What's for Breakfast?

They say that a lady walking in stiletto heels means business, for the clicking sound exudes her power and confidence. However, when you drag your feet as I do, the clicking is more like a screeching, ominous symphony. It’s not power nor confidence—it’s the anthem of misery and exhaustion.

Thankfully, the hallway is empty.

My phone keeps vibrating in my purse. I let it ring, reluctant to face the world. At the front door of our unit, I lower my gaze, letting my long, brown locks cascade over my face. My fingers rest on the doorknob as I catch my reflection in the polished glass tiles. I try to smile, just to see if I can—but immediately realize I am close to tears.

Three hours ago, I was a different woman.

Now, I just… look sad. My eyelids feel extremely heavy, and lifting my limbs is a challenge. All I crave is sleep. To forget.

Well, I guess I am sad.

The outcome of today’s events isn’t new. If anything, the familiarity should give me immunity. But newsflash! It doesn’t. Truthfully, the feeling of worthlessness cuts deeper each time.

Why did I expect this date to be different anyway? What got inside this stupid skull of mine?

Fine. Allow me to elaborate: I just got rejected. Again. What aggravates me is that this time around, I tried.

Really tried. I splurged on a new pair of red pumps and an expensive, black dress. I painted my nails burgundy and even straightened my thick wavy hair. Heck, I even stalked the guy on social media like a desperate fool so that I’d know exactly which topics to bring up before I saw him.

No, he didn’t explicitly tell me he didn’t like me, but he also didn’t have to. The mere fact that he ended the date abruptly was enough.

There would be no second date.

I grunt under my breath as the events of the night vividly unfurl in my head.

“Sam, I’m really sorry,” Mark said without looking me in the eye. He fiddled with his sleeves and added, “This is embarrassing, but I just remembered that I have some research to finish. I have to go.”

“Oh, um, I see,” I mumbled, glancing at my watch, my insides tangling into knots. “It’s–It’s okay.” It wasn’t. “I also have to work on some projects anyway.” I didn’t have any.

Two hours. It only took two hours for all of it to crumble.

He asked for the bill. I offered to split it, which he politely refused, then we walked out of the restaurant in excruciating silence.

“Do you need a ride?” I offered, a last pathetic attempt to prolong the date.

He looked down, toyed with his sleeves again, his jaw rigid. “No, I’ll take the cab,” he said.

“Are you sure? Where are you headed? I can drop you off.”

He shook his head quietly. “I’m good.” Then, he waved his hand, and a taxi pulled up instantly. My shoulders sagged in defeat.

“Bye, Sam.”

“Yeah, sure. Bye. Thanks… for your time.”

“Yeah… Thanks,” he echoed. Awkwardly.

And just like that Mark left. That was it.

The end.

He was my type. He was funny and smart and he was a journalist with eyeglasses that made him look older despite his youthful features. But none of it mattered. He blew me off right after dinner. My prep time took longer than the date itself.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I finally open the door and step into our condominium—Unit 1604. I emphasize our because I share this two-bedroom space with my older brother, Kuya Patrick. With a flick of the light switch, the interior I had meticulously designed comes into view.

The kitchen walls are painted marble gray, with wooden countertops and three bar stools marking the divide between the kitchen and the dining area. White curtains drape from the top of the windows, and in the corner, a wine rack is stocked with bottles of wine and champagne.

Moving into the dining room, painted in serene ivory white, is an oak dining set for four. A white ceramic vase with sunflowers graces the table. I swap them out almost every week to keep them fresh.

From there, it’s only seven steps to the living room, where a silvery, sectional sofa with beige throw pillows perfectly complements the 48” flat-screen TV. The walls are ivory white as well, and a soft gray carpet covers the floor. A glass square coffee table holds another vase with sunflowers, bringing in a touch of nature indoors.

I cast my glance across the space, my gaze lingering on the enormous glass windows. It’s nighttime now, but I can picture how, when daylight streams in through the brown curtains gracefully falling from ceiling to floor, the room will be filled with a warm, cozy ambiance.

