Nestle's Point of View
"Hi, Nestle. These are the urgent tickets that need to be deployed to production by the end of the day. The client needs this as soon as possible, so you're expected to work overtime today."
My project lead said it in the same calm tone she always used—like overtime was a normal word, like it didn't mean hours stolen from someone's body and mind. We were in a meeting room again, and as always, my name was the one attached to the heaviest tasks.
I kept my smile. I really did. But I felt my eye twitch, just a little, like my face was betraying me.
Overtime?
Isn't that already our default setting?
For years, since I worked here, the only time I could go home early was during probation. Back then, they acted like they were generous. "We care about your well-being," they said. "We want you to adjust first." But once I passed and signed the papers, it was like a switch was flipped. Suddenly, my time wasn't mine anymore.
"This is noted, Miss," I answered, still smiling.
"Thank you, Nestle," she replied while scrolling her mouse wheel. Then she moved on to the next developer, assigning tasks like she was distributing snacks, not pressure.
I exhaled quietly through my nose. I didn't want to make it obvious. Thankfully, I was seated at the back of the room. If I sighed too loudly, she might hear it, and then I'd have to explain why I was tired—as if being tired wasn't already written all over my body.
Joseph, who sat beside me, lightly hit my elbow.
"Working overtime again," he whispered, still looking forward with a polite smile. "Work-life balance is truly gone in this career."
It wasn't anything new, but it still stung to hear it said out loud.
"Right," I whispered back. "But what can we do? We're slaves to money. And if we don't work, we'll get endorsed to HR."
Joseph's smile didn't change, but his eyes did. They softened, like he wanted to say something comforting but didn't know what. Because what comfort could exist here?
"Alright, thank you, guys!" our project lead said, clapping once. "Let's keep fighting!"
Keep fighting.
That phrase always made me feel like laughing and crying at the same time. Fighting who? The client? The deadlines? Or the company that kept squeezing us until there was nothing left?
We stood up, chairs scraping against the floor. Everyone slowly filed out, some already discussing tasks, others looking at their phones, and a few just quiet. Quiet people were the most tired ones. I was one of them.
Joseph stayed with me as we walked back to our desks.
"Are you not going to take a break, madam?" he asked as he followed me.
I shook my head slowly.
"Do you think I still have time?" I sighed, and my voice came out heavier than I wanted. "I have so many tasks. And mind you, Monday is two days away. I need to finish this today, or tomorrow—meaning I'll have to work overtime again on our day off. And this still needs to be tested by QA before it can be released."
I sat down at my table and opened my laptop. The familiar glow hit my eyes like a slap.
Joseph leaned against the divider between our desks, arms crossed.
"You look like you're about to crash."
"I feel like I'm about to crash," I corrected, rubbing my forehead. "But crashing isn't allowed here."
He chuckled, but it sounded tired too.
I stared at my screen and pulled up the tickets. One after another. The list felt endless. And the worst part wasn't even the work itself.
I liked coding.
I liked solving problems, finding the bug, fixing it, seeing everything run smoothly.
But here… here it never ended. Every solved task just opened two more. Every "urgent" ticket became the new normal. Every overtime became expected. And even when they said it was "paid," it didn't feel paid. Because what they really paid was the money, not the life you lost.
Hours passed in a blur.
Keyboard clicks. Coffee sips. A few messages from QA. A few calls with the team. The air in the office always felt cold, like it was designed to keep us awake even when our bodies begged to sleep.
Around lunch, I ate quickly at my desk. I didn't even taste the food. I just chewed while reading logs, while checking scripts, while replying to messages. My back started to ache, and the ache became a dull companion.
By afternoon, my eyes felt dry. I blinked more often. I kept scrolling, kept coding, kept testing.
The more tired I got, the more I started making small mistakes.
A missing semicolon. A wrong variable name. A logic I had to re-read twice because my brain was slowing down.
I fixed them, of course. I always fixed them. That was what I did.
It was what they expected me to do.
At around four, my stomach dropped. It wasn't because of a bug. It was because my project lead sent a message.
PL: "Nestle, remind you again: need deploy before end of day. Make sure no issue."
I stared at it for a few seconds.
No "please."
No "are you okay?"
Just a reminder. Like I was a machine and my purpose was deployment.
I replied anyway.
Me: "Noted, Miss. Working on it."
