It started with a growl.
Not dramatic or creepy or anything. Just my stomach.
I’d been walking for what felt like forever that morning, handing out resumes to places that probably wouldn’t even call. Printed them at home. No staples. My hands were cold. My head hurt a bit. I hadn’t eaten anything.
Maybe that’s why everything felt weird.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t tell what was real.
– – – –
That morning had started with hope.
Not joy, exactly—just a tiny thread of belief that maybe someone would say yes.
I had printed twelve copies of my resume. Formatted neatly. Simple font. No colored ink.
The night before, Papa reminded me to smile. Mama told me to wear the cardigan she bought from Value Village. It was navy blue. Made me look “approachable,” she said.
The first place I entered was a retail store downtown. I approached the counter.
“Hi po—” I caught myself. “Hi. I’m looking for work and was wondering if you’re hiring?”
The woman blinked. “You can apply online.”
“Oh. Right. Okay. Thank you po—I mean, thank you.”
I left before my ears could fully burn.
– – – –
The second place had a sign that said Now Hiring! taped to the window.
I walked in. Handed the manager my resume. He glanced at it, then looked at me.
“Do you have Canadian experience?”
I shook my head.
He smiled. “Good luck, though.”
– – – –
It went on like that. Twelve resumes. Seven rejections. Five maybes.
By noon, I had memorized the look people gave when they weren’t interested.
A polite smile with the eyes already drifting elsewhere.
– – – –
I sat on a bench outside the library to rest. My calves ached. I hadn’t eaten since last night. I took out a granola bar but my fingers were trembling, so I put it back.
The sun was out, but it didn’t warm anything. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry or take a nap.
That’s when I saw the diner. Becca’s.
I blinked at the sign like it was trying to speak.
I told myself I was just going in to sit. Maybe drink water.
But the moment I opened the door, everything shifted.
– – – –
It was warm, yes. But not just temperature warm.
The air felt thick, like a dream. Or maybe like church incense—familiar but hard to breathe through.
The bell on the door didn’t ring. Or maybe it did and I didn’t hear it.
There were people eating, but I couldn’t hear their voices. Only the scraping of forks. Ice melting in glasses. The faint, distant hum of something that might’ve been music.
And the smell. The creaminess of the soup already waiting. I hadn’t even ordered.
I stood frozen. My feet refused to move.
That’s when she appeared.
“Hi,” she said.
I turned. And there they were.
Eight eyes.
Blinking in no order. Scattered across a forehead too wide.
Her lips were painted red. Too red.
She smiled too much.
“Table for one?”
I didn’t say yes. But my legs walked anyway.
She led me to a booth near the back. Vinyl seat. A menu. Her hands looked normal. I didn’t touch the laminated page. My thoughts were loud.
Eight eyes. Eight eyes. Eight eyes.
“Can I get you started with something?”
“Clam chowder.”
I have no idea why I said that.
– – – –
Maybe it was because I had tried it once in a mall food court in Manila. With my sister. It felt foreign then. But in a funny way. We joked about the creamy soup with seafood. Definitely not arroz caldo. Not pares either.
She liked anything creamy. I preferred sinigang. But that day, we both decided to be “Western” for the afternoon. I still remember how we took a photo of the tray and sent it to our kuya just to annoy him.
Now I sat in this warm diner, with this…thing—or maybe woman—bringing me soup. I was too afraid to move.
What if she noticed I wanted to leave? What if that made her angry?
Was I imagining her eyes? Could fatigue really do this to a person? No one else seemed to care. No one screamed. No chairs flying. Just forks and spoons scraping plates, ice clinking in glasses.
She came back.
A bowl of soup. Bread on the side. Steam rising.
“Enjoy,” she said. Eyes blinking. Not in sync.
I stared. I didn’t want to eat it. I didn’t want to stay. But I didn’t move.
Outside, a bus rolled by. A kid yelled somewhere. The kind of scream that’s not panic, just cold wind and impatience.
I picked up the spoon.
It was hot. Creamy. A bit salty. The clams were soft. The bread dipped easy. My hands stopped trembling halfway through.
The fear didn’t vanish, but it softened.
