Chapter Text
The thing about heartbreak is it doesn’t wait for big, dramatic moments.
It creeps in quietly.
It’s in the mornings when Mikha wakes up to an inbox full of rejection emails and stares at them a little too long before pretending it doesn’t sting.
It’s in the way she brushes her teeth in the kitchen sink because her studio apartment is so small that her reflection in the mirror competes with a stack of dirty mugs.
Heartbreak doesn’t explode.
It just… settles.
Quietly. Behind your ribs.
In the pause before someone asks, “Okay ka lang?”
In the two-second silence before you smile and lie:
“Okay lang.”
The morning light didn’t care that Mikha had barely slept.
It crawled through the thin curtains of her studio apartment, spilling over a maze of half-unpacked boxes, a desk that doubled as a dining table, and a floor that had become an accidental laundry station.
The kettle whistled.
Mikha poured instant coffee into a chipped mug.
Mikha hit her limit three weeks ago.
She just didn’t say it out loud.
Not that anyone was asking.
Her world had gone quiet. No brunches with friends. No chat groups full of memes. No late-night calls.
She used to have a home.
A person who felt like home.
Now she was thirty-one, newly divorced, broke, and living in a studio that smelled like fresh paint and denial. Her resume? It might as well be on Pinterest under “Sad Girl Starter Pack.”
Rent was due in nine days.
Back then, she didn’t even think about bills. Her ex took care of everything. Now? She had a chipped mug, a calendar full of payment reminders, and a budget spreadsheet that looked like a digital crime scene: red everywhere, bolded warnings, and an “Emergency Fund” she’d renamed “BAWAL MAGKA-EMERGENCY.”
Three weeks ago, she signed the divorce papers.
No slammed doors. No screaming matches.
Just silence. A signature. A courier receipt.
Ten years of loving someone in a marriage, reduced to logistics.
She hadn’t even cried properly.
Crying didn’t pay the electric bill.
Instead, she applied for jobs.
Click.
Inbox.
Another rejection.
A few sketchy job postings that looked like pyramid schemes.
She glanced around her apartment, as if the piles of laundry and IKEA furniture she’d built at 1 a.m. would give her advice. Nothing.
Instead, her eyes landed on her open laptop, its cracked screen flickering weakly like it might give up before she did. She’d been reworking her resume last night, again.
Conflict resolution skills in high-pressure environments.
(Nakipag-deal ako sa sarili ko na isang kape lang today. Guess who won? Hindi ako.)
Versatile communicator with multitasking abilities.
(Nag-breakdown ako habang nagpiprito ng itlog tapos nagre-resched ng interview. Kung hindi ‘yun talent, ewan ko na lang.)
She almost laughed. Almost.
Midnight found her reheating half a tortang talong in her microwave.
This was dinner. Maybe breakfast too.
There was a time she loved grocery runs. Reusable tote, color-coded lists, “mood” candles. Now she stared at canned tuna like it was a personality test.
Back then, she wasn’t unemployed. She was “managing the household,” as her ex used to say, sliding over her credit card without a second thought.
Now she was attacking leftover torta barefoot in a studio that didn’t even have curtains yet.
This was heartbreak.
Not cinematic.
Not poetic.
Just… survival.
And survival, apparently, came with instant coffee, secondhand furniture, and one very judgmental utilities app notification:
Hope you’re staying warm this week!
“Warm?” Mikha muttered. “Sis, ‘yung kuryente lang ang nagpapainit ng feelings ko at pati ng ulo ko.”
She laughed. Then cried. Quietly.
She sat at the edge of her unmade bed, staring at a wall she hadn’t even bothered to decorate. Divorce papers were tucked under a stack of receipts and resume printouts, like burying them in clutter might make them less real.
She wasn’t bitter.
Okay, maybe a little bitter.
But mostly, she was… tired.
And broke.
Very, very broke.
By 2:00 a.m., Mikha was lying flat on her back, phone balanced against her chest, scrolling through the same job listings she’d seen three times already.
Half of them were scams.
The other half wanted five years of experience she didn’t have.
She sighed. The sound felt heavy in the quiet.
And then…
Ping.
Subject:
Offer of Employment – Raven Technologies Inc.
Her breath caught.