A complete contrast to how I currently feel.

Heaving another sigh out of frustration, I slump onto the couch, staring at the space in defeat. My brother’s not here, and thank God, he isn’t. Who knows what he’d say to make this even worse?

Kuya Patrick is two years older than me, and yes, we’re close, but his constant need to mock me for my failed dates has begun to surpass the sisterly love he has for me. At this point, it’s less love and more… just annoying.

I kick my shoes off, and they hit the center table, producing a crisp click sound. My phone finally stops ringing. To distract myself, I power on the television, idly flicking through channels. The sound it emits is vibrant; my mind, however, is elsewhere.

“Where did I go wrong?” I whisper.

I feel so small, so stupid, so… hopeless. I have no idea why my blind dates always end the same way. The moment they request the bill without asking for my phone number, I realize it’s over.

My phone rings. Again. I begrudgingly fumble through my purse and see that it’s Cathy—my matchmaker and one of my very few friends. She won’t stop calling. I wince as I can already tell what’s coming: she’ll chew me out again, and I’ll say for the hundredth time that I don’t know what happened. Because I don’t. Seriously.

The second the phone presses against my ear, Cathy’s voice slams through, “You’ve got to be kidding me, Sam.”

She’s disappointed in me. Hah. Good for her because I don’t even know what to feel about myself anymore.

“This is the fifth blind date I’d set up for you. What happened?”

“Same thing,” I reply, my voice barely audible. My self-esteem has been beaten into a pulp. Fifth blind date. How long have I been doing this? A year? Ugh. I’ve lost count of the days. “Did he report to you? Gave you feedback? Oh, wait. I don’t get five stars…?”

Cathy sighs wearily across the line. “He called me. Said you were too good for him. You’re successful, too nice plus, you deserve a more suitable man—”

“And he isn’t the one?” I hiss.

These are the same tired reasons I’ve been hearing nonstop. At first, I thought they were compliments. After listening to them a million times, it just feels like an insult. I am ‘too good’ because I have a stable career? Because I can financially support myself? What do they even mean by that? How can I be ‘too nice’ when they don’t even want a second date?”

“Sam, I’m wondering… Maybe, just maybe… you’re unknowingly giving off the wrong signals?”

“What? Why is this about me?” I scowl, feeling a slight twinge in my stomach.

“I’m not blaming you, alright? You’re amazing, and I’m not saying this because you’re my friend… I simply don’t get what’s going on. Did you even like him?”

Great. Even my friend is confused. Same, Cathy. Same.

“I did.”

“Then, did you make an effort to show him? Maybe he thought you weren’t interested.”

“Geez, I’m not that uptight. I know how to flirt,” I grumble, leaning against the sofa to ease my back. “You know what, Cathy? Stop matchmaking me. I’m done with this. It sucks. I don’t need a boyfriend. I’ve got money, anyway. Romance is overrated.”

“Sam—”

“It’s cool. I’ll just work my ass off forever. I’m happy with my career, and I have you guys. That’s more than enough for me.”

I sound miserable, but this is Cathy. She’s been my friend since high school, so I can lay it bare. And if there’s anyone who would have the slightest inkling of how I’ve ended up being a twenty-six-year-old who’s never had a long-term relationship, it’s her. She’s watched it happen over and over again.

“Sam, you’re a great woman. I really think that they meant what they said. You are, well, accomplished. And… I think that’s the reason why,” she mumbles.

I scoff. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault. Absolutely not!”

I get up from the couch, eager to change into more comfortable clothes. The dress is snug on my waist, and it serves as a reminder of how much I tried, yet still failed.

“Then what does ‘too good’ actually mean? Whose fault is it then?” I snatch up my shoes and start pacing to my room across Kuya Patrick’s. “Please. Enlighten me. ’Cause I’m starting to believe it’s an excuse made up by people who can’t be honest.”

“We just haven’t found the right man. You’re probably out of their league,” she offers, but it doesn’t help.

“Am I? That’s such a stupid defense.”

