The early bird catches the worm—unless, of course, it’s stuck in traffic on a jeepney with twenty other commuters and a distinct smell of engine grease.
I sigh, louder than I intend, and glance at my watch again for what must be the fourth time in under a minute. I left my apartment ten minutes earlier than usual, yet the road, stubborn and unapologetic, isn’t in the mood to cooperate. So much for punctuality.
Still, small mercies: I’m seated in the front passenger seat, right next to the driver, spared from the canned-sardine chaos behind me. The benches meant for eight per side are stretched thin under the weight of ten—plus bags, elbows, and the occasional intrusive knee.
Phones glow like little altars in people’s hands, their owners hunched in devotion, oblivious to the world outside the window. The morning air is a cocktail of fumes and humidity, the kind that clings to your skin and makes you question every life decision that led to this point. But oddly, it’s familiar. Routine, even. The kind of discomfort you learn to endure like an old, mismatched sweater.
The jeepney driver, surprisingly neat for someone who wrestles traffic all morning, is in his forties and wears a t-shirt that smells distractingly good. Clean laundry with a hint of cologne—a small wonder in a world of diesel and sweat. He nudges the jeepney forward, inching behind a bulky SUV, and adjusts the radio. A booming anchor voice fills the cabin, narrating the news like we’re all characters in some gritty morning drama.
I look to my right and freeze—a man, unbothered by the chaos of the street, is shaving. Not with an electric razor, no. With an actual blade, using the side mirror of his car. The audacity is almost artistic. To my left, over the driver’s shoulder, I catch another man steering with his elbows while balancing a cup of coffee and a half-eaten pandesal like it’s a casual Wednesday morning. Which, I suppose, it is.
Up ahead, a traffic enforcer, waves students across the road like a conductor of a disjointed orchestra. Most of the kids are in uniform, scurrying toward the elementary school gates. I watch them, suddenly struck by the contrast: they, full of beginnings; me, stuck somewhere in the middle, late for work. I check my watch again. Time, ever the show-off, seems to speed up when you’re trying to catch it.
In a moment of surrender, I grab my phone. Messenger chat, Facebook reels, random comment on a meme I won’t remember later. All distractions until boredom gets bored of me. With nothing left to do, I hand over my fare. The driver gives me change in coins—student fare. Again. I shake my head and gently hand the coins back. It’s not his fault. With my frame and this uniform, I could pass for a high schooler if I just tied my hair back and looked worried about algebra.
“Oh, so you’re employed? What’s your job?” he asks, glancing at my ID.
“Yeah, I’m teaching,” I reply with a sheepish laugh. This part always gets interesting. People rarely expect me to be the one standing at the whiteboard.
“Really? How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
As we pass the school and traffic finally unclogs, I feel the tightness in my shoulders ease a little. A woman hands over her fare, and once the driver gives her change, he looks at me again. “You’re the same age as my first-born son. He used to study criminology but had to stop because he got someone pregnant,” he says, voice dipping slightly with the weight of memory.
We reach an intersection and turn left.
“How about you? Do you have a, um…”
“No, no. I’m single,” I cut in, maybe a little too quickly.
He nods, satisfied. “That’s a good decision. Starting a family these days without enough savings isn’t practical. Better to enjoy your youth and freedom while you can. Time flies so quickly, you know? One moment, you’re wild, free, and full of energy, and the next, you’re in a rocking chair, applying Efficascent because your back aches like crazy.” He means the liniment oil, of course—every Filipino knows it. Still, the image sticks, a little too well.
He grins at his own joke, and I smile back, warmed by the sudden intimacy of strangers sharing the weight of time.
A few minutes later, I arrive at my stop. It’s on the far side of the road, and from here, it’s a fifteen-minute walk to the school. Normally, a shuttle service picks us up—one of those boxy white minivans with tinted windows—but today, like my luck, it’s late. I can’t afford to wait.
With no better choice, I hail a tricycle. It’s cramped, noisy, and the seat cushion pokes through the fake leather, but it gets me here. As soon as it reaches the gates, I jump out, practically sprinting toward the entrance. I have ten minutes to spare. Barely. But I make it in time to log in at the lobby’s biometric scanner.
