Chase After

TWO

I slide the sandwich into the toaster, careful not to let the tomato slices escape from the lettuce fort I built five minutes ago. May cucumber din, manipis na manipis para hindi niya bantaan ang plano kong "clean eating."

I'm on my diet—again, always, forever—kasi sabi ni mommy, the body is a home you live in for life. "Anak, alagaan mo 'yan. Hindi ako strikto, pero hindi rin ako Santa," she used to say kapag nahuhuli niya akong sumasawsaw ng fries sa gravy. Hindi siya ever naging food police, pero consistent ang reminders niya sa tamang pagkain at sa tamang pag-aalaga ng katawan, parang weather app na nag-no-notify bago pa umulan.

Antok pa ang ilaw ng kusina, mababa pa ang araw; may linya ng lamig sa tiles, at ang hum ng toaster parang pusa na nagmamaang-maangan. Habang naghihintay ako, sinusuot ko ang hindi kataasan, hindi kababaan na itim na boots—sakto lang ang taas, parang matinong desisyon—bagay sa cream polo at skirt na may kaunting pleats.

The mirror on the ref throws me back a version of me who knows exactly where her eyeliner ends and her patience begins. "Okay," I tell my reflection, "corporate but cute, efficient but edible."

Pop! Done ang sandwich. I rescue it with the devotion of a firefighter and take a first bite. Crunch. The bread is warm, the lettuce stubbornly hopeful. I glance at the wall clock I bought on sale because it had a witty quote I've now covered with washi tape: 6:12 a.m. pa lang. Eight ang pasok. I have time. Time to chew slowly. Time to pretend na hindi ako tatakbo mamaya. Time to negotiate with fate.

Mas mabuti nang maaga kaysa malate. Lalo na kung sa office namin, ang salitang "late" ay parang ancient curse word. Baka mawalan ka ng trabaho nang di mo inaasahan—tsh. Knowing him.

"Good morning, Ms. Bones!" bungad ni Mang Loloy, full-time janitor, part-time philosopher ng building, pagpasok ko sa lobby. May dala siyang timba at tabo na parang props sa lifetime role niya.

I give him a smile na hindi plastik—'yung tipong normal lang, dahil sanay na kaming dalawa sa umagang ganito. "Good morning ho, Mang Loloy!"

"Maaga," sabi niya, sabay walis sa polvo ng kahapon. "'Pag maaga, hindi nauunahan ng sumpong ang swerte." He grins. Totoo rin. Lagi ko siyang nadadatnan tuwing umaga. I suspect 4 a.m. pa lang nasa lobby na siya, kausap ang floor tiles tungkol sa mga sikreto ng pag-asa.

The building swallows me in its familiar cold. Halos lahat ng nadaanan ko bumabati, at binabalik ko rin. We live by these simple exchanges—the nods, the "good mornings," the tiny currencies of being seen. Pagdating ko sa cubicle—nasa harap mismo ng opisina ni chairman—I tilt my head toward his door. Bukas. Of course. He's early, huh. Fine. Hindi ako late, so we're both safe. No fireworks. No thunderbolts.

Folders wait on my desk like a fruit stand: red, blue, mustard, forest green. Alam ko na halos kung kanino ang kulay—color coding ng partner companies. It's a system, a secret handshake with myself. I do my rounds, scan schedules, insert new appointments, tame the calendar dragon that breathes meetings and spits to-dos.

"How busy can he be?" I mutter.

When the clock clicks exact, I knock once and step into the lair.

Chairman Kane, white long-sleeve polo, sleeves rolled, nakakunot-noo sa laptop as if spreadsheets committed a personal crime. I will admit—quietly, internally, and only this once—that he looks hot. Hence the women who trip and fall for him, then don't stand up again. Kawawa. Gravity is undefeated.

I clear my throat. He looks up. Stands. Steps close.

The morning ritual begins: I slip the white suit onto his shoulders, smoothing fabric like I'm ironing the world. Then the necktie. He can't tie it properly. Or he refuses to learn. I suspect both. I loop the silk, pull, snug the knot. Part of my job, part of my choreography. My fingers memorize him in a strictly non-poetic, entirely administrative way: collars, angles, settle, done.

"Thanks," he says, like the word costs him a discount.

I smile the efficient smile. Paglabas ko, tinanggal ko rin kaagad. I slide into my chair, pivot to my screen, and open the second life I don't bring to work meetings: my YouTube channel. Three and a half million subscribers—numbers I still don't fully comprehend. It's like owning a city pero ang city mo mahilig mag-comment. My latest upload sits there like a cat claiming a sunny square: 2.6 million views, 2.2 million likes, 500 unlikes. Numbers that glow, numbers that sting.

