The clock strikes at 3:47AM. The moment my eyelids open and I finally gain consciousness, I try to remember if I slept or not. I hear the air conditioning leaking—that strange symphony of humming and whooshing that I somehow found an eerie solace in. The silence in my room is comforting for a moment, but then the weight of everything I need to do starts feeling heavy on my chest. I lay on my bed, blinking slowly, wondering how it’s even possible to feel this tired after two days that were supposed to recharge me. 

I control my breathing a couple times and try to fall asleep again. 

1, 2, 3, 4, Breathe in 

5, 6, 7, 8, 9 Hold 

10, 11, 12, 13, 14 Breathe out  

15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20  Hold 

REPEAT 

I start to relax again—just before my alarm rings and I go through the entire process of getting ready.  Shower, uniform, read notes, bag, and leave. Before I knew it, the class bell rang, and all the class lessons passed by as slowly as they could. Monday always comes fast. Too fast. At school, everything feels louder: the public announcement blaring, the hallways, and the short morning period lectures by my class advisor. By third period, I’d count down the hours until I could go home and rest, take a nap or two or maybe sleep my entire evening again when I should’ve spent it on preparing for the next day.  The following hours felt like a blur and the drive back home took forever. I’m tired, hungry, and stressed, and the only thing keeping me awake is knowing my bed is somewhere at the end of this ride. 

By Tuesday, I swing my legs off the bed, even though they feel heavier than yesterday. I repeat the entire process once more.  Shower, uniform, read notes, bag, and leave. Monday felt like a blur. I moved through classrooms like a ghost wearing a uniform, nodding at teachers while secretly counting the hours until I could lie down again. I answered questions I barely understood, relying on muscle memory more than actual thought. Sometimes I wonder if this is what growing up really means—pushing through exhaustion because nobody pauses long enough to rest. 

Wednesday morning, waking up started feeling less like starting a day and more like restarting a video game level I keep losing. The only thing that changed is that I’m spending school at home. It's not all that different, as I wake up before my alarm blares and start the day knowing I have tasks and priorities stacked on one another. I stare at the digital screen of my computer, my mind going blank as my teacher practically begs the half-absent class for who will lead the morning prayer. The week continued to pile on: quizzes, performances, papers, and the silenced pressure of “kakayanin kasi kailangan.” I catch myself staring into space between assignments, hands frozen above the keyboard as I answer yet another asynchronous task, and I wondered for a long time why my brain had suddenly become quiet, and I couldn’t think of a single answer for such a simple question. It was as if the lights in my head had shut off and left.  

On Thursday, I wake up tired—already wishing the week was over.  I had a quiet eagerness for the weekend. “More time to sleep in,” “Fewer things to think about,” and “No more studying,” I think to myself, pretending I don’t dread the announcements my teachers send every Saturday, reminding the class of the lessons we need to study in advance for, the assignments that are due, and the quizzes that are pending. My planner is filled with tasks, arrows, and deadlines that keep clashing into one another. Every subject kept demanding something. Every group chat pings with “pahabol,” “pakisend,” and “due mamaya.” I try to keep up, but there’s always something I miss, something I rush, something I pretend I understood. I keep telling myself it’s okay. That everyone else is exhausted too. But it doesn’t make my chest feel any lighter. 

I wake up on Friday and wonder how I survived the other four days. Friday was the f inal stretch. “Konti nalang,” I whisper to myself, knowing that I had 7:00AM to 4:00PM of scheduled rollercoaster rides. The day comes off as fast, then slow, and then fast again. By the third period, I desperately couldn't wait for the day to be over. The entire weekday to be over. I think of ways to make the day faster: zone out, skip the next two hours of class in the clinic—complaining that my head hurts—or just drink whatever caffeine I could find in the school canteen during lunch. My teacher was talking, but I swear my brain had already clocked out an hour ago. I nod while my classmates discuss assignments due next week, but I don't really understand any of it. Information passes through my ear and exits out the other.  All I could hear was the echo of my heartbeat and the promise of rest. 

I get to Saturday morning—the one morning of the week where I didn’t feel any pressure at all. I had slept half of my day. I checked the clock and it was 10AM. I try to be productive and make the most of the day I had just slept through. Saturday always felt odd to me; I start to think about how others always had twenty-four hours, whilst I felt I only had about sixteen. By Sunday, the panic creeps back in—the kind that whispers that Monday is already waiting behind the door. I close my eyes on Sunday night, hoping this time I’ll wake up feeling better. But Monday always comes too fast.  

And before I knew it. The clock strikes at 3:47am.