I hated how automatic my replies had become. Like my soul wasn't even involved anymore.
By five, the office lighting looked harsher. People were getting restless. The usual overtime atmosphere was starting to settle in. I could feel it. The quiet tension. The stretching of shoulders. The deep breaths.
Someone behind me sighed loudly.
Someone else said, "Here we go again."
And I was already preparing myself mentally. I was already thinking: Okay, Nestle, you'll be home late again. You'll eat late. You'll sleep late. You'll wake up tired again.
Then my computer pinged.
A message from HR.
At first, I thought it was another memo. Another reminder about "timekeeping" or "proper attire" or "please don't use the pantry too long." Something small and annoying.
But when I opened it, I froze.
HR Announcement: "NO OVERTIME PERMITTED TODAY. There will be an inspection in the building. All employees must leave on time."
For a second, I didn't move.
Then my chest felt light. So light that I almost didn't recognize it.
No overtime.
Today.
My lips parted as if I wanted to say something, but nothing came out. I just stared at the screen again to make sure I wasn't imagining it.
Joseph leaned over from the side.
"What?" he asked.
I pointed at the announcement.
His eyebrows lifted. "No OT? For real?"
I nodded slowly, then suddenly felt my mouth curve into a genuine smile—one that didn't hurt my face.
"Finally," I whispered.
People around us started murmuring. You could hear little sounds of relief, like the whole office was exhaling at the same time.
"Oh my God, I can go home."
"I can actually eat dinner properly."
"I can sleep early for once."
It was strange how something so normal—going home on time—felt like winning a prize.
I hurried. Not in a panicked way, but in an excited way. I saved my work, sent my quick updates, and made sure nothing would break. Some of the tickets weren't finished, but HR's announcement was HR's announcement. Even my project lead couldn't argue with an inspection.
My project lead passed by my desk, and for the first time, she didn't say anything about overtime. She just looked tense, like the inspection was her problem now, not mine.
I packed my bag and stood up.
As I walked out of the office, I felt like a bird escaping a cage—except the bird was exhausted, half-featherless, and still needed sleep.
Outside, the evening air hit my face. The sky was turning darker. The city lights were coming alive.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt… happy.
Not big happy. Not "life is amazing" happy.
Just… light.
Like my heart could breathe.
On the way home, I watched people in the jeepney and the sidewalks. Some were laughing. Some were holding hands. Some were carrying groceries. Some were just walking, looking tired but still free.
I wondered what it felt like to live a life where time wasn't constantly borrowed.
When I arrived home, I didn't waste a second.
I dropped my bag gently, kicked my shoes off, and went straight to the bathroom.
I took a half bath—quick but enough to wash the day off my skin. Warm water ran down my shoulders, and for a moment, I just stood there, eyes closed, letting it flow.
I imagined it washing away the stress, the pressure, the annoying messages, the deadlines.
Of course, it didn't really wash them away. Not completely.
But it helped.
After that, I ate.
Not in front of a laptop this time.
Just food. Just chewing. Just being.
I felt the warmth in my stomach and realized how long it had been since I ate without rushing. Even the simplest things felt like luxuries now.
When I finished, I went to my bed and sank into it like it was the softest thing in the world.
My body instantly relaxed.
My muscles felt heavy, but in a good way. Like they were finally allowed to stop pretending they were okay.
I reached for my phone.
The screen lit up, bright in the dim room.
I scrolled mindlessly for a while—social media, random posts, stories, videos. My eyes were tired, but my brain still wasn't ready to sleep. It was like my mind had been trained to stay alert all the time, even when my body begged for rest.
Then I paused.
What should I read?
That question came naturally. Reading had always been my escape. Even when life was exhausting, stories felt like a small door I could open to breathe.
I opened my reading app and scanned through my library.
Romance.
Fantasy.
Drama.
Revenge.
I didn't know what I wanted. I just wanted something that would pull me away from my real world.
And then I saw it.
"The Heroine's Love."
I blinked. The title looked familiar, like something I had heard people mention before. Maybe it was trending. Maybe it was popular. Maybe I had even seen edits of it online.
Curious, I clicked it.
I read the synopsis.
A heroine loved by everyone. A prince. A villainess who always interfered. A love story full of pain and jealousy and misunderstandings.
It sounded like a typical story.