I take the stairs—because the elevator is either too slow or too crowded—and make my way to the second floor. A few teachers pass me by, offering nods and smiles that say, “I see you survived the morning chaos, too.”
My cubicle is the size of a generous closet—about a meter and a half wide—with the standard whiteboard, bookshelves, desk, and two chairs. Functional, uninspiring. I drop my things, turn around, and head straight downstairs to the teacher’s canteen. It’s tucked behind the nurse station and the kitchen, almost like a secret only the tired ones know about.
Breakfast is a familiar trio: scrambled eggs, fried rice, and sausages paired with a cup of instant coffee that tastes like it’s seen better days. I carry the cup to one of the hallway tables that overlooks the dormitory and the pool.
The view is charming in a way that makes you forget the building’s age. Palm trees sway with mild elegance, local flora lines the perimeter, and woven native furniture completes the aesthetic. A Korean couple is in the pool with their toddler, giggling in soft splashes. A tall guy—slim, stoic—sits nearby with his breakfast. I can’t tell if he’s Taiwanese or Japanese, though something about his stillness says the latter.
Tropics English Academy—or TEA, as we fondly call it, because everything sounds a little less intimidating when it comes with a hot drink—is where I’ve been teaching for the past few months. It’s one of those high-profile, semi-Sparta language schools that started popping up in the early 2000s—the kind that built its name on strict schedules and zero-nonsense study routines, softened only by palm trees and resort aesthetics. The campus itself is surprisingly pretty for a place where people go to wrestle with grammar and pronunciation. It’s six stories tall, spread across three main buildings, with a glittering pool right in the middle, like a reward for surviving your modules. There’s also a gym and a basketball court, though I’ll admit I’ve never used either.
The dorms in Building 3 are sleek and modern, almost hotel-like, which always feels a bit strange to me considering most of the students live there—it’s basically college all over again: loud music, late-night instant noodles, and the occasional laundry room drama. Luckily, restaurants and little attractions are just a short walk away, which comes in handy when cabin fever sets in or when homesickness shows up disguised as cravings.
We get a mixed crowd here—mostly South Koreans, Japanese, and Arabs, with the rest a colorful blend of Taiwanese, Chinese, Mongolians, Vietnamese, Thais, and the occasional Russian. Our teaching team is mostly Filipino, like myself, with five native-speaker imports: Sean and Todd from Canada; Tim, the most chill Australian you’ll ever meet; John, who brings in the posh British vibe; and Dominic, our effortlessly cool Black American teacher. They handle things like pronunciation and vocabulary, plus those supplementals students either love or dread depending on the day.
As for me, I teach both Test of English for International Communication (TOEIC) and English as a Second Language (ESL) courses—though ESL was my first love, and maybe still is.
Classes run from eight to six, with a one-hour lunch and five-minute breaks in between. Weekly schedules shift depending on how long the students are enrolled. Some stay for six months, or as long as their bank accounts will allow. Others breeze through in two weeks, disappearing like the last page of a summer novel.
“Hey, Teacher,” comes a familiar voice.
It’s Su Sheng Zhi—Kenny, as he prefers—waving at me with a tired but polite smile. He’s clearly just come from Building 1, where the International Development Program (IDP) center is located and where the daily student test takes place. In one hand, he clutches his self-reading book; the other, his phone.
I nod, raising my cup like a tired salute. “Hi, Kenny. How’s the test today?”
His face falls, and the brightness in his eyes, dims. “It was…terrible, I supposed.”
I offer a half-smile. “Nah. I’m sure you did well. Otherwise, there’s always next time.”
I mean it, too. Kenny’s one of my more promising students—intermediate level, fluent enough to carry a conversation, but still struggling with pronunciation and rhythm. The usual stumbling blocks for Taiwanese learners.
He shrugs and walks off.
More students trickle in from the test room, lining up at the canteen like sleepy ants drawn to sugar. A few, scatter elsewhere, skipping breakfast like it’s an optional side quest.
I glance at my coffee cup. Cold. Undrinkable. I down one last sip anyway and head to the men’s room to pour the rest into the sink.
Inside, a janitor is mopping the floor with meditative focus. I give him a nod, keep my silence, and study myself in the wide mirror. My fingers run through my hair, an unconscious ritual. A small attempt at neatness before the chaos begins.
