I've never washed a single rice grain in my entire life.
That's the first thing i realize as i'm standing there in front of the sink, cold water running over my shaking hands, a battered old pot on the counter beside me.
"Kuya," I mutter under my breath, tilting my head toward the ceiling camera with a tiny, wry smile. "I'm trying, okay?"
The red light blinks back silently.
It's only day two inside the Pinoy Big Brother house, but it already feels like I've lived here for weeks.
And i'm... trying.
God, I'm really trying.
I dip my fingers into the rice again, swirling the water until it clouds up like milk. Grains stick stubbornly to my skin.
I watch them slip away down the drain. I'm not supposed to let them escape. That's wasteful.
I sigh and try to scoop them back up.
Behind me, I hear pots clanging, oil sizzling, housemates bickering about the right way to sauté onions.
It's all so... normal.
So achingly normal.
Except for the fact that every corner has a camera. Every word could be aired on primetime and the rest of the country is watching us like we're a living, breathing teleserye.
"Margaux," someone calls, gently.
I look up, startled.
It's Mia, tiny, baby-faced, with a dyed-pink streak in her ponytail.
She's one of the indie film actresses here. She edges closer, holding out a clean bowl.
"Here. Want me to show you?"
I stare at her.
For a second, my throat gets tight.
Because she's not mocking me.
She's actually offering to help.
"Thanks," I say, voice cracking embarrassingly.
I clear my throat and force a smile. "Yeah. Please."
She shows me, patiently, how to rinse the rice, how to tilt the pot just right so the water runs clear but nothing spills.
"Got it?" she asks, eyebrows lifted.
"Sort of," I say. "I feel like i need a diploma for this."
She giggles.
"It's okay," she says. "You'll learn."
I meet her eyes and nod.
Because that's why i'm here, isn't it?
To learn.
To show them.
That i'm not whatever headline they decided i was.
That i'm not just some spoiled, scandal-ridden heiress.
That i'm trying.
Later, we're wiping down the long dining table, passing a rag back and forth.
I'm so focused on the smudges i don't notice the quiet conversation behind me until the words cut through.
"...I'm just saying, isn't she the one who—"
"Shhh."
A hush.
I freeze.
I don't turn around.
I don't ask them to finish the sentence.
Because i don't need to.
I already know.
I keep wiping.
My jaw tightens.
I try not to let the sting reach my eyes.
In the bedroom later, I'm folding blankets.
I don't have to.
Kuya nor the housemates didn't assign it to me.
But i want something to do.
Something useful.
Across the room, I see Sofia, another actress, known for rom-coms. She's watching me with a weird expression.
She doesn't say anything.
Doesn't offer to help.
Just keeps watching.
I keep folding.
Neat corners.
Tight edges.
Like if i do it well enough, I can erase every ugly headline ever written about me.
By lunchtime, the kitchen is chaos.
Oil spitting.
Vegetables being chopped too messily.
Someone cursing about how there's no more vinegar.
I linger near the counter, feeling useless.
Then i spot a pile of unwashed dishes.
No one's even looking at them.
So i grab a sponge.
Turn on the faucet.
Start scrubbing.
The water splashes my shirt.
I flinch but don't stop.
I'm halfway through the pile when i hear it.
Soft.
But clear.
"Akala ko maarte yan."
I go still.
My hands drip with suds.
"...Eh tignan mo, naghuhugas."
A tiny laugh.
"Baka naman pang-acting lang."
Silence.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Keep washing.
Because what else can i do?
After lunch, we're all sprawled in the living room.
It's hot.
A fan hums in the corner.
We're too full to move.
Conversations drift lazily.
I'm quiet.
Legs tucked under me, hair damp against my neck.
"Margaux."
I blink.
It's Enzo, he's tall, always-joking leading man type.
He's grinning.
"Yeah?"
He leans forward, elbows on knees.
"Can i ask you something?"
I raise an eyebrow.
"Sure."
"Is it true?"
The room stills.
Someone coughs.
Mia's eyes go big.
Enzo glances at her, then back at me.
"That you're, like... the third party in that whole Ken-Jayda thing?"
A beat.
My fingers curl against my leg.
My mouth goes dry.
I feel every camera in the house zoom in.
I open my mouth.
But before i can even speak—
BUZZZZZZZZZ.
The sound is so loud it rattles the picture frames.
We all jump.
Enzo's face goes red.
"Shit—"
Another buzzer.
And then Kuya's voice, booming from the speakers:
"Housemates, remember the rule: no discussion of outside controversies or personal issues not your own."
Silence.
Enzo rubs the back of his neck.
"Sorry," he mutters.
I exhale shakily.
"It's fine," I say, voice tight.
But it's not.
It's really, really not.
That night, we're doing chores again.
Housemates assigned cooking teams.
I'm on kitchen duty.
I don't know shit about peeling garlic.
But i'm trying.
I press the knife wrong and the clove shoots across the counter.
"Ha!"
Mia cracks up.
I glare at her.
She snatches it up and shows me the right way.
"Like this. Smash first. Then peel."
I nod.
My cheeks are hot.
But i keep going.
Because that's the whole point.
At dinner, I'm quiet.
I let them talk about movies.
Work.
Upcoming projects.
No one asks me about mine.
They don't have to.
They know i don't have any.
I poke at my rice.
Try not to feel the shame burn up my neck.
Afterward, while washing the plates, I feel a gentle nudge.
It's Mia again.
She's smiling.
"Hey," she says softly. "Don't mind them."
I look at her, blinking.
She shrugs.
"I mean... I know stuff online is crazy. But... I watched Be With You, Forever. You were really good."
My breath hitches.
"I'm not lying," she says quickly. "I know people are mean. But... i really liked you in that."
I stare at her for a second.
And then i nod.
Swallow hard.
"Thanks," I whisper.
Because what else can i say?
Later, in bed, I lie on my side facing the wall.
Hearing whispered gossip behind me.
Someone snickering about the California thing.
About the "ghosting" rumor.
About the fake drunk-driving story.
I press my eyes shut.
Dig my nails into my palm.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
Trying not to cry.
Because they might think i'm a bitch.
A homewrecker.
A spoiled princess.
But i'm here.
No makeup.
No script.
Washing dishes.
Peeling garlic.
Trying.
God, I'm trying.
And maybe they'll never see that.
But i will.
I have to.
Because if i don't believe in myself...
Who will?