The sun hadn't fully risen, and the air still carried the cool, hesitant breath of night. Joni walked along the quiet streets toward the rural health unit, her backpack tugging at one shoulder, shoes pinching just enough to remind her they existed. The road smelled faintly of wet earth, of dust settling under the first light. She kept her hands in her pockets for warmth, though the chill was fading, and the city was beginning to stir quietly around her.
For the first time in days, she didn't feel completely drained. Almost six hours of sleep had done this. That alone felt like a small victory. The sky was clear, without the weight of clouds that had marked the past week. For a few fragile moments, she allowed herself to think the day might not be terrible.
Inside the clinic, everything felt familiar. The midwife nodded at her as she entered, her smile tired but warm. Joni claimed her usual corner, the one used as a makeshift station, and began laying out the tools of the day: blood pressure cuffs, charts, pens aligned with precise care. Her hands moved automatically, sorting the weight slips, double-checking the forms. Muscle memory carried her through the motions, even as her thoughts hovered at the edge, unspoken.
She noticed a small crack in the wall near the weighing scale. Nothing significant, just a chipped piece of paint. She smoothed her gaze over it like it could absorb her attention, distract her from the quiet unease she couldn't name. It was a minor act of control in a world that had lately felt too big, too fast.
And then the door swung open.
Not the slow push of a patient coming in, not the confident stride of a barangay health worker. It burst open with energy, laughter, nerves, and the bright, impatient rhythm of youth.
A group of senior high students entered, about ten in number. Their uniforms were fresh and crisp, their hair neatly combed, their eyes wide and alert, taking in everything at once. They clustered near the doorway, whispering, clutching small notebooks and pens as if they were lifelines. The CI greeted the midwife with her usual practiced warmth.
"Work immersion po," she said, and Joni felt the words settle in her chest. "They'll be observing today."
For a moment, she froze, a detail passing too quickly to register at first: she had been them once. Seventeen, eager, unsure, notebook in hand, standing exactly where they now were. She remembered complaining that morning to her best friend over the phone: Ang aga-aga, para lang sa immersion. Six a.m. was punishment disguised as responsibility. And yet, the thrill of tying a blood pressure cuff for the first time had felt like magic. She had felt so adult, so competent, and yet so clueless all at once.
Now, her hands moved as if nothing had happened. She rearranged the pens, adjusted a chart, checked the weight slip again. The students followed their CI through the orientation, and Joni watched from across the room, the memory pressing against her chest like a stone. One girl's eyes shone with excitement, the other fidgeted nervously with her scrubs, tugging at them until the edges sat perfectly. Joni's heart clenched quietly.
Her hands worked, but her mind had left the clinic entirely. It had drifted years backward to the girl who had worn the same uniform, who had felt the same nervous thrill, who had believed, for a brief, fragile moment, that this was simple, that it was safe, that it mattered.
The calm she had carried with her that morning had evaporated. The quiet certainty of routine could no longer hold her. She was back in the collision between past and present, between who she had been and who she had become.
Joni breathed slowly, in and out, letting her chest rise and fall in the rhythm she remembered from years of exhaustion and practice. She straightened a stack of forms again, not because it needed to be perfect, but because it gave her something to do while her mind untangled itself.
She didn't know if she was stronger now or just… smaller, hollowed out by the endless rhythm of expectations and sleepless nights. The bright, nervous students reminded her of the girl she had lost somewhere along the way. And a part of her wanted to warn them, shake them, tell them to run while they still could.
But she didn't.
She stayed silent, observed, moved through the motions, and remained present, as she had learned to do over and over again. For now, that had to be enough.