18. What Really Happened in 2025 #4
The truth was, I couldn’t function anymore.
And eventually, the company noticed.
One afternoon, my supervisor tapped lightly against my back and said, “James, manager wants to see you.”
My stomach dropped instantly. I already knew.
Inside the office, the manager talked about the metrics, compliance, productivity… abandoned calls.
“We also reviewed multiple incidents where calls were left unattended while you remained available in the system.”
I swallowed hard at that, because I knew that alone was already a terminable offense.
Still, I pleaded—I hated how desperate I sounded that day.
I told them I was dealing with personal problems. That I could improve. That I just needed a little time to get myself together.
But my manager only sighed softly and told me the decision had already been made.
They were letting me go.
Just like that.
Replaceable.
Easy to abandon.
Not enough.
Another ending for me. Another thing slipping out of my hands while I stood there, unable to stop it.
I nodded because I didn’t trust myself to do anything else.
But inside, something collapsed, because heartbreak was already swallowing me whole. And now, suddenly, I my future felt uncertain too.
July 2025
By then, sadness felt sharper. Noticeable. It demanded attention. It felt heavier, like living underwater.
Depression.
Everything took effort.
Getting out of bed. Showering. Eating. Existing. And the worst part was that my mind never stayed in one place long enough to rest.
One moment, I found myself missing Victor. I would remember the way he looked at me when he was soft, the way his hand rested on my waist absentmindedly, the way his voice lowered when it was just us. And suddenly I wanted him back so badly I could barely breathe.
Then anger followed right after it, because how could someone claim to love you and still leave you drowning like that?
How could someone you knew you loved so deeply choose silence as punishment?
But even then—even while anger burned through me—I still blamed myself more.
Because underneath everything else sat the same unbearable thought: I fucked it up.
Sometimes, it isn’t the memories that kills you, it’s the poison of what ifs that slowly drags you underwater—like an undertow you can’t escape.
What if I stayed calm?
What if I had waited?
What if I had been softer?
What if I had just let that night pass?
And then there was the fear.
God, the fear.
Heartbreak was one thing. But heartbreak while watching your savings slowly disappear? That was a different kind of terror entirely.
Every week, my bank account got smaller. The numbers kept moving while my life stayed still.
I stopped eating out completely. Stopped ordering. Stopped buying skincare, clothes, random things that once made life feel lighter.
Luxury became anything beyond survival.
Some nights, I sat on the edge of my bed calculating how many more months I could keep myself alive in the city before everything collapsed completely.
And that was when another truth started settling in—one far uglier than heartbreak: I had no idea who I was outside the life I built around surviving.
So I stared applying for jobs as marketing assistant, office staff, admin associate, social media roles, HR assistant… anything.
Fifty applications. Most of them never replied.
The few that did asked questions that made me realize how unprepared I actually was:
“What software are you proficient in?”
“Do you have an experience in project management?”
“What technical skills can you offer?”
Technical skills.
Transferrable skills.
I stared at those phrases like they belonged to another species. Because for twelve years, my skill had simply been enduring calls, fixing customer problems, sounding calm when people screamed at me.
And suddenly, I realized something terrifying: I didn’t know how to become anything else.
The job market was also at its worst.
This realization hollowed me out.
Because when you spend over a decade surviving inside the same cycle, you start believing it means something.
But sitting there in front of rejection emails and unanswered applications, I started wondering if I had wasted my entire adult life building experience that only mattered inside fluorescent rooms with headset and metrics and blocked-out windows.
The fear of staying stuck wrapped itself around my throat.
What if this was all I was ever going to be?
What if there was really nothing special about me outside loving too hard and surviving just enough?
So by the end of July, I barely recognized myself anymore.
I had lost weight.
My eyes looked tired.
Even my apartment felt unfamiliar, like I had become a ghost living inside it.
And Southside? It became unbearable.
Every café reminded me of him.
Every street corner carried some version of us.
Every building held memories I couldn’t turn off.