For a second, she didn’t move. Like if she blinked too fast, the email might vanish.
Raven Technologies.
Of course she knew that name. Everybody did.
Big. Polished. Corporate enough to make the word tech giant sound terrifying. The kind of place where people actually dream to be.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She’d once promised herself she’d never… No.
Not tonight. Not when rent was due.
The email was cold. HR: no name, no warm welcome.
But the number beside Monthly Gross ?
Enough.
Enough for rent.
Enough for groceries that didn’t come from the clearance rack.
Enough for shampoo that didn’t smell like dish soap.
Enough for savings to buy herself a little space where survival didn’t feel this loud.
She didn’t even remember applying there. Probably one of those 1:43 a.m. “bahala na” applications: no cover letter, no formatting, just desperation and free Wi-Fi.
Still.
Six-month contract. Renewable.
Start date: Immediate.
Her thumb trembled.
No one to ask.
No one to celebrate with.
Just her.
Her battered phone.
And a city that didn’t even notice she was still trying.
Something flickered in her chest.
Not hope. Not yet.
But not hopelessness either. Just… something.
She hit Accept before fear could catch up.
2:07 a.m.
Confirmation sent.
Decision made.
Not with dreams.
Not with pride.
Just with that small, quiet relief you only get when survival wins.
She set her phone down beside her pillow, staring at the cracked ceiling until her eyes blurred.
“Okay. Laban, Mikha. Kaya mo ‘to. New life, ‘di ba?”
Not hope. Just action.
And right now? Action pays rent.
Even if it meant stepping straight into the one company she swore she’d never touch.
By morning, her phone buzzed with a new email:
Welcome to Raven Technologies – Your First Day Details!
She stared at it.
A tech company. A real job. Actual benefits.
Her ex-college self would’ve been proud.
Her post-divorce self? Just mildly panicked.
“Okay,” she muttered. “First day. Kaya ‘yan. Look professional. No crying in the elevator.”
She checked herself in the mirror. Blazer slightly wrinkled. Hair pinned up in a way that said please don’t fire me on Day One.
She grabbed her bag, locked the door, and whispered at the hallway:
“Corporate world, be gentle.”
Mikha had rehearsed her first-day smile in the elevator mirror.
Neutral. Approachable. Not “I’m-one-bad-email-away-from-crying.”
It almost worked.
The elevator dinged for the 7th floor, and the doors opened to what could only be described as corporate beige heaven. Frosted partitions. Polished floors. Acoustic panels that swallowed sound until even footsteps felt apologetic.
She followed the HR intern, small, chipper, armed with a clipboard through a quiet hallway. “This is where onboarding happens,” the intern chirped. “HR’s main division is one floor up, but we start new hires here on 7th before we tour the rest of Raven.”
Ah. So this was the appetizer floor. The real meal was still upstairs.
They passed an open café counter with a barista making lattes that looked Instagram-ready. Two guys in button-downs laughed near the vending machine like it was a ritual. A woman in heels kissed her partner goodbye before heading into the lift.
Mikha looked away before the ache in her chest could set in.
She adjusted her blazer. One button was loose. It would hold. Probably.
The intern gestured toward a frosted glass door labeled People & Culture 2.4.
Because apparently “HR Room” wasn’t corporate enough.
Inside: cold. Of course it was.
Ten other new hires sat in an awkward half-circle around a blank screen. Overdressed. Over-smiling. Clutching their tote bags like life preservers.
Mikha headed for the back corner.
Furthest from the front. Nearest to the aircon.
Her blazer was too thin.
Her smile was thinner.
“Hi! Welcome,” said Ria (Team Lead, HR) grinning like this was her favorite part of the job.
“Today’s just onboarding. Light lang tayo, promise.”
Mikha nodded politely. She could do light. She could also do silent.
The first thirty minutes were a blur of employee badges, company history slides, and Ria’s overly chipper tone.
“Raven Technologies,” Ria announced proudly, “is one of the fastest-growing tech companies in Southeast Asia. We have over 5,000 employees worldwide, regional hubs in Singapore and Manila, and one core mission: to innovate without limits.”
The screen flashed a glossy video: sleek offices, futuristic product showcases, smiling employees high-fiving like this was a commercial for happiness.
