Chapter 9

I had to catch up. Everyone was settled in and I had groceries. The time was right and necessary for my monthly all-nighter. There always comes a time when I decide to get my act together after long days of procrastination.
I can’t exactly blame myself for this one. My nervous system was too preoccupied. My mind was elsewhere. I waited for housemates and tried making peace with the new plight. The plight still stands. There are strangers living in my house. Learning their names didn’t turn their stranger status around.
But that’s not a valid excuse anymore. The monthly all-nighter is a multi-purpose solution. When I find myself to be distracted—and the deadline hovers near—I remove the cushions and distractions that make up my comfort zone. I work best in my bedroom, but its convenience gets the best of me sometimes. My bed is a step away from my desk, and I swear it calls for me at the first sign of fatigue. One yawn and the bed stands out in the corner of my eye. Then there’s the TV. It’s so easy to take a break, claim I’ll only watch an episode, and believe in that blatant lie until the will to work escapes me. Then the sky is a shade lighter, and my body stops resisting sleep.
The trickiest part of working from home is to convince your brain of your room’s duality. The bedroom is a place of rest, but for a number of hours, nearly seven days a week, it is also a place of work. In that place of work, I need to be serious and dedicated.
So I claim the dining room, every now and then, for the night. Until sunrise, I plop myself on a wooden chair and work on manuscripts with utmost focus. The TV is too far, and the chair isn’t as comfy.
The all-nighter is as much a punishment as it is a thrilling night. The notion of it, at least. I have a non-existent limit for coffee…and snacks. These should-be-consumed-in-a-moderate-amount items serve me well when the purpose is to stay up.
The dining room was always a common space, but my parents never came down for a late night snack. The space was mine for the night until they crowded it again in the morning. And never without scoldings. They said I was calling for a heart attack with all that coffee and lack of sleep.
I wasn’t sure the dining room was still mine for the night. These strangers are much younger than my parents. They could come down at any time. Vaughn has to go upstairs to use the bathroom. Hael works from home, and if that wasn’t enough, he was corrupted by jet lag. Egon mentioned his schedule wasn’t fixed, hence I’m not sure he’d come down for a late night meal or for breakfast. That is assuming he eats late at night. Or maybe he smokes. He could sit in the backyard for a smoke break. I know nothing about them, and as much as I don’t care, it so happens that I’m not the observant type.
I propped myself and my tools—a medium-sized spiral notebook, a black ball-point pen, a backup black ball-point pen, sticky notes, pastel highlighters, two pouches of chocolate cookie sticks, a tub of onion and sour cream chips, a bar of dark chocolate, a pint of iced coffee, a water bottle, earphones, and my laptop—at the dining table. If snacks run out, I’ll run back to my room. Two thirds of my groceries were snacks. The closet drawer I dedicated to them is loaded.

00:00 AM

I lit the smallest lamp in the living room, its light yellow, and the over stove light at its lowest level. The dining table, right in the middle, was partially lit. That amount was perfectly cozy for me. As much as harsh lighting would keep me awake, it’d kill the mood.
The ultimate mood setter was music. I worked better when it played from my laptop’s built-in-speakers. I made sure the volume was moderate, so it wouldn’t reach my parents’ bedroom. Tonight, I found myself reaching for earphones instead. No one here needed to know my music taste.

The song gave me an energy boost before the caffeine did. Truly, I needed the boost because all the pages I worked on this morning I had to re-do. I was so occupied with Vaughn’s arrival that the lines went over my head. I missed unnecessary descriptions, abrupt transitions, metaphors that don’t quite work, and the list goes on. It was counterproductive to go at it with nerves of jelly.
I jot down my notes first as I read. Later I’ll phrase them coherently into the file I’m sending my client. That way, I can even disable my laptop’s Wi-Fi and focus on the manuscript. A laptop is the biggest source of distractions. One click and you’re on another page. One that might lure you into rabbit hole after rabbit hole.
A freelancer without discipline is a recipe for failure. The reminder helps to keep the procrastination away. My freedom is frail after all. It scares me all the time. As much as I defend the occupation from relatives who tell me it’s unreliable, I can’t help but feel the same. Though I’ll never admit it to them.

