who’s eating with us?”

  “Arjun, Chevonne—”

  “Okay, count me in!” I cut her off, and she just nodded knowingly.

  Recently, Chevonne got adopted into their circle since she was the only newly hired teacher in the middle of June last year. She basically replaced me when I transferred. Not that I cared. In fact, it gave me the perfect chance to get closer to her—as friends first, of course. And no, I wasn’t the least bit tired of trying.

  Blanch’s classroom was a blend of strange and beautiful, appealing not just to her seventh graders but to anyone who appreciated art. The walls were filled with quotes, but the one on the front wall stood out:

  “God can see you.”

  Definitely a bold reminder for students to keep their integrity in check.

  Dark-brown tree trunks decorated the corners; branches stretched out across the upper parts of the walls, just beneath the quotes. The reading corner was filled with children’s books—and a few forgotten lunchboxes. A massive memory wall covered almost the entire back wall, plastered with handouts and announcements. To the left, beside the windows, there was a birthday corner, a background information chart, and the cleaning duty assignments.

  The whiteboard was still marked with the morning’s lessons, and the STEPS section was filled with names—probably the usual rowdy students. A large Samsung TV hung at the center of the front wall. All the chairs were stacked, and the bare walls were decorated with autumn leaves cut from cartolina.

  Blanch and Arjun were already at the teacher’s desk near the door, munching on their food.

  “Hoy, Josh! It’s been centuries since you visited us!” Blanch called out the moment I stepped inside.

  She was also a four-footer, like Veruca, but a few inches taller and far less feisty. On the contrary, she was cute—adorable, even. Her large, sparkling black eyes felt like they could pull you in with her button nose perfectly complementing her pouty lips. Her black hair, short and neatly tied into a bun, completed the look.

  Yeah, you got me. I once liked her. But that feeling didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.

  “Yeah, what’s up? Looks like you got really hungry waiting for us,” I teased, grabbing a student chair to sit beside them. Veruca followed.

  “We’re good. Let me guess—you didn’t do anything productive during Christmas break, huh?”

  “Hey, don’t just assume! I didn’t waste my break doing nothing. I was very productive,” I defended, exaggerating for effect.

  “Productive? Wow, that’s a big word coming from you,” Arjun snorted between bites of his bola-bola.

  There were only four male teachers here—Samuel, Norkie, Arjun, and me. Teacher Samuel and teacher Norkie were both too old to relate to, with a thirty-year age gap between us. Arjun, on the other hand, was my age and the only guy I could talk to about “boy stuff.” Well, sort of.

  He was bisexual and fabulously so.

  I grabbed his left ear and playfully smacked his head. His bushy hair served as natural armor for such attacks.

  “You’re one to talk, huh, Arj? Didn’t you date like three guys from Tinder and Tantan all at once during the break?”

  “Hey! What’s wrong with that? They all asked me out. Am I supposed to reject them and break their hearts? At least, I’m spreading hope.”

  “Well, hopefully, it’s just hope you’re spreading.”

  “Want to die?”

  “Still, the ends don’t justify the means. Nice try.”

  “Hey, don’t be too hard on Arj. Are you perfect?” Veruca chimed in.

  “That’s right. At least he’s being productive—more than someone who finishes his lesson plans after the actual lesson,” Blanch added, hitting a nerve.

  “Are you even thinking straight? No pun intended, Arj,” I added with a grin. “Dating multiple people at once is an emotional crime!”

  “Really? So, you’re saying Muslims are emotional criminals now?” Veruca shot back with a smirk.

  “That’s right,” Blanch chimed in, clearly just to stir the pot.

  I shook my head. “Listen, if I were to date someone, I’d give my full attention to one girl.”

  Arjun snorted loudly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just pity that poor girl. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be Blanch.”

  Blanch’s face twisted in exaggerated disgust. “As if. Even if Josh were the last man on Earth, I’d rather die single.”

  “Wow. Rude. Did you even ask if I liked you? Not even on my loneliest day have I ever looked at you like that, shorty,” I shot back with a smirk, adding salt to the wound.

  I lied, of course. My pride had taken a critical hit, and I wasn’t about to let it show.

  “Truth be told, I don’t like any girls here. It feels like I’m surrounded by extras from The Walking Dead.”

  The whole group gave me a deadpan stare. They were not even hurt, just disappointed.

  “You can’t fool anyone,” Arjun said.

  As if on cue, Chevonne suddenly entered the room.

  “Am I late?” she asked in a high-pitched voice, clutching her lunchbox and a pink Hydro Flask. She smiled at everyone, though I couldn’t tell if it included me.

  I quickly clamped a hand over Arjun’s mouth and focused intensely on the food, pretending it was the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

  Chevonne sat across from me. Five feet tall, heart-shaped face, delicate features—there was something magnetic about her presence.

  And just like that, I was speechless.

  No, the word was… stupefied.

  Time seemed to fly when you were caught up in moments like these—blissful, at least for me. For her, though, it was probably just another ordinary day. And that was fine. I had no plans of rushing anything. One of these days, I’d make sure she’d notice me.

  After we finished our meals, we cleaned up our mess and exchanged brief goodbyes. They headed back to their faculty room while I made my way up to mine on the fifth floor.

  By then, most of the teachers were already immersed in their afternoon routines—preparing worksheets, tweaking PowerPoint presentations, or guiding their students. The usual hum of productivity filled the space.

  I leaned back in my chair, exhaling quietly.

  So much for the friendship I was hoping to build with her.