The ceremony went smoothly, without a single mistake. Applause rose and fell in steady waves each time a graduate's name was called, the sound swelling like the tide and then softening again into polite murmurs. The auditorium lights glowed warmly overhead, making the gold tassels shimmer whenever someone moved. I was one of them, of course. When they called my name, my heart pounded so loudly I thought it would drown out the announcer's voice.
I walked across the stage in my toga and cap, smiling so wide my cheeks began to ache. The fabric brushed against my legs with every step. The stage lights were blinding, but beyond them I could make out blurred shapes that I knew were my parents. I imagined my mother clutching her bag, my father sitting straighter than usual. For a moment, everything felt right.
I was proud of myself. I had finished my degree. My parents were proud too. I remember how my mother's shoulders shook as she cried, how my father kept clearing his throat, pretending he wasn't wiping his eyes. That day felt like proof that all the sleepless nights, all the exam weeks that left me hollow-eyed and trembling, had meant something.
My diploma now sits in my home office, framed alongside my certificates. They're displayed neatly behind glass, safe from dust and fingerprints. Sometimes when sunlight hits the cabinet just right, it reflects sharply, almost too brightly. Whenever I look at them, I can't decide whether I feel accomplished or cornered.
Because even then, something inside me had already begun to shift.
I worked hard for my biology degree because my parents wanted to see me in a white coat. It wasn't just their dream. A distant relative funded my tuition, and that generosity felt heavy on my shoulders. I carried it into every exam, every laboratory session that smelled of formalin and ethanol, every late night reviewing slides under fluorescent lights. I told myself I had to succeed. There was no room for hesitation.
But standing among my fellow graduates were future doctors, future medical professionals with carefully mapped-out paths, and I felt something unsettling stir in my chest.
I didn't want to become one of them.
I didn't want hospital corridors and night shifts and the constant beeping of machines. I didn't want to hold a stethoscope simply because it was expected of me. I wanted something else. I wanted to work in research labs, surrounded by glassware and microscopes, the quiet hum of equipment my only companion. I wanted to discover something new. To create treatments that would save lives in ways no one could see at first glance.
Not to treat the symptoms, but to search for the cure.
After the ceremony, hours past noon, the sun had softened. Its rays no longer scorched but warmed gently, brushing against my skin as if in reassurance.
My parents surprised me with a reservation at an upscale restaurant. The moment we stepped inside, cool air enveloped us, carrying the scent of butter, grilled meat, and red wine. Crystal glasses chimed faintly whenever servers set them down. The floor gleamed beneath our shoes.
I hadn't expected this.
We weren't rich. We weren't poor either. We were comfortable in the careful way that required budgeting and quiet sacrifices. The kind of family that counted coins but made sure no one went hungry. I wondered if this dinner had cost more than they were willing to admit.
Was it their savings?
The question lingered at the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it. Gratitude and guilt mixed uncomfortably in my stomach.
We were seated at a table for three. Around us, other graduates still wore their togas, laughing loudly, clinking glasses in celebration. I reached up and removed my cap, turning it over in my hands. Earlier, it had felt light. Now, the cardboard and fabric seemed to press against my palms with unexpected weight.
It felt symbolic somehow.
"What is your plan, hija?" my mother asked, cutting into her steak with controlled, careful movements.
The question was simple. Too simple.
I had just taken a bite when she asked. I swallowed quickly. "I plan to travel with my friends soon," I said, keeping my tone light. Casual. Safe.
The words barely left my mouth before she responded.
"You told us you would take the NMAT after graduation. You know how competitive it is. You should already be preparing."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it was firm. Final.
"But, Mom—"
"Kimberly, don't talk with food in your mouth," my father reminded sharply.
The correction felt heavier than it should have.
I blinked. The warmth from earlier had cooled. Even the restaurant seemed quieter around us, though that might have just been my pulse roaring in my ears.
I set my utensils down carefully. "Mom, I need a break. I've been studying since I was six. That's fourteen years of classrooms and exams and expectations. I just… I need time."
"Don't be selfish!"
The word struck harder than her raised voice.
