Gustavo’s fingers were still stained with printer ink when he slid into the driver’s seat of his aging sedan. The dashboard blinked its usual warnings—low fuel, overdue maintenance—but he barely noticed. His mind was already elsewhere, tangled in the knots of another exhausting day at the office.
The engine hummed as he merged onto the freeway, Manila’s traffic already thick with impatience. He gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw clenched, thoughts spiraling.
“What’s her problem?” he muttered, thinking of his supervisor.
“I get the job done. I always do. So why defend the idiotic demands from upper management?”
Every two hours, a new progress report. Every two hours, a reminder that trust was a luxury no one in corporate seemed willing to afford. Gustavo knew the technicalities better than anyone in that boardroom. He knew the deadlines, the deliverables, the limitations. And yet, they hovered—micromanaging, nitpicking, pretending to understand.
“She knows I’ll finish it by the end of the day. She knows there’s no point in this nonsense. Just let me do my job!”
A car swerved into his lane without warning, missing his bumper by inches. Gustavo’s heart leapt into his throat.
“What’s his problem?! Does he have a death wish?!”
His hand hovered over the horn. He imagined the sound, the catharsis, the righteous fury. But then—
“What’s the point? We didn’t crash. He’s an idiot. If I honk, he might brake-check me. Or worse… pull a gun.”
He let his hand fall back to his lap. The city blurred past his window, neon signs flickering over tired buildings. The traffic crawled. His thoughts didn’t.
“Why do I even have to drive? Two hours each way. Every day. We proved during the pandemic that we could work from home. We were productive. No tolls. No diesel. No wasted time.”
He glanced at the rows of jeepneys and buses packed with commuters, faces pressed against glass, shoulders hunched in exhaustion.
“And I’m lucky. I have a car. My colleagues? They suffer through this every day. Do those idiots at corporate get off on making our lives harder?”
The city lights dimmed as he reached his neighborhood. Familiar streets, familiar potholes. He pulled into his driveway, the engine sighing as he turned it off. Silence.
“Finally home,” he thought. “I get to eat. My family will welcome me.”
He imagined his mother’s voice, scolding him for teasing her beloved telenovelas. His father’s laughter as they watched boxing together. The warmth of beef nilaga shared with his siblings, the playful jabs, the inside jokes.
He opened the door.
Empty.
The silence was louder than the traffic. Framed photos greeted him—his parents, long gone. His siblings, scattered across cities and continents, chasing lives of their own.
He placed the takeout bag on the table. Fried chicken from Jollibee. Still warm. He sat down, peeled the wrapper, took a bite.
Grease. Salt. Familiarity.
“What’s my problem?” he whispered.
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