– – – –
And slowly, I saw it—the place was just a diner.
The couple by the window? Laughing.
The guy with the paperback had left.
Nothing flickered. No music played in reverse.
I was just scared. Really scared.
Of being here. Of failing. Of doing everything right and still ending up lost.
– – – –
I used to wake up to the sound of jeepneys and my neighbor’s radio. 6 AM. Always the same song.
And Mama would already be in the kitchen, cooking rice. The smell of garlic and vinegar was the closest thing to a hug that early.
College didn’t start until 8:30, but I always left early.
Sometimes, I’d sit by the big acacia tree near the journalism building, watching people rush in late while I quietly munched on kwek-kwek from a nearby stall.
We were loud people. The good kind of loud.
My classmates argued about deadlines, politics, the latest teleserye twist. One time we skipped class because someone’s boyfriend showed up out of nowhere and we needed to “investigate.” That turned into milk tea and karaoke. No regrets.
I liked writing about things that didn’t make it to the headlines.
Small features. Personal essays. My professor said my words “sit close to the skin.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I liked how it sounded.
Then the notice came. My parents didn’t call a meeting or anything. Just one dinner conversation turned into a life shift.
“We’re moving. Spring. Alberta.”
I nodded. Tried to smile.
But that night, I opened a Google Doc and typed “Things I Will Miss.”
I listed names. Sights. Street smells.
Even the cracked pavement outside our house made the list.
– – – –
I had left everything. College. Journalism. Friends. My second year was going great until it wasn’t. Canada came calling and we packed our lives in boxes. Now I lived in a basement in Alberta, with parents who meant well and three older siblings left behind.
I missed late-night pancit canton and taho at dawn. I missed chaos.
No one told me that immigration felt like grieving.
No one told me how quiet my days would be.
How even just asking for napkins in a cafe would feel like a performance.
– – – –
I looked down. The bowl was nearly empty.
The server stood near the counter, chatting with someone.
She had two eyes.
I blinked. Rubbed my own. Looked again.
Still two.
Maybe I imagined the rest.
Maybe this is just what adaptation feels like—hallucinating through the growing pains.
– – – –
I stood up. Walked to the counter. Legs no longer heavy.
“Thanks,” I said.
She smiled. “Rough day?”
“First of many,” I replied.
“You’re doing great.”
Not profound. Not deep. But enough.
There was something kind in her tone. Something that made me feel a little less invisible.
– – – –
Outside, the wind wasn’t biting. My backpack didn’t drag me down.
Kamusta? Uwi ka na? said Mama’s text.
Saglit lang. Tingin lang ako dito sa tabi. Then uwi na.
I walked. Just two blocks. I saw a bakery. A Filipino store with Jollibee stickers. A mural of kids in snow suits. A poster for a spring picnic.
There was a sign-up sheet taped to the window. Community volunteers needed. I thought of walking in. Just to ask. But not today. Maybe tomorrow.
I smiled.
Maybe I’ll write about this someday.
Maybe I’ll feel okay again.
– – – –
At home, Mama was cooking ginisang munggo. I helped slice tomatoes, watched the garlic dance in hot oil.
“Tumatanggap pa rin ng resume, anak?”
“Opo. Pero parang wala pa rin.”
“Okay lang ‘yan. Maaga pa. May darating din.”
Papa joined us at the table, asking if I’d checked that library job online.
I nodded. I had. Maybe I’d apply next week.
We ate quietly. But it wasn’t an empty quiet. It was soft. Like settling dust.
That night, I stared at a blank document.
Title: Not From Here, But Still Here.
I added a line.
Then deleted it.
Then just let the cursor blink.
Sometimes sitting with it is enough.
– – – –
A week later, I passed by the diner again.
Didn’t plan to stop. But I slowed.
The windows were fogged again. Someone inside was laughing.
I saw her. The server.
She turned.
Eight eyes.
I stood still. Not frozen—just still.
I breathed. In, out. My chest didn’t tighten.
She smiled. Tired smile. One you give when your shift’s too long but you smile anyway.
And somehow—
I wasn’t afraid the way I used to be.
Not really.
I kept walking.
Because I could.
And for now,
That was enough.