Entry 2 | March 6, 2025 | 7:10 AM
Here I am, in a long passenger line at the UV terminal near home. No more swearing—I was just tired last night.
At least I got enough sleep, but at the cost of my buffer time. That one hour I set aside to just exist before work? Yeah, that's gone. Now, instead of settling in at my desk, I'm still here, stuck in line, hoping I make it on time.
It's hot. Humid. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel ten times heavier. The terminal's not packed, but the line is long. Some people are quiet, others glued to their phones, and a few have that look—like they've got a lot on their mind. The only real sound is the low hum of engines, a constant reminder that time is moving, even if this line isn't.
I check the time. Still got a chance. If I move fast, I'll make it before 8 AM. But it's cutting close.
Also, breakfast. Do I just grab something from the canteen, or stick with what I brought? Shincup Ramyun, Nori, Wheatbread with Biscoff. Paired with Chamomile tea with milk—solid combo.
The line inches forward. I shift my bag, exhale.
Late or not late? We'll see.
The air inside the substation office smelled like coffee—my coffee, specifically. The scent clung to the room, mixing with the faint musk of old paperwork and the stale chill of the air conditioner humming above. Outside, it was different. The moment I stepped out, the thick smell of gravel, earth, and cement hit me, blending with the sharp, metallic sting of ozone whenever the high-voltage circuit breakers snapped open with an electric crack. The sound cut through the steady hum of the transformers, a reminder of how much power surged through this place.
I adjusted my hard hat, the weight familiar but slightly annoying, and pulled my navy-blue jacket tighter against the wind. The sky had darkened since this morning's unbearable heat, clouds rolling in like they couldn't decide whether to rain or just loom over us. The sun fought through in patches, making the wet spots on the ground from an earlier drizzle glisten against the dull concrete.
Sir Ed stood just outside the office doorway, arms crossed, his thick frame making the already cramped entrance feel even smaller. He was built like a wall—broad-shouldered, with a gut that showed years of both stress and good eating. His white hair and beard, slightly unkempt, made him look even more like someone who had been in the industry too long to tolerate stupidity. His thick-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose as he squinted at the folder in his hand.
Without looking up, he spoke. "You really think you can handle this, ha?" His voice carried that familiar mix of sarcasm and amusement, the kind that made you wonder if he was setting you up for a joke or a lesson.
I exhaled slowly. I already knew where this was going. Sir Ed had a way of making sure you never got too comfortable—always pushing, always testing. If he gave you an opportunity, it meant he expected something in return: results.
"Navotas-San Jose Transmission Line Project," he continued, tapping the folder against his palm. "I'm putting you on it and will be endorsing your promotion from Construction Project Engineer to Construction Senior Engineer. Handle it properly."
I blinked. Just like that? No long-winded speech? No insults about how I was still inexperienced compared to the other engineers?
"You're not gonna say anything?" He finally looked up, one bushy eyebrow raised. His deep-set eyes, sharp despite his age, searched my face like he was measuring my reaction.
I shrugged. "Just surprised, I guess."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "Anong nginingiwi ngiwi mo diyan?" he muttered, but his smirk gave him away. "You know that I would give this to you, and yet you're still surprised?!."
I snorted but said nothing. I wasn't stupid—I knew what this project meant. Handling a transmission line wasn't just about calculations and site inspections; it meant coordination, problem-solving, making sure nothing got delayed, and most of all, proving that I wasn't just some young engineer filling in a spot on the roster.
I remember the time when I was frustrated due to me being left out with the salary raise. Sir Ed leaned back against the doorframe that time, his weight causing it to creak slightly. He sighed, the kind that felt more like a warning than exhaustion. Then, in a quieter, heavier tone, he said, "Minamahal mo trabaho mo, pero di ka minamahal ng kumpanya mo."
Something about the way he said it stuck. It wasn't just a passing remark—it was a truth that I had seen time and time again. Hard work didn't always mean recognition. Skill didn't always outweigh experience. Some people stayed in the same position for years, waiting for promotions that never came, hoping their loyalty would be rewarded.
I had seen it in my seniors—the way they side-eyed me when I took on bigger responsibilities, the way they whispered "hilaw pa 'yan" behind my back. I wasn't inexperienced, but I was young. And in this field, youth often meant you had more to prove.
Sir Ed never said those things. If anything, I think I was his favorite. But the others? They made sure I knew my place.
I could see a version of my life if I had stayed. Traveling back and forth to San Jose, living inside the substation for the workweek, drinking my own brewed coffee in the office every morning, travelling to different transmission line tower locations. The sound of arcing electricity, the smell of rain on cement, the weight of my hard hat pressing against my forehead. Going home on weekends, probably taking my girlfriend out for dinner on Saturdays. Maybe, just maybe, I would have become the kind of engineer who didn't need to prove himself anymore.
Maybe.
But I left.
I left for a better position at a different department.