But for some reason, that made it perfect. I didn't want something complicated tonight. I just wanted something easy.
So I started reading.
At first, it was fine.
The writing was simple. The scenes moved quickly. The heroine was sweet. The prince was charming. The story flowed like water.
I kept reading.
Chapter after chapter.
Minutes turned into hours without me noticing.
And slowly… my eyebrows started to knit together.
Because the villainess—Eudora Novania—kept showing up.
And every time she showed up, she did something that made no sense.
She insulted the heroine. She embarrassed her in front of people. She made petty moves that only made her look worse. She acted like she had no brain, like she didn't know her actions were leading her to ruin.
I clenched my jaw.
"What are you doing?" I whispered at my phone.
I kept reading, hoping it would get better.
But it didn't.
Eudora kept messing with the heroine.
Again and again.
Like her whole life purpose was to ruin someone else's happiness.
And every time she did it, she lost more respect, more allies, more dignity.
I felt my irritation rise.
Not because the heroine was suffering—okay, that too—but because Eudora's actions felt stupid. Like the author needed a villainess to create drama, so they just forced her into it.
I sat up, blanket sliding down my lap.
"Why?" I muttered. "Why are you doing that?"
It felt personal in a way I didn't expect.
Maybe because… I knew what it felt like to work hard and still be misunderstood.
Maybe because I knew what it felt like to be blamed.
Maybe because I hated unfairness.
And this story felt unfair to the villainess too—not because she was innocent, but because she was written like a tool. Like she wasn't a person.
I kept reading anyway, because I wanted answers.
I wanted to see if Eudora would change.
If she would wake up.
If she would stop and think.
But chapter after chapter, she kept chasing the prince like he was the only thing that mattered.
She kept fighting the heroine like the heroine was stealing something that belonged to her.
And every time, she lost.
By the time I reached the last chapter available, my eyes burned and my head ached a little.
Still, I read it.
The final scene ended on a cliffhanger.
One line glowed on my screen like it was talking directly to me.
"If you were the villainess, what will you do?"
I stared at it.
For a moment, the room felt too quiet.
The question wasn't just a question. It felt like a challenge. Like the story was mocking me, asking if I could do better.
I scoffed.
"If I were the villainess?" I repeated softly.
Then I answered out loud, like the words needed to leave my mouth to be real.
"Why would I even mess with the heroine's life for a man?" I said, my voice low but firm. "She already has everything. She should enjoy herself with luxury."
I took a breath, feeling my frustration spill out, but it wasn't angry anymore. It was honest.
"If only I had her life," I continued, "I wouldn't lift a finger. I'd spend my time traveling, shopping, and enhancing my skills so I could be suitable as an heir. She's more powerful than that prince anyway."
I finished, then laughed quietly to myself.
Because it was true.
If I had power, money, influence, beauty—why would I throw it away for a man who couldn't even choose properly?
Why would I ruin my own life just to prove I loved someone?
My eyes felt heavy.
I sank back into my pillow, still holding my phone.
The screen was still bright, but my eyelids were starting to drop.
I was so tired. The kind of tired that sat deep in your bones. The kind that didn't go away with one early dismissal. The kind you carry after years of pushing yourself.
My breathing slowed.
My grip on the phone loosened.
And just before I fully drifted off, my phone suddenly lit up in a way that wasn't normal.
Not just the screen brightness.
It was like the light was… different.
I forced my eyes open a little.
A panel appeared on the screen.
Not an app.
Not a message.
A panel—floating, glowing, like it didn't belong in my world.
Words formed in front of my eyes.
"Great choice! Entering The Heroine's Love… good luck."
My heart jerked.
I sat up halfway, blinking hard.
"What…?" I whispered.
The panel stayed.
The room felt colder.
My phone's glow spilled onto my hands, and for a second, it looked like the light was reaching past the screen—like it was trying to touch me.
I swallowed.
This had to be a dream.
I had to be dreaming.
But my chest was tight. My hands felt real. My breath felt real.
I tried to move my phone away, but my body suddenly felt heavy again, heavier than before, like sleep was grabbing me by the shoulders.
"No," I murmured, panic creeping in. "Wait—"
The panel flickered once.
Then the light grew brighter.
Too bright.
My eyes squeezed shut.
And my last thought before everything went dark was simple, clear, and terrified:
What did I just agree to?