The bell rings.
I roll my eyes and mutter, “I know,” before hurrying back to class.
Ashton
It’s only 10:30 a.m., and the heat’s already insane. I had no idea summer in the Philippines—especially here in Lapu-Lapu City—could get this brutal. Feels like I accidentally signed up for a free trial in Diyu. It’s the Taoist version of hell, by the way—just with more paperwork. And we’re only halfway through the morning.
Not that I’m complaining too much. I’ve always liked the sun. My skin’s proof of that—tan from all the time I spend outdoors. But even I have my limits, and this weather is pushing it. When the heat index feels somewhere between OMG and WTF, there’s really nothing else to do but swear and keep moving.
Right now, I’m by the pool, pretending to enjoy the view. The water’s calm and clear, the kind of turquoise that makes you want to dive in, but I’m not in the mood. I’m more interested in how the stillness of the pool cuts through the noise around it. Students are talking, laughing, yelling. Staff are making their rounds. The whole place is buzzing, but here by the edge of the water, there’s a strange kind of peace.
We’re on a five-minute break between classes, and my smartwatch tells me there’s only two minutes left. Doesn’t matter. I’ve already made the call—I’m skipping my next class. International English Language Testing System (IELTS) Writing. No offense to the teacher—he’s great, honestly—but I can’t bring myself to sit through another hour of it. The class just draaags. I’ve tried to focus. I’ve tried to care. But my brain checks out every time the lesson starts.
I crack open a can of pineapple juice and take a long sip. It’s warm. Not ideal, but I drink it anyway. My sunglasses are slipping down my nose, so I push them back up with the side of my finger. I reach for my phone on the small table beside me, open the camera, and record a quick video of the pool, the buildings, the palm trees waving like they’re trying to stay cool, too. I throw it up on my Instagram story with the caption, Guess what? Still alive! #TEAlife. I let the app pick a random song and post it.
Not even a full minute passes before my younger sister, Jessie, reacts to it. Of course.
Tell me about your day, she comments. Classic Jessie. Like the video wasn’t already self-explanatory. I roll my eyes and start typing a reply: So far, same as usual. Short. Dismissive. Should get the message across. I don’t feel like talking. She’s always up in my business lately, wanting updates about every little thing. It’s exhausting.
Before I can even hit send, her name pops up on my screen. Video call. I hesitate, but pick up anyway.
Her face fills the whole screen, messy hair, yesterday’s makeup still clinging on for dear life. “Do you have a new roommate? Is he cute?” she asks right away, wasting zero time on small talk. This is like the fourth time she’s asked me this week.
My last roommate left last Friday after graduating. Went back to his country. My new one—Soojae—moved in just last night. Seventeen. Korean. Quiet. Seems like a good kid. Kai, the other one, transferred to our room the day before Soojae did. Japanese. Friendly but keeps to himself. Now it’s just the three of us. One bed’s still empty, but for now, the room’s finally quiet. I haven’t told Jessie about any of them yet because I know how she operates. One detail and she’ll turn it into a full-blown K-drama.
“I think you’re hiding something,” she says, switching to full-on interrogation mode. “Tell me about him! Is he tall? Does he have dimples? Is his hair curly or wavy? Is his English good?”
“God, you’re giving me the creeps,” I mutter in English, tossing in the new idiom I learned in Speaking class this morning. Might as well use it.
Her eyebrows pinch together, and she moves the phone away from her face. “What did you say?”
“Never mind. Talk later. Bye.” I switch back to Taiwanese, end the call before she can launch into round two, and slide my phone into my pocket. She’s probably still typing something, but I don’t check. I’m done for now.
The heat’s pressing down on me, thick and sticky. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and decide I’ve had enough of this sauna. I head back to the dorm, taking the elevator up to the fourth floor. The hallway’s quiet, just the low hum of the aircon overhead. My room is at the end.
I open the door and breathe out when I see it’s empty. Finally. Soojae’s probably off getting to know his teachers. First-day energy. Wants to make a good impression. Kai’s just as consistent. Always early. Never misses a class. Classic TOEIC student. Also, Japanese. So yeah—punctual to the core.