00:32 AM

I sighed at the screen and rolled a pen with my palm. It was too early to be feeling restless. My focus was slipping away like excess rainwater trickling down the gutters. I shoved a cookie stick followed by a swig of coffee before taking my gaze away from the screen.
If I’d been eager at the start of the all nighter, now I was disillusioned. Working hard is nothing like the movies. It’s no aesthetic montage with dramatic page flipping or books stacked like the Tower of Pisa. And there are no friends surrounding the table. Nobody to kick your feet under the table because they’re bored. No friend who’s still reading the same page for the fifth time. Or a friend taking coffee orders.
Instead, it’s quiet and spacious. I learned to enjoy my company. And I drown out the silence with music.
Just as the song faded out in my ears, I heard footsteps. When the next song played, I stopped hearing them, but I could feel thuds on the ground. These callously loud steps could only belong to one person. Sure, it’s a wooden house—known for creaking and resonance—but there was no effort behind these steps. No sweat to mitigate the noise.
I brought my eyes back to the screen, hoping he’d ignore me if I seemed occupied. I tucked strands of hair behind my ears to show the earphones and raised the volume a little for sound to leak. Because pretending was hard, I needed this simple proof to speak for itself.
Still, I could see his silhouette beyond my screen as he emerged from the basement. Vaughn halted in his steps for a second, as though startled. Then he carried on straight ahead.
I should’ve typed loudly to at least make my presence known. The place wasn’t lit enough to assume someone was sitting there, unmoving, reading, and faintly writing on paper.
I’d been startled to, if I were Vaughn. I’d think I saw a ghost. But thanks to his somewhat expected trip to the bathroom, I was forced back into work—only so I wouldn’t have to acknowledge him.

01:34 AM

It worked. I faked it till I made it and didn’t notice the time pass or Vaughn. A packet of cookie sticks and a quarter of my coffee later, I’d eased into a nice pace. It’s only when my legs pulsed from numbness that I thought to step back. I wasn’t smart enough to stand up every twenty minutes and circulate the blood, but I listened to my body when it cried for help.
I stretched and left my pint of coffee in the freezer for the little time I’d be up. It’s strange how sore you can be by staying still, and how unfair it is that you are sore without having burned calories.
I took my stretching to the backyard where I ironically sat. On the step outside the sliding door where my dad used to smoke. He was there, and I was at the table, covered by a parasol. I’d be typing in silence, and he’d save his words for another day. At least that’s what I liked to think.

1:50 AM

My hair pulled taut in a ponytail, I dove back into work. In the midst of revisiting a recent past, I stayed out longer than I wanted. And that without getting steps in. The stone step I squatted on only added my butt to the list of sore parts. Safe to say I wasn’t the greatest listener when it came to my body—like I claimed to be.
At least I came back with refreshed eyes. They say looking at the sky reduces eye strain. They, whoever they are, were right again.
It wasn’t long before I was interrupted again by vibrations on the floor. But the thuds were quieter than Vaughn’s. I didn’t want to look up, but I did. I could’ve feigned notice again, but I didn’t. It was Hael, coming down with prudent steps, his heels hovering. I stifled a laugh before he spotted me. He seemed surprised to see me, but more like a concerned parent. It wasn’t late enough to warrant that look, and he was no parent to me.
I was about to remove my earphones when he waved offhandedly, motioning to keep them on.
I’m just passing by, he mouthed, I think. That, with a familiar smile.
And off he went to the kitchen. He didn’t turn the light brighter and kept it as dim as it was. It was hard to tell which of us was the most careful. He was giving me a run for my money. Is any of this necessary? Are we too afraid of burdening others that we paint ourselves as ghosts?
I lowered the volume of my music and heard the faintest rustling coming from the kitchen. With the briefest peek, I saw him gathering packaged ingredients on the counter.
And minutes later, he came out of the kitchen empty-handed. I wasn’t curious to know why.
He stood under the archway, leaning on the wall, looking at me. It’s like the words were sitting behind his closed lips. His pressed lips migrated into a smile, and he lifted himself off the wall.
“Goodnight,” he said, but he meant to say more. I’m sure of it. He must simply know his place and waved me goodbye before scurrying back to the stairs.
“Good night,” I muttered when he was halfway up the stairs.
When I heard his door close, I decided to move to the living room. There I’d face the TV and give them my back. As far as I knew, I had no eyes on the back of my head.

