The bus hums steadily beneath me as it rolls along the city's tired streets, the morning chill pressing lightly against the window. I sit by the glass, phone in hand, logged into the school's learning website—today's final exam staring back at me in digital silence. I should be reviewing, tapping through the lessons, trying to prepare. But I'm not. I haven't touched the screen in ten minutes.
Instead, I watch the blur of traffic and people outside, and for reasons I can't fully explain, I find myself wondering not about formulas or theories—but about life. About mine. And how exactly it unraveled.
I'm 33 years old. A husband. A father of two boys—one here with me in Canada, the other back home in the Philippines with my mother. That alone is enough to crack a heart. We told ourselves the separation was temporary. A stepping stone. A necessary sacrifice. But "temporary" has a way of stretching when plans falter and life offers no easy path forward.
My wife used to work weekends as a janitor at a local college—until summer came and took that job with it. The housekeeping gig we hoped would carry us didn't last either. She missed her period this month. We haven't bought a pregnancy test yet, but all the symptoms are there. And the truth is, we're too afraid to confirm what we already suspect.
I work part-time—sixteen hours a week as a bookkeeper. That contract ends this April, and with it, so does the last thread of certainty we've been clinging to.
We've tried to hold it together, but most days, we're just barely managing. I don't have a social life here. No close friends. No community. I hide inside my headphones, inside YouTube videos and web novels—places where stories still have happy endings. Places where hope doesn't feel so fictional.
I used to be a licensed accountant, back in the Philippines. But even then, beneath the certifications and job titles, I was deeply insecure. I knew I'd hit a ceiling, and I feared I'd never break through. Moving to Canada wasn't an act of ambition—it was a quiet admission of failure. A man escaping the mediocrity he helped build around himself.
Now, even desperation feels routine. I've caught myself staring at lottery ads longer than I should, wondering if one ticket could somehow undo years of poor timing and missed chances. It's ridiculous. But when you're budgeting every dollar, even a fantasy feels like relief.
Some days, the thoughts turn darker. I wonder if I've become a burden—if my family would be better off without the weight of my failures. But I can't leave. I won't. I owe them more than that. I just don't know how much more of me there is left to give.
And yet, sitting on this bus, drifting past unfamiliar streets, I keep coming back to the same question: How did I get here?
Not just here physically—but here. In this worn-out body. In this lost version of myself. Where did the boy with stars in his eyes go? The curious kid who smiled too easily and dreamed too wildly?
Maybe that's why I'm writing this. Not to complain. Not to impress. But to remember. To go back to the parts of me I've forgotten. The ones buried in playground sand and classroom laughter. The ones that made me who I am—before fear and failure began to take their place.
So let me look back. Let me trace the soft lines of memory. Maybe, in doing so, I'll find a path forward. Or at least make peace with the man I've become.