“You know what? I think I’ve just been picking the wrong men for these blind dates. None of them are up to your level.”

I pause. What am I doing? This isn’t on her.

“No, no, no. I’m sorry… I shouldn’t take this out on you. You’re trying to help. I’m just… so pissed, Cathy. You know that I’m trying so hard, and it’s like none of it matters. I wish they would just tell me the real reason why we wouldn’t work. I don’t want to question myself anymore.”

“No, it’s alright, Sam. You’re frustrated,” she answers. “This wouldn’t be hard if only we could fool around in the office. Jonathan from HR has the hots for you.”

I roll my eyes at the suggestion. I’m aware she’s only trying to make me feel better, but Jonathan’s a kid, and he’s a temp. He’s only twenty-two years old.

“You gotta be kidding me. He’s like my younger brother! And it’s not like there are other decent guys in the office—”

I finally twist the doorknob of my bedroom door, revealing the most disturbing scene I never thought I’d witness in my whole life.

“What the…” I gasp.

“Sam?”

“I’ll call you back, okay?” I hang up abruptly, my fingers trembling as I drop my shoes and purse on the floor. My mind is reeling.

Pieces of clothing are scattered everywhere—clothes that don’t belong to me. My eyes dart to the bed, and my heart skips as I recognize the jet-black, messy hair and bare, broad shoulders. Even with his eyes closed, he is incredibly good-looking. Still incredibly good-looking.

I can’t believe that he’s here. After three years, he’s back in the Philippines—in my room.

Part of me thinks I should be glad to see him. We weren’t that close, thanks to his constant teasing, but since he’s someone I’ve known since I was young, I should be able to tolerate his presence.

I can do that. Really.

Except, he’s lying half-naked with a woman I don’t even recognize.

On. My. Bed.

How is this even possible? Of all places… here? Now?

My pulse speeds up in rage. The fatigue and worthlessness that have been weighing me down evaporate, and all the bottled up frustration I’ve been holding in erupts. Before I know it, I’m storming to the bed.

“Derek!!!” I scream at the top of my lungs, not caring if the neighbors can hear. I am seething with anger. His timing couldn’t be worse. This is the last thing I need right now!

They jolt awake in surprise. Derek groans as he rubs his temples, clearly inconvenienced by my arrival. He sits up and gazes at me with one eye open, his lack of evident remorse grating me further. The woman, on the other hand, turns beet red. As if caught in a criminal act, she scrambles for her clothes urgently, not daring to throw a glance my way. She can probably sense how badly I want to strangle her.

Crap! What did I do to deserve such a bad day?!

Derek stretches his arms before flashing me a nonchalant grin. The audacity of this man. It’s 11 p.m., and here he is in my room, half-naked, with a short-haired woman who looks like she’s barely out of university.

My nostrils flare. “What the hell?!”

“Chill, Sam. You’re so loud,” he complains, scratching his neck. “Welcome home.”

“Welcome home?” I blink in disbelief. “You think this is okay?! This is my room, my space, you think you can just—”

Derek opens his mouth, glimpsing at the woman. “I… Sam, it’s—”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, you jerk!” I lunge at him, my hands grabbing the strands of his hair. Derek yelps in pain, trying to pry my fingers off, while the woman stands there, stunned. But I don’t stop. I don’t care if I’m acting like a lunatic. I’ve had enough for one day, and he’s still managed to infuriate me.

“Ouch! Stop it! What are you doing?!”

I ignore him and continue pulling his hair until he lands on the floor with a thud. I release him, anger still simmering… but with an unexpected flush crawling to my neck. With the blanket completely gone as his cover, Derek is sprawled out on my bedroom floor in his boxers. A quick scan makes me realize that his bodily proportions have changed. Drastically. And enough to make me go red.

It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I haven’t seen naked and bulky bodies. But Derek? It’s strange. I sort of know him, and we haven’t seen each other for so long. The last time I saw him like this was probably on a beach trip at least… ten years ago.

He’s definitely, definitely, way hotter now.

Christ. What am I thinking?