Mikha sipped her complimentary coffee.
Innovate without limits, huh? Sana pati emotional baggage, no?
“And now,” Ria said, “the tour.”
The 8th floor, the real HR division, looked like another world.
Open-plan layout. Pale wood desks. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of the city. Glass meeting pods shaped like bubbles.
And the pantry. Dear God, the pantry.
It wasn’t just a pantry. It was a buffet.
Two coffee machines (one black, one chrome), a juice bar, a soda fountain, and an entire wall of snacks. Shelves lined with chips and cookies sat next to a salad bar that looked too pretty to eat from. And then, because this was apparently Raven Technologies, there was a chef. An actual chef in a crisp white uniform plating customized omelets like this was a five-star hotel.
Mikha froze in the doorway.
Is this… legal? Am I dreaming?
“Everything’s free,” the HR intern said casually, grabbing a latte. “We also have Taco Tuesdays and unlimited frozen yogurt. Oh, and the sushi bar rotates every Friday.”
Mikha blinked.
And to think I almost cried over a ₱50 kape kanina…
She followed Ria through the maze of perks and benefits. Wellness rooms. Nap pods. Free gym access.
“And of course,” Ria added cheerfully, “our HR policies are strict but fair. For example: no workplace dating unless you’re married.”
Mikha nearly choked on her complimentary coffee.
“Sorry, what?”
Ria smiled. “Relationships can complicate things. But! If you’re legally married, that’s different. We value stability.”
Mikha nodded slowly, forcing her face into neutral.
Oh, fantastic. Great. Kasi naman, sino bang may asawa sa—
Her brain stopped itself before the thought could finish.
A hollow ache stirred in her chest. Divorce was paperwork. Divorce was logistics. Divorce was supposed to be over.
So why did two stupid words, if married, feel like someone pressed on a bruise?
She gulped. Hard.
“Any questions?” Ria asked.
“None,” Mikha squeaked, staring very hard at the floor-to-ceiling motivational poster that read Integrity. Synergy. People First.
Her mind added:
And apparently… celibacy.
They ended the tour at her desk: a quiet corner near the communal printer. Perfect.
She arranged her things like it mattered.
Mug to the right. Planner to the left.
The mug was chipped.
The planner smelled like clearance-bin glue.
Look professional. Talk soft. Avoid gossip. Survive six months. Kaya ‘yan.
The HR team trickled in. Some smiled. Most didn’t. The room filled with the hum of keyboards, polite laughter, and the faint, ever-present scent of lemon disinfectant.
By 1:30 p.m., while getting another coffee (because why not it was free), she overheard it.
“She’s the one going through a divorce, right?”
Not cruel. Just curious.
Mikha stared at the coffee machine like it was a portal to another world.
“That explains the quiet,” another voice said.
“Maybe she’ll open up when she’s ready.”
She almost laughed. Open up? Asa! Kahit pala sa corporate world ang daming mga Marites kahit hindi naman yun ang pangalan nila.
If only they knew.
That she wasn’t quiet because of heartbreak.
She was quiet because heartbreak left her nothing to say.
What they didn’t see:
The hesitation before ticking “Ms.” on forms.
The phantom weight on her bare ring finger.
The quiet way she folded herself smaller, like taking up space was dangerous.
But she smiled anyway. Just enough to be polite.
By 4:00 p.m., a guy from payroll passed her desk.
“You’re our newest heartbroken hire,” he said with a grin.
Mikha smirked.
“Guess I fit the job description.”
(Gusto ko lang naman ng bagong buhay)
He laughed. She turned back to her screen.
The hum of keyboards. The soft clink of mugs. The faint scent of lemon disinfectant.
Maybe this was it. Survival wasn’t loud.
It was coffee refills, polite smiles, and pretending gossip didn’t sting.
But in the quiet, something stubborn settled in her chest.
If she could survive this day, maybe, just maybe, she could survive tomorrow too.
Six months. A paycheck. A sliver of air.
“Laban,” she whispered under her breath, a prayer disguised as a joke.
***
Raven Technologies’ auditorium was the kind of space that made you want to sit straighter.
Tiered rows. A stage with massive LED screens. Crisp air-conditioning that hummed loud enough to remind you: this was not your cozy barangay seminar. This was corporate Manila, dressed in glass and steel.
