Entry XVIII: A Glitch in the Matrix
Monday arrived with the same noise, the same hum of fans, the same shuffling of paper and footsteps on tiled classroom floors. But beneath the usual rhythm of the day, I could sense something else—a strange shift. It was as if the commotion that happened the day before never took place, erased from the consciousness of about 75% of my classmates. It was both relieving and frustrating at the same time.
Some classmates still greeted me kindly, smiling at me with that usual morning cheerfulness. That gave me a little bit of relief, knowing that not everyone carried over the tension from the GC incident. I still did my part, like always. When someone ran out of paper, I reached into my bag without hesitation. When someone needed an extra ballpen or a ruler, I handed mine over. I knew I could easily choose to isolate myself, to avoid eye contact and pretend I wasn't there—but that's not who I am. That wasn't what being class mayor meant to me.
Then came Tuesday morning. We were in the middle of drawing our technical illustrations, the smell of graphite and erasers in the air. Our pencils danced across the paper while the ticking of the wall clock reminded us of the time. Suddenly, Engr. Cornelio walked in.
"Oh, just continue what you are doing," he said casually, smiling. "I only need to ask something real quick."
He walked towards the podium and then, raising his voice slightly, asked, "Who wants to be a contender for Mr. and Ms. Engineering?"
The classroom fell into silence for a beat, before a few of my classmates broke into loud laughter and started calling my name. "Mayor! Mayor! Mayor!" they chanted like a choir.
I tried to sink into my seat. I shook my head quickly, smiling awkwardly, waving them off. There was no way I was doing that. But they kept cheering, louder this time, trying to coax me into standing. I couldn't help but laugh nervously as I shook my hand in decline.
"No thanks," I mouthed.
Engr. Cornelio eventually turned to another classmate, Asher. "How about you?" he asked.
Asher nodded, a little smug but confident. "Sure, sir."
Then Jillian, our class treasurer, raised her hand for the female category.
I watched quietly as the two were selected. I said to them, "Make a stand for BSCE 1-Roebling!". And then, the whole class cheers.
But I had other things to worry about. I needed to collect all the technical drawings before noon and submit them to the faculty office. I walked around, gathering each work, careful not to damage the edges. It had become a routine, but I knew these little tasks were the backbone of the class. Someone had to do them, and most of the time, that someone was me.
A week passed.
That's when I started hearing whispers.
"Jillian's now part of EDSA," someone mentioned in passing. "Commission on Collectives or something."
"Did you hear? Jeffrey and Alvis got into the CE Organization."
At first, I didn't react. I thought, "Good for them." But as more names got added to the growing list of student leaders and officers around me, a dull ache began to form in my chest. It wasn't jealousy, not entirely. It was... doubt.
How should I even address them now? They had official seats in larger organizations—positions that carried more influence, more connections. Would they still listen to me as class mayor? Would they still recognize my authority or leadership? I wondered.
What position is really higher? The mayor of a class? Or a member of EDSA? Of the CE Organization?
I knew the question wasn't supposed to matter. Leadership isn't always a hierarchy; sometimes, it's a shared effort. But I couldn't help but feel small, overshadowed by their new titles.
Then Sunday came.
Jillian forwarded an announcement from EDSA directly into the class group chat. It was relevant, yes. But I paused.
Shouldn't they have sent it to me first?
Wasn't it protocol for organizational announcements to pass through the class mayor before being shared to everyone?
I tried to tell myself it was fine. "Maybe she just wanted to be efficient," I reasoned. "Maybe it was urgent."
Still, the doubt lingered.
Then came the worst part.
She changed the group chat photo.
The old logo I designed, simple but made with intention—a plain orange background, a bold black gear in the middle, and "CE 1-Roebling" proudly in the center—was gone. Replaced by something glossier, more modern, more... fitting, I guess. But it wasn't mine. It wasn't ours. It didn't feel like us.
And I wasn't even asked about it.
That was when I started doubting my worth again.
Was I just a placeholder? A temporary figurehead until someone else came to take over? I wasn't in EDSA. I wasn't part of any grand committee or council. Just a class mayor—a role whose significance seemed to shrink by the day.
But despite all these doubts, despite the fading logo, despite being overlooked in decisions and skipped in announcements, I reminded myself of one thing: My duty.
My role here as class mayor is to protect and support my classmates.
To help them when they're in need. To ensure that no one feels left out. To keep the class united, even when circumstances threaten to tear it apart. That's what I signed up for, whether or not I get the recognition.
Then, as if the universe could feel my sinking morale, I received a message.
It was from Robin Valerio, the Senator of the College of Engineering.
He addressed me warmly, acknowledging my role as mayor. We talked for a while. He told me that he, too, was once a class mayor. He shared his struggles—of being overlooked, of doubting himself, of pushing through despite the emotional toll.
He told me, "Leadership is not about the title you carry. It's about the heart you put into it."
That hit deep.
Robin told me he admired what I'd been doing, even if not everyone sees it. He promised his support, and that he would help me whenever I needed guidance.
And just like that, he sparked a light inside me again.
Maybe I'm not in those big councils. Maybe I don't hold the highest titles or design the trendiest GC logos. But I hold something else: the trust of those who come to me for help, the quiet nods of thanks from those I assist, the subtle gratitude in the eyes of classmates I hand papers to.
Robin reminded me that leadership is not about being loud, or being everywhere, or holding every possible position. Sometimes, the strongest leaders are the ones who remain in the background, who patch the leaks before anyone notices, who hold the pieces together while others shine.
I might have felt disappointed. I might have doubted myself. But in the end, I remembered my purpose.
And I choose to keep going.
I choose to serve. To care. To lead.
Because even if the world forgets the orange background with the black gear, I won't forget who I am:
The class mayor of BSCE 1-Roebling.
And I will bring color again to this title, no matter what.
Because color, after all, isn't found in positions or in logos. It's in the heart of those who serve.
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and then Add to home screen.