I shut the blinds, crank the air conditioner, and toss my shoulder bag onto the desk with a satisfying thud. According to my watch, I’ve got forty minutes before either of them shows up. I kick off my sneakers, slide into my chair, and take in the mess in front of me. My desk looks like a crime scene. Books, papers, random receipts—it’s all over the place. The overhead lamp is bent at a weird angle, like it’s given up on life. My books are shoved against each other on the shelf like they’re in an argument nobody’s winning.
It’s a far cry from Soojae’s setup. His corner is basically a hotel ad—clean, organized, barely touched. And Kai’s side? Minimal. Almost like he’s a ghost. My space, on the other hand, looks like I’ve been through a war.
I could’ve gotten a premium single room. My mom suggested it when we were planning all this. She also suggested I take a break from work—something about burnout and how my doctor said I’d better start choosing a design for my future urn. Overdramatic, but fair. So, she pitched this whole “study and rest” idea. Come to this academy, improve my English even more, meet people, have a life outside my laptop.
I’ve already passed the IELTS. Spent about a year in Vancouver. But whatever. She made some good points. We agreed room-sharing would help me socialize. I’m here for three months. It’s only my second week, and I’m still adjusting.
I glance at the mirror and immediately regret it. There’s a smear of kimchi on my cheek from breakfast. My jaw’s dark with stubble—it’s been three days since I shaved—and my hair looks like I lost a fight with a pillow. Basically, I’m a mess.
I peel off my clothes and step into the shower. The cold water hits me like a reset button. Instant relief. I ask Siri to play some music. She picks Ed Sheeran. Not my favorite, but I hum along anyway. My shoulders finally start to drop. The chill sinks into my skin, rinsing off the heat, the sweat, the stress.
The afternoon flies by. Classes blur together until we hit Taboos and Issues—and suddenly, everyone’s wide awake.
It starts when a South Korean woman makes a sharp comment about polygamy in Arab cultures. The guy from Riyadh doesn’t take it well. He fires back, calls her “plastic,” accusing her of getting work done. And boom—they’re yelling. Things go off the rails so fast our teacher has to dismiss them both ten minutes early.
Honestly, it was wild. Not the best way to handle things, but definitely eye-opening. They both had valid points, but neither of them knew how to say it without setting off a landmine. It’s just a reminder—this place is a mix of cultures, and if we don’t respect each other, things can fall apart fast.
The whole thing leaves me feeling tense, like I’ve absorbed the leftover stress in the air. I don’t feel like heading back to the dorm just yet, so I head for the elevator and press the button for the fourth floor of the academic building.
Library’s there. So is the gym.
Between sitting down for another round of self-study or lifting something heavy until my brain shuts up, I go for the second option.
Weights don’t talk back.
Jasper
“Bye, Pun-Pun. See you tomorrow. And don’t forget your homework,” I remind my ninth-period student as the bell rings.
She scratches her mess of wavy hair and pulls a face, then pats me a little too hard on the back. “Nah. I’m going to change this class, so don’t count on it,” she says, laughing.
I knew she hated homework. She had no choice but to put up with it, though. Today’s topic was If Conditionals, which she despised with the same intensity people reserve for traffic jams and tropical heatwaves.
“Go ahead,” I deadpan. As per the rules, students can switch classes once a week if they think it’s necessary. In man-to-man classes, it’s usually because they feel they’re not vibing with the teacher or that the class isn’t helping them improve. For group classes, the reasons vary—some find the pace too fast, others aren’t comfortable with their classmates. Group size plays a role too. The smaller the group, the more airtime each student gets.
“I’m afraid you’re going to miss me,” she says with this familiar poise and confidence.
I roll my eyes and start packing up my laptop. We walk out into the hallway together, weaving through the chaos—students and teachers crammed in groups, shouting over each other, laughing like they’ve got no volume settings.
Pun-Pun gives me one of her teddy bear hugs, throws in her trademark hips-on-the-side, fingers-in-the-air pose, then winks. “I’ll find someone else to flirt with next. Maybe one of those cute girls in the hallway,” she adds with a sly grin, not even a little ashamed.
I can’t help but smile. She’s so open about it, no filters, and it’s refreshing to see someone be themselves without holding anything back.
