Life in the U.S.? Picture a triangle: home, work, grocery store — repeat. It’s like living in a really quiet sitcom with no laugh track and zero plot twists.
Honestly, living in a foreign country turned me into a professional hermit. I can go days without saying a single word unless absolutely necessary — like when I need someone to pass the ketchup. My coworkers think I’m mysterious, antisocial, maybe even part-ninja. I’ve mastered the art of disappearing from work parties, dodging small talk in the breakroom, and ghosting after-work hangouts. If things get too chatty, you’ll find me speed-walking toward the nearest fire exit like it’s a fire drill.
Social media? Deleted. Phone? Silent. Me? Unreachable. I’ve tried the party scene but realized I’d rather hang out with my blanket and be in bed by 9. And honestly? I’m thriving in solitude. Being alone doesn’t scare me — I actually love it.
Still… sometimes, out of nowhere, I think about Edwin. Wondering where in the world he is. I even tried to track him down once, messaging someone named Danilo for help, only to be met with the sound of crickets.
And then, one random day — while cleaning the bathroom of all places — my brain hit me with a full Edwin flashback. So I called my old friend from the Philippines, now a fellow nurse here in the U.S. She was there for my post-Edwin heartbreak days. She used to tell me, “You cry like you lost your whole world.” And I’d say, “What? No! We were church kids, we didn’t even kiss!” To which she replied, “Then why are you crying like a telenovela widow?”
Fast-forward to that bathroom cleaning call. I told her, “If I die and Edwin shows up at my funeral, tell him no one else ever had my heart. Just him.” Her response? “What did you eat for lunch? Why are you like this?”
I told her I was serious — I wasn’t being dramatic (okay, maybe a little). I just remembered him and genuinely hoped he was happy. I even said, “If he’s married with kids, fine. I’ll just see him in heaven.”
She told me to get back to scrubbing tiles.
Later that night, I went to bed early like the boring adult I’ve become. Then at exactly 1:03 a.m., a text from her popped up:
“Happy National First Love Day!”
It was September 18. I just stared at my phone, smiled, and thought… well played, universe. Well played.
Audited by Edwin Ng