My breath hitched. Tears gathered instantly, hot and humiliating. The candlelight blurred into gold streaks. My chest tightened as if something were squeezing it from the inside.
"Think about your future, Kimberly," my father said, disappointment evident in every syllable. "Don't let your friends influence you into making bad decisions. They do nothing but lead you astray."
My hands began to tremble beneath the table. I pressed them against my thighs, hoping they would steady.
"I think it's best you stop hanging out with them," my mother added coolly, lifting her wine glass. "It's for your own good."
The words didn't just hurt. They unraveled something.
I stood up so abruptly my chair screeched against the floor, drawing eyes from nearby tables. The sound echoed too loudly in my ears. My vision swam as tears spilled freely down my face.
"What gives you the right to decide what I do with my friends?" My voice cracked. My throat burned. I could taste salt.
I could feel the stares. Heavy. Curious. Disapproving.
"Kimberly, sit down," my father hissed.
But I couldn't. If I sat, I would shatter.
I grabbed my purse and ran. I left my cap behind on the table, tassel draped carelessly over the polished wood.
Outside, the late afternoon air hit my face. I ran blindly, bumping into strangers. Someone cursed at me. Someone called me blind.
Maybe I was.
Blind to how deep my parents' expectations ran. Blind to how suffocated I had become trying to meet them.
I stopped briefly on the sidewalk and looked back. Through the restaurant's glass doors, I caught a glimpse of my father rushing out, his face twisted in anger I had never seen before.
Fear surged through me, cold and electric.
I ran again.
"KIMBERLY!"
His voice chased after me, loud and sharp.
The city blurred. Jeepneys roared past. Vendors shouted. The smell of exhaust mixed with street food and dust. My lungs burned with every breath. My legs ached, muscles tightening with each desperate step.
I didn't know where I was going. I only knew I had to keep moving.
When the adrenaline finally thinned out, exhaustion crashed into me all at once. My knees felt unstable. My chest heaved painfully.
I slowed down.
And then I realized I didn't recognize where I was.
The buildings looked unfamiliar. The streets felt too wide, too narrow, too different. Manila suddenly felt like a stranger. I had lived here my whole life, yet I couldn't name the street in front of me.
I wasn't just lost.
I felt untethered.
My legs gave out near the sidewalk. I sank down, uncaring of the rough pavement beneath me. The concrete was warm from the sun, pressing through the thin fabric of my toga. People walked past. Some slowed. Some stared.
I didn't care.
Tears came harder now, shaking sobs that made my shoulders tremble. My throat hurt. My head pounded. Everything inside me felt scraped raw.
I just wanted to cry. To empty myself of the weight I had carried for years.
"Kimberly?"
My sobs hitched. I sniffled, wiping at my face clumsily, embarrassed by the mess I must have looked like.
"Kim? What are you doing here?"
I looked up.
Alex. Gabriel. And the rest of them.
Relief hit me so suddenly it made me dizzy.
"Alex…" My voice broke into pieces. "Alex, help me."
Liam was beside me in an instant, steadying me when my knees wobbled again. His hands were warm, firm against my arms.
"What happened? Who did this to you?" Gabriel asked rapidly, anger already rising in his tone.
"Don't bombard her with questions, you idiot," Divine snapped, smacking him lightly with her rolled-up diploma. Even that small, familiar gesture made my chest ache.
The world felt too loud. Too bright. My body felt drained, hollowed out.
"Shhh. It's okay," Alex murmured softly.
She pulled me into a hug, and I collapsed against her. The scent of her perfume was faintly floral, comforting and it wrapped around me. I clung to her, fingers gripping the fabric of her toga as if she might disappear too.
I knelt on the pavement, uncaring of how ungraceful I must have looked, my sobs muffled against her shoulder.
Around us, the city continued moving. Cars passed. Footsteps echoed. Conversations carried on.
"We should head somewhere private," Mike suggested quietly. He crossed his arms and shifted his stance slightly, subtly shielding me from wandering eyes. "Almost everyone around us is judging like it's their business."
And even as the stares lingered, even as my chest still ached and my tears refused to stop, I felt something fragile but real settle inside me.
For the first time that day, I wasn't carrying everything alone.