I wake up to the loud, grating sound of a welding machine echoing from somewhere outside.
The sharp, metallic noise feels like it pierces straight through my sleepy ears.
I rub my eyes for a moment before fully opening them, squinting as sunlight hits my feet through the window.
Oh no—what time is it?
Panic rushes over me as I remember my alarm.
Why didn’t I hear it?
My hand fumbles through the sheets, searching for my phone, and when I finally find it, I quickly turn on the screen.
Shocks!
It’s already 9:30 in the morning.
How could I sleep this long?
Without wasting another second, I throw the blanket off me and jump out of bed, moving with a sense of urgency my lazy Saturday rarely witnesses.
I quickly tidy my sleeping area, smoothing the sheets and fluffing my pillow, trying to shake off the heaviness of sleep.
But before I can fully collect myself, the sound of the welding machine blares again, louder this time, like it’s mocking my attempts at peace.
My ears sting from the noise.
They must be fixing something outside, I sigh, trying not to let it irritate me.
I scan the small room and notice something strange—it’s completely quiet except for the sound outside.
Where is everyone?
My gaze lands on the rice cooker at the corner, and like clockwork, my stomach growls loudly, making its presence known.
Hastily, I grab a plate and shuffle toward the rice cooker.
I know Ate A has already set aside some food for me; she always does.
She seems to understand my lazy-day schedule better than I do.
I open the pot, scoop some rice onto my plate, and reach for the leftover viand from last night, neatly stored in.
Grateful that I don’t have to cook, I sit at our small table, whisper a quick prayer of thanks, and begin eating.
As I chew, my thoughts start to wander.
Why do I never hear my alarm on
Saturdays?
It’s like my body has its own lazy-day alarm system, knowing weekends are meant for sleeping in and doing absolutely nothing.
The thought makes me smile.
Once I finish eating, I clean up quickly, afraid of someone might walk in and see me looking like a complete mess.
To be honest, I can smell myself at this point, and it’s not pleasant—I feel like I’m still buried under my blankets.
After washing the dishes and putting them back in their place, I return to the room and slump onto the bed.
Instinctively, I grab my phone to check for any messages. As always, there’s nothing.
I sigh, turn it off, and toss it to the side.
No surprise there.
My throat starts to crave water, but before quenching my thirst, I decide to freshen up.
I grab my soap and towel, ready for a quick half-bath.
Walking to the bathroom, I feel a small knot of anxiety form in my chest.
There it is again—that nagging paranoia I always feel when I see the showerhead.
I pull the curtain over it, a habit I’ve had ever since watching that one movie where a girl was unknowingly watched through a hidden bathroom camera.
Even though I know it’s silly, I just can’t be comfortable unless the shower is covered.
Satisfied that everything is secure, I turn on the faucet and watch the steady flow of water filling the pail.
How does this even work? I wonder.
It amazes me how simple yet brilliant it is—water flows at the turn of a knob and stops when turned off.
I imagine the person who invented this, marveling at their genius.
My musings stop when the pail is nearly full.
I quickly splash the cool water on my face, feeling the sleepiness finally wash away.
The sensation is refreshing, though I can’t help but notice the bumps on my skin as my fingers brush over my pimples.
I sigh.
When will my pimples ever leave me alone?
It feels like they’ve been my constant companions for years.
Eventually, I finish my half-bath and step out of the bathroom, feeling a little more human.
As I open the door to our room, I’m greeted by familiar faces—Ate J and Ate M that is our new boardmates.
She's the one I've mentioned before, the one who replaced our old boardmate who moved out.
They’ve just returned from work, and as I walk in, they smile warmly at me.
“Hi!” they greet me cheerfully, despite the exhaustion I can see on their faces.
We exchange a few words—small talk about work and how the morning’s been—before I move on to get dressed.
I apply lotion to my skin and dab some cream on my face.
It’s not often I bother to look presentable, but every now and then, it feels good to resemble a functioning human being and not a walking pillow.
Once I’m done, I gather my clothes from earlier and set them aside.
I plan to wash them later tonight.
By now, the room falls silent again.
Ate J and Ate M have both climbed into their bunks, and soon enough, I hear the faint sounds of their quiet breathing as they drift off into naps.
The stillness of the room pulls at me, too.
I lie back on my bed, and almost
immediately, I feel sleep tugging at me.
This is all I want today, I think—just to sleep for the rest of the day.
And with that final thought, I let myself drift off, the distant hum of the welding machine outside blending into the silence of my lazy Saturday.
YOU ARE READING
POV
No FicciónLife often presents itself as a series of hurdles, each one taller than the last. These hurdles, though daunting, are not meant to break us but to shape us into who we are meant to be. It is through our darkest nights that we gain the strength to fa...
