Entry XXI: Snake
There are days when you just know, from the moment you wake up, that something doesn't feel right. And yet, you get up anyway, brush off the feeling, and move along with the day, hoping it would get better. This was one of those days.
It began earlier in the week, when Jillian announced in our group chat that EDSA, the Engineering Department Student Association, would be collecting contributions from each student. She said she would be the one collecting from our class, BSCE 1-Roebling. I took note of it. I always do. I try to stay ahead of these things, knowing that, as Class Mayor, my responsibilities demand that I model discipline and punctuality.
The deadline for the contribution fell on a Saturday. Ironically, that weekend, we didn't have any ROTC class, which was rare. You would think that a free Saturday would mean peace of mind or at least a moment to breathe. But that week? It was anything but peaceful.
Assignments piled up like bricks on my shoulders. Left and right, I was again buried in mayoral duties: collecting submissions, listing attendance, compiling missing outputs, communicating with professors about students' absences and reasons, constantly chasing deadlines not only for myself but for everyone. I found myself staying up late again, not for Netflix or scrolling through social media, but to answer queries from classmates, to organize files, to report to faculty. I had accepted this role wholeheartedly. I wasn't complaining about the work. I just never thought doing what was right would sometimes make me look wrong in other people's eyes.
Then came Saturday.
There were still seven of us left who hadn't paid our contribution, including me. Determined to get it over with, I woke up early, dressed neatly, and headed to the university. I was set to look for Jillian and hand her my payment personally.
Unfortunately, the internet signal at the College of Engineering building was as bad as ever. I couldn't get a stable connection, and messages weren't going through. I walked around, checking the usual hangouts, peering into classrooms, but I couldn't find Jillian anywhere. Time was slipping from my hands. I had a very important matter to attend to at Nueva Sevilla and couldn't afford to waste more of it.
That's when I spotted someone who could help—a higher officer, the treasurer of the Civil Engineering Organization. Without hesitation, I respectfully handed her my contribution, making sure she knew which class I was from. She acknowledged it, and I felt a wave of relief.
I got home and immediately updated our group chat. I informed everyone, especially Jillian, that I had paid directly to the treasurer. I thought that would be the end of it. A simple update. A job done.
But I was wrong.
Jillian didn't seem relieved. Instead, she appeared... appalled. Then came Alvis, our Class Auditor. His messages hit like bullets. Cold. Sharp. Unforgiving. He scolded me, accused me of being irresponsible and uncooperative. He painted me as if I was the villain in some tragic narrative. The mayor who went rogue.
I tried to explain myself—how the poor signal hampered communication, how I had a time-sensitive agenda, how I made sure the payment was properly handed over to a recognized officer. But Alvis didn't want to hear it. To him, I was just a liar. An immature class mayor who broke the sacred chain of command.
What hurt most was not just the scolding, but the silence of the others.
Some of my classmates, I could feel it, they wanted to speak up. I saw it in the way their messages trailed off. I felt it in their hesitations. But Alvis' loudness drowned out their quiet support. Jillian then added fuel to the fire, suggesting that perhaps it was time for a reelection of class officers. She said other sections were doing the same, that maybe it was time for a "fresh start."
Then, one by one, their supporters emerged from the shadows. Bryan, Jerry, Asher, John Patrick, Summer. People I had laughed with, helped during hell weeks, stayed up with to meet deadlines. They supported the motion, casually, almost as if they weren't betraying anyone. They spoke of it like it was just an administrative matter, a simple update. But for me, it was a dagger to the heart.
I had worked tirelessly for this class. Waking up early, staying up late, sacrificing my own comfort and peace of mind to make sure others were okay. I carried burdens that weren't mine, answered questions late at night that others could've easily Googled. I did it all because I believed that a leader must serve, must carry the heaviest load without showing pain.
But now I was being told that I wasn't enough.
And it was there, in that moment, staring at my phone screen, watching the thread fill with support for the reelection, that I felt something heavy in my chest. A pressure I couldn't name. Was it disappointment? Betrayal? Sadness? Maybe it was all of them. I didn't cry. I couldn't. Not yet. But I felt a crack, an invisible one that only I could sense.
Maybe Alvis was right.
Maybe I wasn't mature enough for this role. Maybe being kind and helpful wasn't enough anymore. Maybe being a class mayor in this environment required something else—a kind of loud, brash confidence that I didn't have.
I wanted to say something, to defend myself properly. But the chat moved so fast, the decisions seemed to have been made already. My voice felt like a whisper in a thunderstorm. A whisper nobody cared to hear.
After everything, I sat on my bed, numb. I stared at the wall, questioning everything.
Was all of it worth it?
Was sacrificing my time, my energy, my peace worth this kind of treatment?
Is this how they saw me?
Did my title mean so little, that with one misunderstanding, they would rally against me like this?
These thoughts raced through my mind until exhaustion took over. I lay down, my phone beside me, the last messages still visible, the sting of rejection fresh in my heart.
But even now, despite all this, I find it difficult to hate them. Maybe because I still care. Maybe because I still love this class in a strange way.
Even when the room turns against you, it's hard to stop being the one who cared first.
And so I write this tonight, not to declare the end of my time, not to admit defeat, but to let out the storm building inside me.
Maybe the reelection will happen.
Maybe someone else will take this role.
But what no one can ever take from me is the fact that I gave everything. I led not for recognition or praise, but because I believed in service. I believed in showing up. I believed in caring, even when it was inconvenient.
No matter what happens next, I will carry that belief with me.
That will always be mine.
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and then Add to home screen.