Falling For You in the Wrong Century

Ma. Gracia Del Sol’s Point of View Thirty-two years old and I’m already burnt out—if that’s even possible for a department manager at one of Manila’s top tech firms. My desk is piled high with reports I’ve reviewed a dozen times, my phone buzzes nonstop with emails from 9 AM to 2 AM, and I can’t remember the last time I wore something that wasn’t a black blazer or pencil skirt. Ten years I’ve given to this job, climbing the ladder faster than anyone my age. The salary’s enough to buy anything I want, but I can’t buy back the life I’ve missed. My best friend Clara just sent me photos from her youngest’s baptism—four kids, a loving husband, walls covered in crayon drawings and laughter. I stare at my minimalist condo, spotless and cold as a hotel room. I eat dinner alone most nights, scrolling through social media like a ghost watching other people live. When did I stop being Gracia and become just “Manager Del Sol”? My face in the mirror looks older than my years—lines from stress, eyes empty of purpose. I’m successful on paper, but I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through my own life, and I’m finally waking up to how much I’ve lost myself. Ma. Gracia Del Sol’s Point of View Thirty-two years old and I’m already burnt out—if that’s even possible for a department manager at one of Manila’s top tech firms. My desk is piled high with reports I’ve reviewed a dozen times, my phone buzzes nonstop with emails from 9 AM to 2 AM, and I can’t remember the last time I wore something that wasn’t a black blazer or pencil skirt. Ten years I’ve given to this job, climbing the ladder faster than anyone my age. The salary’s enough to buy anything I want, but I can’t buy back the life I’ve missed. My best friend Clara just sent me photos from her youngest’s baptism—four kids, a loving husband, walls covered in crayon drawings and laughter. I stare at my minimalist condo, spotless and cold as a hotel room. I eat dinner alone most nights, scrolling through social media like a ghost watching other people live. When did I stop being Gracia and become just “Manager Del Sol”? My face in the mirror looks older than my years—lines from stress, eyes empty of purpose. I’m successful on paper, but I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through my own life, and I’m finally waking up to how much I’ve lost myself.