Kahit gaano ka kabait, kaganda, o kahit nasa 'yo na ang lahat, may taong di ka magugustuhan. They judge before they read the chapter titles, and that's the risk of being in this industry. Even some of the educated—especially the educated—choose the low road on high horses, trampled by their own insecurities. Can't we just be content? Why hurt others para makaramdam ng konting taas?

Naalala ko pa 'yung unang one million. Sobrang saya ko noon—until a comment slid in: "You're just a beauty guru but you're not that pretty though." Classic formula: compliment, then a shove. Na-hurt ako, syempre. Pero pinili kong huwag patulan. YouTube trained me to accept na we can't please everyone; we're not ice cream. At kung mag-makeup ako, hindi ba ang punto ay i-enhance ang features? Parang salad dressing—hindi siya salad, pero tumutulong siya sa lettuce maging masaya.

"Miss Bones?"

Muntik na akong mahulog sa upuan. I swivel. Chairman stands sa pinto, kilay gathered like a meeting. I inhale some air and pretend it's confidence.

"Yes, chairman?" My voice opts for neutral.

"I was asking about my schedules," he says, each word shaped with precision.

Ah. So I drifted. My brain took a micro-vacation. Thank God nasa dulo ang cubicle ko; nobody saw me blank. I flip the folder open, my fingers on autopilot, mouth following.

"Appointment with Mr. Lim at 9 a.m., Gem's Café. Lunch meeting with Mr. Traje at Umlas' Restaurant. After that, meeting with the accountant group for the project, 2 p.m. The rest is clear." I keep it crisp, like crackers.

He nods, sighs, recalibrates his expression to something less thunderous. "Get the design layout for our next project from Miss Angel," he says. A beat. "And bring me some snacks. The usual."

"Okay, chairman."

I walk to Angel's department. She's mid-call, headset on, eyebrows choreographing a negotiation. Buti na lang hindi si chairman ang unang pumunta rito—baka may tumilapon na trabaho sa kawalan. I detour to the mini-kitchen: brew coffee, steal two cookies from the communal jar like a licensed thief, arrange them on a plate para magmukhang sinadya. When I come back, Angel is at her computer, shoulders unclenching.

"Angel," I say gently.

She looks up, smiles that smile employees give one another when they share a boss. "Yes, Miss?"

"Tapos na ba 'yung pinapagawa ni chairman? Kailangan na raw niya."

She nods, reaches for a thick envelope. "All done!" There's pride in her voice, and I respect that sound. Work can be heavy; pride is a good handle.

I thank her, head back, and step into the chairman's office—only to find him with a woman: tanned skin, straight long hair, maiksing skirt paired with red boots na parang siren lights. I place the coffee and cookies down, leave the envelope, and feel the woman's eyebrow rise like a drawbridge. We're paused conversation. I'm the pause. I exit. Who is she? Investor? Partner? Anomaly? She didn't pass through me at the front desk. And that's a thing.

My phone rings. "What?" I say, because that's how I answer my friends when I'm clearly at work.

"Hoy, babae!" si Alliana, volume set to "restaurant kitchen."

"Bakit?"

"Umuwi si Clarita! May welcome party mamaya! Sama ka?"

I stop walking. Clarita—Italy model, runway storm, our group's funny myth. Rare siyang umuwi. "Anong oras?"

"9 p.m.! Convoy tayo o susunduin kita?"

There's clatter behind her. Someone says "pasta" like a religion. "Sige, convoy. Magdadala ako ng sasakyan."

"Ayon!" She laughs. "Sige—"

"Sino pa pupunta?" I interrupt.

"Ewan! Pero sure ako na present ang buong grupo."

Oh damn.

"Sa mansion ba nila?"

"Oo. 'Yan ang sabi ni Enna." We hang up, and as fate slides its little cue cards, the red-booted woman exits the chairman's office, daggers in her eyes pointed at me. I give her a "What did I do?" look. She flounces off like a runway with attitude. Okay. That was... a mood.

Time is a sly thief. Suddenly, 2 p.m. na. I fix my skirt and told the chairman na he has a scheduled meeting, and point at the wall clock for dramatic effect. He gives me a cool "Okay." We move to the meeting room. The team is complete, the projector behaves, and the new project unrolls like a good rug—no snags, no tripping hazards. Smooth. You can feel when plans have been properly thought through; the air is less sticky.

I lifted my chin up and sighed. Just another day for me huh.