Mikha found a seat at the very back, clutching the free Raven Technologies tote bag they’d handed her at check-in. Inside: a branded water bottle, a pen that probably cost more than her curtains, and a notebook stamped with the words Innovate Without Limits .
Right. Innovate. Without limits.
She wrote under it in tiny letters: But with Wi-Fi.
The lights dimmed.
“Good morning, Ravens!” boomed the host, an overly enthusiastic HR guy whose blazer was three shades too bright for this hour of the day. “Welcome to your official company orientation!”
Mikha clapped half-heartedly along with the crowd of new hires.
She scanned the room. Fresh graduates with perfect LinkedIn smiles. Mid-career switchers scribbling notes like this was a masterclass. One guy already typing furiously on his laptop.
Meanwhile, her only plan was: survive this, then find the pantry again.
The host launched into a spiel about Raven’s mission, values, and “limitless possibilities.” A glossy video played on the massive screen, employees laughing in collaborative huddles, drone shots of Raven’s Manila HQ, and stock-footage handshakes that probably came from a folder named Corporate_Pride_Final_v3 .
Mikha sipped her coffee. She barely tasted it.
And then…
“Please welcome our Director of IT Infrastructure, who will share a few words about Raven’s vision for the future, Ms. Aiah Ledesma.”
A woman stepped onto the stage. Tall, composed, a walking contradiction of presence and silence. Tailored black blazer. Slim navy slacks. No visible jewelry save for a matte steel watch and a thin chain tucked just beneath her blouse.
Her hair was pulled into a clean twist. Her posture was effortless. Spine aligned, chin slightly raised, arms at her sides.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t need to.
Even the way she walked felt engineered. No extra movement, no wasted steps.
Mikha’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup.
Mikha sat straighter.
Not out of recognition.
Just... instinct.
Aiah Ledesma’s eyes scanned the room.
Not hurried. Not performative.
Just… surveying.
And for one suspended second, barely a breath, they landed on Mikha.
She felt it.
Not a look.
A lock.
Then, just as easily, they moved on.
It was one second. Maybe less.
But it felt like standing too close to an open window during a storm.
Aiah Ledesma didn’t flinch.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t give anything.
Her gaze was cool. Impenetrable. Professional.
And somehow, that was worse.
Mikha’s throat went dry.
She looked away first, Mikha blinked and looked down.
Her hand clenched around her pen.
The pen that wasn’t even writing anymore.
“Not a big deal,” she whispered, breath shallow. “Baka hindi nga ako talaga tiningnan. Baka imagination ko lang ‘to. Aircon lang ‘to.”
But her heart was still racing.
“Good morning, everyone,” Aiah Ledesma’s voice rolled through the auditorium. Smooth. Professional. Controlled.
And then…
A pause.
Barely a fraction of a second, but sharp enough to cut through the hum of the air-conditioning.
A sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a breath like a note held between words that didn’t belong in a corporate speech.
Mikha’s fingers stilled.
No one else seemed to notice. The HR staff typed. The new hires nodded. The world moved on.
But in Mikha’s chest, that single pause echoed louder than the mic feedback.
She continued seamlessly, talking about Raven’s IT backbone, about security protocols, about the company’s future in “seamless digital infrastructure.”
Mikha didn’t hear a single word.
Her ears chased that pause, as if her body remembered something her brain refused to unpack.
She finished her remarks, nodded once, and walked off-stage without fanfare.
Another round of polite applause.
Mikha joined in. Automatically.
When it was over, she gave a polite nod to the crowd, handed the mic back to HR, and walked off stage.
No glance back.
Not one.
And Mikha had no idea if that was mercy… or precision.
As the lights came back on, Mikha exhaled a laugh that was 70% nerves and 30% denial.
“No relationships, Mikha,” she muttered under her breath, scribbling the words into the corner of her notebook like a warning label.
She underlined it twice.
“Who says anything about relationships anyway?”
She clicked her pen.
Hard.
And if her hands were shaking just a little?
Well. Nobody had to know.
Mikha’s breath caught.
Not from admiration. Not even from intimidation.
Just that strange, electric pause between memory and emotion when the body knows something before the mind does.