Surrender

CHAPTER TWO

Morning in Sampaloc never arrived quietly. It broke in like a visitor who’d forgotten their manners, jeepneys grumbling down Legarda Avenue, vendors shouting “taho!” in rhythm, church bells clanging out of sync with alarms.

Jessica woke to all of it, the city’s noise pressing through the thin plywood walls of the boarding house. Sweat dampened her back. The fan had stopped again in the middle of the night, its cord twisted into a knot.

The room was barely larger than her family’s kitchen back home, yet it carried the weight of four separate lives: Bea, Ate Mara, Tessa, and her own.

Four girls. Two double-deck beds. One shared bathroom with a door that didn’t quite close.

The smell of detergent, instant coffee, and frying oil floated together, the unofficial perfume of student survival.

Bea, her roommate on the lower bunk, was still asleep, earbuds tangled in her hair. At only eighteen, like her, she is also a freshman Communication and Media student, her classmate and her best friend, bright-eyed, gentle, always chasing laughter. She believed in happy endings and i********: filters, and sometimes Jessica envied that about her.

Across the room, Tessa, a third-year Psychology major, sat by the window brushing her long hair in silence. No one really knew much about her, she spoke softly, moved precisely, and carried secrets like perfume: faint, but noticeable.

And then there was Ate Mara, the eldest among them at twenty-five, studying Dentistry while working nights at a restobar in Mendiola. Cynical, sharp, and unsentimental, she was both their reluctant protector and occasional tormentor. She once told Jessica,

“Good girls don’t survive here. Smart girls do.”

This strange sisterhood, accidental, chaotic, had become Jessica’s chosen family.

She reached for her notebook on the bedside table. The words she’d written the night before, “Fairness isn’t free” stared back at her like a mirror.

Back home in San Jose, Nueva Ecija, mornings had smelled like rice husks and ground coffee, her mother humming while sweeping the yard. Her father’s tricycle engine was the sound of the sun rising. Life there was simple, predictable, until it wasn’t.

Her parents had sent her to Manila with money borrowed from neighbors and hope that could barely fit in a suitcase. “Study hard,” her mother said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Make your story bigger than ours.”

Her father added quietly, “Jess, you’ll be our voice now. Learn how to use it.”

That was why Jessica took Bachelor of Arts in Communication and Media. She didn’t dream of fame; she dreamed of truth. She wanted to become the kind of journalist who could explain the world to people like her parents, to give clarity to those who only ever received noise.

Sometimes she wondered if that was naïve. But it kept her going.

By nine a.m., she was already in class, scribbling notes about Media Ethics. Her pen was on its last drop of ink. Her lunch fund, a crumpled hundred-peso bill, had to last two days. She smiled anyway.

At five, while her classmates packed up for the day, Jessica changed into her black polo and apron for her part-time shift at Tambay Table, one of the busiest restaurant chains in the country near Recto.

The air there was thick with frying oil and garlic. Orders came fast, and smiles had to come faster. The manager barked instructions like a coach. Jessica moved in rhythm, clearing tables, refilling pitchers, collecting plates, all while pretending her feet weren’t screaming.

Every plate she served felt like another step toward her tuition fee. Every “thank you” from a stranger was a reminder that her dreams had a price tag.

During her break, she leaned against the counter, watching customers come and go. A group of students from San Beda sat in the corner, still in their red varsity jackets, laughing too loudly. She looked away before her thoughts could wander again, before she started comparing their lives to her own.

That night, back at the dorm, the others were unwinding. Bea was humming while painting her nails; Tessa typed furiously on her laptop, a halo of blue light framing her face. Ate Mara had just come home from work, her eyes tired and her energy half-spent.

Jessica folded her uniform neatly and sat on the bed, notebook open again.

She began to write, not for class, not for anyone else, just to breathe.

“Some people are born with certainty. The rest of us build ours from scratch, with sleepless nights, borrowed money, and a name we hope someone will one day remember.”

Outside, Manila’s noise never stopped, karaoke songs echoing from the next building, tricycles humming, laughter drifting through open windows.

Jessica smiled faintly. She was tired, but she was here. And for tonight, that was enough.