Bags. Bags. Bags.
My hands grip them tighter—the weight of my own dreams packed into shelves and spaces. I stack books upon books, water bottles, lunch boxes, bags upon bags. With every load I lift, I ease the weight on my parents’ already tired shoulders.

Schedule. Schedule. Schedule.
My planner bleeds from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., Monday to Saturday. I am self-divided—one foot in the classroom, the other in the workstation, an arm in the publication, the other in the program organization. Running from SJH to the University Library to the PGN basement, I am everywhere and nowhere all at once. There is no whole of me left—just fragments pulled in too many directions.

Envy. Envy. Envy.
It whispers when I see classmates drift through carefree afternoons, their time untouched by the need to earn. Their lives feel light, unchained. Mine is tethered—responsibility coiled around my ankles. I work not just to live, but to someday earn the freedom they were born with.

Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice.
Sleep? It can wait. I revenge-scroll to reclaim the time lost to labor. My sanity stretches thin, trying to belong in spaces I have no time for. I carry not just bags but the invisible freight of worry, weariness, and the relentless need to prove I’m enough—everywhere, to everyone.

Keep up. Keep up. Keep up.
I nod to conversations I was never part of, laugh at inside jokes I don’t understand. My absence echoes in the spaces I miss. While others enjoy, I endure—stitching my hours together with duty and deadlines, praying it’ll all be worth it.

Uncertain. Uncertain. Uncertain.
I’ve lived with unpredictability since the womb. My future is fogged with doubt. Will I graduate? Or will the dream collapse beneath the weight of being the designated breadwinner?

Build. Build. Build.
Still, I build—one day at a time. I will climb, rise, and carve a life above the ache. A life free from counting coins. A life I can finally proudly call my own.