2:35 AM

Lounging on the sofa seemed like the best decision until I grew too comfortable. My back leaned on the arm and my legs naturally extended out. It was a matter of time before I dozed off. My eyelids were already heavier, and my reading pace languid.
My pint of coffee was less effective after the generous amount of ice melted. Diluted coffee is what I drank for the past thirty minutes. I made a mental note to use a smaller glass next time and keep most of the coffee untouched in the fridge.
Every sip was flavoured water with not enough caffeine to fight off sleep. The fight became mine alone. All I had was—weak—will power, a deadline, and an upbeat playlist that could wake the dead.

The music was a temporary boost; much like caffeine, once you got used to it, it lulled you to sleep, regardless. It was too early in the night to struggle this much. I blamed it on the strangers that made me move to the living room just so I wouldn’t make eye contact with them. That wrath helped a little too—maybe.

3:00 AM

By 3 AM, my motto had become: Don’t go insane, because one thing editors weren’t allowed to do was to edit drunk, whether it was from alcohol or, in my case, sleep. Writers could use that state to their advantage. Editors had to be vigilant.
I removed my earphones and decided it was time for another breather. This sofa was a natural sleeping pill.
I didn’t have the energy to stand up and chose to sit up instead. I took a literal breather, in and out, while my fingers held my eyes open. They could barely open on their own.
It wasn’t until I heard a series of clatters from behind that they shot open. The thundering sound kicked the sleep out of me. I stood as quickly as I could—thankfully, my laptop slid off onto the sofa instead of falling on the floor. But speaking of the floor, someone was on it. At the very end of the stairs, Egon sat, rubbing his back and groaning sluggishly.
I rushed there, worried he might’ve broken something. When he noticed me, his eyebrows shot up before they were down again, and he began laughing. His chuckles were low and easy.
Was he laughing because he was seeing stars, or is that how he copes with loss of face?
I was dazed like I’d been the one who fell down the stairs.
“Are you alright?” I asked, reaching for his arm to help him up.
He’d hoisted himself up without my help, but he didn’t brush my hand away, and I didn’t pull back, afraid he’d be weak in the knees and find himself on the ground again.
“I’m good. This isn’t the first time it happened.”
Unsure whether to smile or wince, I squashed my lips in a line. And I didn’t believe he could be good after this fall.
“First time or not, it’s got to be painful. You should lie down on the sofa.”
He skimmed past my hand, his chuckles dissolving.
“No, no, I really don’t need to. My back is fine, and so are my legs. I didn’t hit my head either.”
I was still unconvinced. Despite my reluctance to care about any of them, his pain tugged at a few of my heartstrings. Pain he didn’t want to admit to, which made it more infuriating. I pressed my hands on his shoulders and guided him to the living room. He followed because what else could he do, push me off? That’d be a bigger scene than the fall.
When I stopped him in front of the sofas, he looked at me, moon-eyed, like a child. I couldn’t force him further and waited for him to do the right thing of his own volition.
“I’m really fine,” he said.
To that, I shook my head.
He sighed and sat down. I’d have wanted him to lie down, but this was better than nothing.
“What did you need from downstairs?”
“A can of grapefruit sparkling water,” he obediently answered.
I wasted no time in finding him his sparkling water from his corner of the fridge. I even cracked it open for him.
“Thanks, but I didn’t hurt my fingers,” he said, which triggered a burning sensation to settle on my ears.
“I know,” I replied, my voice small. “But I still don’t believe you can be fine after falling down the stairs.”
He took a mouthful of his drink before smiling smugly. That smugness didn’t come off as rude; somehow it was gentle, like he didn’t want to argue anymore, like he’d let me have this one.
I found my seat again and placed my closed laptop on my lap.
Now what? I thought when silence filled the air, save for the bubbling carbonation from his can. The otherwise small sound was amplified in my ears for lack of other sound.
“I’ll stay until I finish the can. Continue your work. Don’t let my fall slow you down,” he said, his placid voice cutting through like a crashing wave.
I’m sure he didn’t mean to be profound with his words, but my literary brain interpreted it as so. As though the consequence of his fall wasn’t mine to bear.
I gave him the same smug smile he’d given me and opened back my laptop.
Silence didn’t have to be awkward, just like conversations between strangers weren’t necessary at 3 AM. We can share a common space without the pressure to animate it.