I couldn’t buy coffee without remembering him leaning against a counter waiting for me. Couldn’t pass a crosswalk without remembering his hand briefly touching my back. Couldn’t exist in the city without feeling haunted.
And then one night, after staring at the ceiling until nearly dawn, I realized something.
I couldn’t survive Southside anymore.
Not like this.
So I left.
I just packed my bag, booked a flight, and disappeared.
I didn’t even fully know where I was going until I got there.
Ormoc.
A city where nobody knew me.
Nobody knew Victor.
Nobody knew the version of me that fell apart.
And honestly, I wasn’t even searching for healing anymore.
I was just searching for peace.
End of October
By the end of October, the pain no longer felt explosive.
Three months of being lost, and I finally found quiet.
Not peace. Quiet.
It became softer around the edges. Easier to carry. Like a bruise that stops looking violent but still hurt whenever something is pressed against it.
The new place helped in ways I didn’t expect.
I found a virtual assistant job online after weeks of applying.
One client. One stranger somewhere across seas who looked at my resumé and decided I was worth trusting anyway.
Honestly, I almost cried after the interview, not because it was such a dream job, but because someone finally said yes.
So I built a life there, little by little.
Morning routines.
Hot choco from the same small café near the plaza.
Late night deadlines.
Video calls with Australian coworkers who slowly became friends.
People who knew nothing about the version of me that broke apart in Southside.
And for the first time in three months, I started laughing again without forcing it.
I gained some weight back. Slept better. Started replying to messages again.
Even Andi eventually managed to get through to me.
At first, it was just simple check ins. Then longer conversations about what happened—not all, but glimpses of the things I could talk about without spiraling again.
Then calls. And eventually, laughter with my best friend again.
Not because everything had been fixed, but because love—real love, the kind friendships gave—waited for you even after the long silence.
Still, despite all of it, there was one thing I couldn’t understand.
Why couldn’t I let Victor go?
Months had already passed. I had distance. Perspective. New routines. A different city.
So why did part of me still feel tethered to him?
And slowly, painfully, I realized the answer.
Because somewhere along the way, I decided he was the one.
Not just someone I loved. Not just someone I wanted. But the person. The future. The home.
Because once you build an entire future around someone in your head, losing them doesn’t feel like heartbreak. It feels like your whole life collapsing before it even had the chance to happen.
That was the cruel thing about loving someone.
You don’t just mourn the person. You mourn the version of yourself you thought you were going to become with them.
I had already imagined a house with him. Trips. Ordinary mornings. Growing older together.
And the worst part? None of it was real.
Just hope.
Just potential.
Just me loving hard enough for two people.
By the end of October, Ormoc had become familiar enough to feel safe. And maybe that was exactly why I knew I couldn’t stay there forever.
Because safety wasn’t the same thing as healing.
Deep down, I knew I had only done one thing: I ran.
So eventually, I packed my things again and returned to Southside.
My city. My home.
The place that hurt me.
The pain started when I arrived.
I was in the backseat of the taxi from the airport, staring out the window while the city passed by in blurry fragments.
And suddenly… there.
That café where Victor once waited for me.
That street where we crossed while laughing about something I couldn’t even remember anymore.
The drag bar where I decided he was the one.
Memory after memory started appearing like ghosts attached to buildings, streets, and even pavements.
My chest tightened slowly.
And by the time I reached my apartment building, I already felt it happening again.
The spiral.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Silence greeted me immediately. Not the peaceful kind, but the empty kind of silence.
I stood there for a while, staring at the place.
But it didn’t feel like home anymore.
It felt abandoned.
Haunted.
Like grief had been living there longer than I had.
And suddenly, every emotion I thought I had buried in Ormoc came rushing back all at once.
Everything.
I sat there on the edge of the couch, tears falling before I could stop them, because I finally understood something terrifying.
I thought leaving Southside would cure me.
But Southside wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that I loved someone so deeply that I attached him to the entire city.
It felt like a prison made entirely out of memories.
And I finally understood something.
Victor didn’t just break my heart.
He made me feel homeless in a city I love.