“Don’t worry. No one can replace me,” I tease back, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd. I take the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor, half-walking, half-running, until I reach the library. I push the door open with my shoulder and immediately meet the collective glare of students already lined up—two neat rows of boredom and barely concealed annoyance.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, squeezing through the line and placing the self-study and self-writing attendance sheets on the desk.
I’m the tenth-period checker here. Fancy title, boring job. I basically monitor who logs in for study time. For self-study, students just write their names and vanish. For self-writing, they need to have their books checked before they’re allowed to sign. Otherwise, it’s a free-for-all and we’d be swimming in ghost attendance.
“Where’s your self-writing book?” I stop one boy just as he’s about to write. The others behind him start digging into their bags like squirrels in panic mode. Those who already have their books stare at me with a mix of mild disdain and silent judgment.
The guy in front of me freezes. I’m guessing he’s Chinese—my lone Chinese student often throws me tips on how to tell them apart from other Asians. This guy gives me a mischievous grin, clearly weighing the effort of an excuse and deciding it’s not worth the breath.
Even after three months, I still get confused with faces. Everyone looks like they could have a twin two floors down. But I’ve learned to pick up on accents, gestures, and little cultural quirks. His backpack even has a keychain—a white radish-looking creature from that popular Chinese animated film. Right up there in cuteness with Baby Yoda and Stitch. I melt, a little.
“Where’s your book?” I ask again, gentler this time.
He scratches his head, boyishly embarrassed. “In my room, Teacher.”
“Go get it.”
“But—”
“I can wait. Come back with it, I’ll check, then you can sign. No book, no sign. Clear?”
He sighs, shrugs, and drags his feet out the door.
“I’ll be right here,” I call after him, in case he forgets and wanders off forever.
The next student, a Vietnamese girl, hands me her book with a bashful smile. I skim her essay, compliment her handwriting, then wave for the next one. Eventually, they all sign and scatter to their corners. Silence settles like dust. Just the occasional sniffle or soft shuffle breaks the air.
I pull up today’s self-study and writing schedule on my laptop. I need to track who showed up and who didn’t, so I can submit the sheets later to the Admin Office. I’m halfway through my Excel file when the door clicks open again.
“That was fast,” I say without looking up. It’s only been a few minutes.
A soft throat-clearing answers me, followed by lightly accented English, “Sorry?”
I look up—and promptly lose the ability to speak.
He’s...stunning. Familiar, too, like someone I’ve seen in a dream I wasn’t supposed to enjoy.
I sit up straighter. My eyes probably scan him faster than airport security. He’s got that unmistakable East Asian glow, lean but clearly athletic under those fitted clothes. Broad shoulders, toned chest, not gym-rat bulky but just right. His black hair is short, wavy, effortlessly tousled. His eyes—narrow and sharp—have the kind of stillness that makes you wonder if he can read minds.
He has to be Taiwanese. A ridiculously attractive one.
It takes a second to reel myself back in. “Nothing, I thought you were the—”
“I got it!” The Chinese guy barrels in, book open like a trophy.
Perfect. A distraction.
I check his work, give him a thumbs-up, and watch him walk off, satisfied. But I’m hyperaware of the other guy—the impossibly attractive one—now writing his name down on the sheet.
He checks his smartwatch with a slight furrow of his thick brows, gives me a nod, and turns to leave. From behind, he’s even worse—or better, depending on how much I want to suffer. His tank top hugs his shoulders, his back tapering gracefully to a small waist. His buttocks—soft, round, criminally perfect—shift subtly as he walks. He moves like liquid confidence. Then the door closes quietly behind him.
I immediately lunge for the sheet like it holds the cure to every heartbreak I’ve ever had.
Sun Yu Jie.
I knew it.
My eyes scan for his nickname and land on it like a revelation.
Ashton.
I whisper it to myself, dreamy and dazed. “Ashton.” The name echoes in my head, like a song I already love.
Then—splash. Reality. Cold. Brutal. Freezing.
My smile vanishes. I drop the sheet like it burned me.
I’m here to work. That’s it. No distractions, no nonsense. Bills don’t pay themselves, and my responsibilities back home aren’t exactly shy about reminding me.
I take a deep breath, shove my feelings into whatever emotional closet they crawled out of, and go back to finishing the attendance file.