The day started deceptively normal.
Eggs cracking.
Coffee brewing.
The hum of the aircon as the sun clawed through the slats of the blinds.
I was sweeping the floor, which felt stupidly symbolic me, Margaux Serene Imperial, heiress of Imperial Bank, literally brushing crumbs off the cracked linoleum like I was trying to fix my life with a broom.
Mia was washing dishes.
Enzo was singing off-key while folding laundry.
I tried to smile.
It felt fake even to me.
Then the voice came.
"Housemates, please assemble in the living room."
Chairs scraped.
Shoes squeaked on tile.
We clustered together like school kids about to be scolded.
Kuya's voice filled the space, deep and calm, like always.
"Housemates, your task today is about honesty. Each of you will be given an image. Something to hold. Something that represents a painful memory you wish you could leave behind."
A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the room.
I felt my stomach sink.
"You will each share the story behind your image. And listen to each other. No interrupting. No judgment."
No judgment.
Sure.
One by one, we were handed our "images."
A battered stuffed animal.
A broken phone.
A cracked mirror.
And mine.
A toy car.
Metallic red.
Shiny.
Horribly on-the-nose.
I turned it over in my hands, fingers tracing the cheap wheels.
It felt stupidly heavy.
We sat in a circle.
Cross-legged on the scratchy carpet.
No one spoke for a second.
Then Enzo cleared his throat.
Held up his broken phone.
Talked about the night he'd smashed it after reading the text that his dad was leaving for good.
His voice broke once.
We all stayed silent, listening.
Someone passed him a tissue.
He wiped his nose and muttered thanks.
Mia went next.
She held the stuffed animal so tight it looked like it might rip.
She whispered about her mom leaving her with an aunt who didn't want her.
She started crying.
Sofia put an arm around her.
I stared at my knees, pressing the stupid car into my palm until it hurt.
Housemate after housemate.
Stories about heartbreak.
Failure.
Addiction in the family.
Being bullied.
Losing jobs.
Losing people.
Real shit.
Heavy.
No one was joking.
No one was laughing.
And then it was me.
I felt them all looking.
Waiting.
The toy car gleamed under the cheap ceiling light.
My mouth went dry.
I swallowed.
"My turn," I said softly.
Silence.
I turned the car over.
Watched the wheels spin.
"My image is a car," I started.
My voice felt small in the big, too-quiet room.
"It's because of...California."
A shift in the circle.
No one interrupted.
But the tension tightened.
Everyone knew the headline.
The memes.
The mugshot.
I took a breath.
"About a year ago i went to the States to visit a friend. I was driving in California, and i forgot my license at the house. I got pulled over."
I felt the blood rush to my ears.
"It wasn't like...some wild chase. No one was drunk. I wasn't drunk. I wasn't arrested. But I was detained. They had to confirm who i was."
I shrugged weakly.
"That's it. That's literally it. But they took a mugshot anyway because...procedures, I guess."
My voice cracked a little.
"And then it went viral. Because i'm...me."
No one moved.
I could feel eyes.
Some soft.
Some hard.
Some skeptical.
I kept talking anyway.
"People turned it into a joke. Into this...proof that i'm reckless. Dangerous. Trashy. Every time there's a new scandal about me, they post that photo. They bring it up. Over and over."
I laughed.
It sounded bitter.
"Look at Margaux Imperial, even criminals look better than her.' 'Of course she's the type to get arrested.' Even though i wasn't. Even though it was nothing."
I lifted the toy car.
"Now every time i see one of these, I think of that day. How embarrassed i was. How scared i was. How humiliated. How i sat there while they processed me like i was nobody."
Silence.
Thick.
Unforgiving.
A few people nodded.
Mia was crying again, quietly.
Enzo was looking at the floor.
But i saw it.
Two or three faces.
Eyes squinted.
Lips pursed.
Like they didn't buy it.
Like they were thinking: Of course she'd make herself the victim.
It stung so badly i almost stopped talking.
But i didn't.
"I hate that day," I finished softly.
"I hate how people talk about it. I hate that i let myself cry in the station because i felt so stupid. I hate that i didn't fight back harder. I hate that i can't even defend myself now because everyone's already decided who i am."
I set the car down on the rug.
Hands trembling.
"That's mine," I whispered.
No one clapped.
No one said good job.
Just silence.
Kuya's voice crackled overhead.
"Salamat, Margaux."
That night, no one really talked to me much.
They weren't mean.
Just...quiet.
Avoidant.
I saw some whispering in the corner.
Eyes flicking at me.
I pretended i didn't notice.
I helped wash dishes.
Scrubbed the bathroom sink until my nails broke.
Mark handed me the dish towel at one point without looking at me.
I didn't force conversation.
I just kept wiping.
When the lights dimmed, Kuya's voice boomed again:
"Margaux, please go to the Confession Room."
My legs felt leaden.
I trudged across the living room.
Opened the door.
Sat in the chair.
Cold.
Lonely.
It was so quiet.
I could hear the cameras whirring.
My own breathing.
"Margaux," Kuya said softly. "How are you feeling?"
My eyes burned.
I sniffed.
Laughed wetly.
"Like shit," I croaked.
Silence.
Encouraging.
I covered my face with my hands.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
"No need to apologize."
I let my hands fall.
Wiped my eyes.
Tried to steady my breathing.
"I hate that photo," I blurted.
My voice was shaking.
"I hate it so much. Every time people fight with me online, they post it. Like, 'Remember this? She's trash. She's a criminal. She's reckless.'"
I hiccupped.
"It was nothing. I forgot my license. I was scared. I was crying. They kept saying i was drunk, but i wasn't. They kept twisting everything."
I pressed a hand to my chest.
"It won't go away. It's always there. Even if i don't talk about it. Even if i do. It's always there."
Silence.
"It seems painful for you to remember."
That made me lose it.
The dam cracked.
I pressed both hands over my face.
Sobbing.
Ugly, snotty, gasping sobs.
"It's so humiliating," I choked out.
"They put me in the station like i was nothing. They fingerprinted me. They took that photo. I cried the whole time and now that's the proof they use that i'm garbage."
My shoulders shook.
I couldn't stop crying.
"I just wanted to go home. I just wanted them to let me go and now everyone in the Philippines has that photo saved to laugh at me."
I tried to calm down.
Breathed in.
Out.
Failed.
"Even here," I whispered.
"Even now. I saw their faces today. Some of them...they don't believe me. They think i'm lying. Acting. They think I'm faking it. Like i want pity. I don't. I don't want anything."
Silence.
But not cold.
Not cruel.
Just waiting.
"Kuya," I finally rasped.
My voice wrecked.
"I don't know how to make them see i'm not that person. I don't even know if it's worth it anymore."
Silence.
"Why do you keep trying?"
That question hit me like a slap.
I let out a trembling laugh.
"Because i love this," I whispered.
"Because it's all i want. It's all i'm good at. Because i don't want to give up on the only thing that ever made me feel like i mattered."
Silence.
"Thank you for sharing, Margaux."
I sniffled.
Wiped my face with my shirt sleeve.
"Yeah," I mumbled.
"Thanks for listening."
I left the room with red eyes.
Didn't look at anyone.
Just went to my bunk.
Curled up.
Faced the wall.
Listened to the quiet sounds of the house.
Whispers.
Breathing.
The hum of the cameras.
And even though i'd poured it all out...
Even though i'd said the truth...
I still felt like everyone out there was waiting to use it against me.
But i wasn't going to leave.
Not yet.
Because tomorrow was another day in this house.
Another chance to prove i deserved to be here.
Even if no one else believed it.
Yet.