The alarm goes off at 5:45 AM. Not out of habit—out of necessity. It's always been like that. I can't even remember when it started. Even when I'm not at work. Even during my private time.
I let it ring for a moment today, watching the phone screen blink in the dark like a warning, waiting for me to snooze or stop the alarm. But I'm too tired to even reach for my phone. Still, the alarm tone defeats me—I shut it off and lie there, staring at the dark ceiling above my bed.
No rush. No schedule. No office—I remind myself.
I'm on leave. There's nothing to hurry about. It's my time to waste—not theirs—so I can do anything I want.
Meow.
But that thought is immediately interrupted by a single sound. Reality crashes back: my time isn't really mine to waste. I have masters to serve.
Meow. Meow.
No. Not this time. I will not—
MROOOW!
The soft meows suddenly grow aggressive, and the scratching on my door is my cue to get up and feed my masters their first meal of the day.
"Yes, yes, I'm up," I say, tying my hair into a bun. "Just a minute, will you?"
The moment I open my door, all eight of them rush inside, invading my bed, sprinkling everything with fur. I want to hate them for stealing my peace, but they're just too cute. They take my tiredness away, so it's fine—I'll slave away for them.
"Get off my bed now and out. I'm preparing your food."
I step out of the room—but I don't hear any tiny paws following. When I glance back, they're still there, tumbling over each other in a burst of morning zoomies on my bed.
I just shake my head, surrendering to the routine my cats and I share.
I just love them so much. They're too cute.
As I prepare their breakfast, I can't help but reminisce about how I got them.
First, the big orange one—my pretty Xiao. Named after my favorite Genshin Impact character (even though she's a she). I found Xiao under a truck in front of my office building. Abandoned. Calling for someone who would never come back. The moment I saw her, I picked her up, put her in my bag, and brought her home.
Xiao later gave birth to her first kitten: Meow-Meow. Named after that viral Meow-Meow song my mom wouldn't stop playing.
Then came Uno—the maldito one.
Quattro and Cinco came next—both from the litter of my beloved cat who passed away from rabies. She was bitten by a stray dog that broke into our yard.
Next is Kitty. Her previous owner asked us to adopt her when they could no longer afford to feed her. Kitty gave us her own kittens: Nimbus and Cloud.
While I'm preparing their meal, Kitty—a white blur—leaps onto the table, jolting me back to my role as their ever-faithful servant.
"Yes, here's yours," I said, handing her a food bowl.
I placed the other bowls on the floor and waited. Right on cue, the rest of the cats rushed out of my room the moment they heard the familiar clink of bowls hitting tile.
"Wow," I said in amusement, as if it were the first time I'd seen them do that. "But you all turn deaf when I'm the one calling you. I'm disappointed."
"Don't you love me?!" I called out dramatically.
No response. Not a single meow. Just the sound of eight cats purring and licking away at their breakfast.
Great.
I shook my head once more and let them do their thing while I made my own breakfast.
Coffee, of course. Black. No sugar. The same way I've always had it—like a routine brewed straight into a cup. I made a piece of toast with buttered sugar to go with it. Just enough to get by.
As I sat with my breakfast, I noticed something.
The apartment was quiet—quieter than usual. Or maybe I was just noticing it now. Usually, this hour is a blur of throwing on clothes half-asleep and rushing to catch the train with the same dozen strangers. Now, time stretches out—like a hallway with no exits.
I sat by the window with my mug, watching the clouds drift by like they had somewhere to be.
Unlike me.
Not today.
Not tomorrow either.
I could clean. I could read. I could call someone. But the thought of reaching out felt heavy—like trying to lift something nailed to the floor.
I picked up my phone and scrolled.
Nothing urgent. A few unread messages from work—ignored. A meme from Katie. She knows I won't reply, but she sends them anyway.
I appreciate the gesture. Being remembered in a small way still means something. Sometimes, it means everything. Especially when you're not sure how to ask to be remembered in the first place.
Time passed unnoticed until I realized it was already close to noon. I looked at the empty mug and plate in front of me. I'd finished my coffee and toast without even realizing it.
11:36 AM
"Ah, it's almost time to feed my masters again," I muttered as I stood and began cleaning up.
As usual, I prepared their lunch and left them to do whatever they wanted. As for me—
I had no appetite.
I tried journaling. That's what people say to do when you're "taking time to process."
I opened a blank page and wrote:
"What now?"
I stared at the words for a long time. Then I closed the notebook.
It's really boring, but not to the point that it'll kill me. I very much prefer this way that get tired on nonsense talking.
I fell asleep.
---
I woke up with sunrays cast across my face, painting golden streaks through the curtains. The light was warm, soft, almost forgiving. I stretched out a hand and stared at nothing in particular, my fingers slicing through the beam of sun before I pulled myself up from the sofa where I'd accidentally fallen asleep earlier.
I glanced around, groggy. My cats were fast asleep, too—curled in various spots like tiny sun-warmed gods. Peaceful. Quiet. Just like I had been.
Then it hit me—I hadn't even cleaned myself up since morning.
"Ugh. What the hell, this is so ew," I muttered, dragging my feet toward my bedroom. "Dugyot mo, Daf," I added, mocking myself in front of the mirror.
I grimaced at the reflection staring back. Messy hair. Sleep-lined face. Shirt from yesterday. Of all the things I could forget in a day—why did it have to be my hygiene?
Seriously, am I even in my right mind?
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, leaving my thoughts behind in the mirror's foggy reflection. Then, without another word, I walked straight to the bathroom to freshen up myself.
After some time—washing, scrubbing, moisturizing, brushing, pretending everything was fine—I finally felt a little more human. Clean, at least. A bit lighter.
I stood by the window, towel still wrapped around my hair, and noticed the sky. The sun was already on its way down, slipping quietly behind the buildings. Shadows stretched long on the pavement.
Maybe I needed to move a little. Stretch my limbs. Get out of this apartment, even just for a while. So, I decided to take a short walk—not for anything important. Just for air. Just to remember how walking felt.
Outside, the world was soft and slow. The streets felt different when you're not rushing somewhere. I passed the same bakery with the smell of sugar and bread lingering faintly in the air. The same closed-down retail store with papered-up windows and dusty mannequins. The same cat asleep on the front step of the neighborhood pet shop, as if it had always been there—unchanged by time, unmoved by people.
For a moment, I wondered: Do they notice I'm not in a hurry anymore? Do they see me drifting?
No one said anything, of course. The world doesn't speak unless you ask the right questions. And I wasn't ready to ask.
Back home, I heated up leftovers. Again. The food didn't taste like much—but it didn't need to. It just needed to fill a space.
I let the TV play old reruns while I sat on the floor, leaning against the couch instead of sitting properly. I've started doing that lately. It feels less... Less like I have to be somewhere. Less like I'm trying to be anyone at all.
I glanced at the clock. It wasn't late. But I felt tired.
The kind of tired sleep doesn't really fix.
I dragged myself to bed and stared up at the ceiling fan, its slow rotation syncing with the hum of the quiet night around me. The room buzzed with stillness, not unpleasant, just heavy—like the air was holding its breath.
I'm not sure what I'm waiting for.
But I can feel it.
Something is coming. Something I can't name yet.
And even silence—
even this long stretch of nothing—
has an expiration date.