I am so sleep-deprived.
Not the cute kind where you yawn once and laugh about it. The real kind. The kind that makes your thoughts lag a second behind your mouth. The kind that makes the ceiling look like it's slightly spinning if you stare at it too long.
Before the interview, I thought Tito Anton would be strict. Serious. Intimidating in that quiet, professional way doctors sometimes are. I imagined short answers. Polite but distant responses. A man too busy to entertain a high school project.
But somewhere between my third and tenth question, that image slowly dissolved.
His voice softened. He lingered on details. He let small laughs slip out when he remembered something amusing. What started as a formal Q&A turned into something looser, almost nostalgic. He didn't just answer questions. He revisited memories.
Listening to him felt strangely culture-shocking. When he speaks, there is an accent folded into his words. Not exaggerated. Not forced. Just there. It is not the kind of accent you usually hear in the Philippines. There is a rounded quality to his vowels, a careful crispness to certain consonants. It makes sense, of course. He has been living in Montreal since graduating high school here. Years abroad have reshaped the rhythm of his speech. Even his pauses feel different, as if they belong somewhere colder.
Tito Anton is generations away from me. That is how distant we are. If I tried to map our family tree on paper, it would look like tangled wires. Names branching into more names, cousins connected to cousins in ways I can barely explain.
From what I know, their side of the family is based in Manila. Before the 2000s, they were one of the poorer families in the clan. Not destitute, but struggling. The kind that measures expenses carefully. The kind that counts coins.
Things changed when his cousin, Dr. Kimberly Morales, became a licensed physician in Germany. She later contributed to a successful research development project. The explanation he gave me was filled with medical terms I could barely process. Clinical trials. Collaborative institutions. Advancements that opened doors for further studies. I did not fully understand it, but I understood the outcome. Her work mattered. It created opportunities. It lifted not only her career but their family's stability.
And yet, despite all this, Tito Anton barely talked about himself.
Every time I tried to redirect the focus to him, he found a way to circle back to his family. His parents. His friends. His beloved. He spoke about them with warmth, with detail, with a tenderness that felt almost protective.
It quietly defeated the purpose of the interview.
We were supposed to highlight him.
But if there was someone he mentioned almost as much as his parents, it was Tita Kim. He spoke of her and her parents with unmistakable gratitude. He said he felt indebted to them for funding his studies abroad, even when tuition fees climbed higher each year. He remembered how Tita Kim's mother would sometimes take care of him when he was young. The way he described it, it was not just financial help. It was guidance. Shelter. A sense of being looked after.
There were moments when he paused before continuing. Not long pauses. Just enough to make me notice. Just enough to make me wonder what he was choosing not to say.
I wanted to dig deeper. I wanted to ask sharper questions.
But then he mentioned that his hospital rounds were about to begin. I heard faint background noise on his end. Footsteps. A door opening. The distant hum of what I assumed was a hospital corridor.
The call ended.
Now I am staring at the notes I scribbled down while he talked. They are squeezed into my graphing notebook, sandwiched between equations and half-solved problems. Numbers glare at me from the margins.
I cross some of them out, as if that will make them less threatening.
Numbers are terrifying.
More horrifying than supernatural entities combined.
Anyway, to put it simply, I cannot shake the feeling that Tita Kim's life story would be far more interesting to explore. No offense to Tito Anton. He is kind. He is accomplished. But the way he spoke about her did something to my curiosity.
It was not just admiration.
It was something layered.
There were hesitations when he mentioned her. A careful tone. A softness that felt heavier than nostalgia.
There is something there.
I stop twirling my red ballpen and place it on the armrest. The plastic clicks softly as it settles. I reach into my bag and rummage through it, pushing aside crumpled paper and tangled earphones until my fingers close around my phone.
I stand and walk toward Valerie.
"Hey. So… about the interview thing. I already sent the recorded call in the group chat. It's in Google Drive."
"Yeah, I know," she replies almost instantly.
Her voice sounds bored, but her eyes stay on me. Focused. Expectant.
"I'll send the transcript later, but I have a suggestion…" I trail off, suddenly unsure. I bite my lip. My thoughts feel too blunt, too unfiltered.
"You know how I interviewed my uncle, right? I did the Q&A with him and listened until like three in the morning." I exhale. "And his life is kind of boring. In my opinion. Too perfect. A bit repetitive."
The word hangs there.
"I don't think anyone wants to read something that keeps repeating itself," I add, softer this time.
Valerie tilts her head slightly. "Well, okay. But I want to read the transcript first before considering anything. I need to know what you mean by boring." She narrows her eyes at me. "And that's so mean, Jane."
I laugh, the sound thinner than I intend.
"I didn't mean it like that," I mumble. I really need to stop speaking before my brain finishes processing.
After that, I rush to work on the transcript.
Between classes, I plug in my earphones and replay sections of the recording. My timing is terrible. One teacher I expect to arrive early shows up late. Another I assume will be late walks in ahead of schedule. I keep minimizing my screen, reopening the document, pretending I was not just typing dialogue instead of reviewing notes.
By evening, the transcript looks uneven. Certain parts are clean and polished. Others are messy, rewritten multiple times. I replay short segments over and over, sometimes just a few seconds looping repeatedly until the words finally click into clarity.
My ears start to ache. My eyes burn from staring at the screen.
Still, I finish it.
I prioritize it because Valerie needs to make a decision. Maybe it shows how indecisive I am. Maybe I rely too much on other people to confirm my thoughts. But this is group work. Collaboration requires compromise.
When I finally send the document to the group chat, I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling.
The white paint looks too bright in the dim light of my room.
I wait.
I turn to my side. Then to the other. I flip my pillow to the cooler side and press my cheek against it. I check my phone.
No notification.
Eventually, I open my clock app and check the time in Montreal. I count the hour difference on my fingers, whispering the numbers quietly to myself.
The math is simple. My brain is not.
My body feels heavy. The mattress seems to pull me downward. My eyelids droop slowly, stubbornly, as if gravity has doubled just for them.
I should sleep.
I know I should.
Instead, I call Tito Anton through Messenger.
The line rings. The sound echoes into the quiet of my room.
It rings again.
And again.
Then the automated voice takes over, informing me that the person is unavailable.
I try once more, just in case.
When it fails again, guilt creeps in. I send him a quick apology in chat. I imagine how ridiculous I must look, calling repeatedly while he is clearly busy saving lives.
For a brief moment, anxiety flares. Maybe I overstepped. Maybe expecting a distant relative to understand my impulsive tendencies was unfair.
But Tito Anton is kind.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrates.
He sends a simple like emoji.
Then a short message: "I still have rounds to finish. I'll get back to you later."
I stare at the screen for a while after reading it.
And so I wait.
Even as exhaustion presses against me.
Even as my body whispers that rest would be easier.
I wait.
It's gotten quiet.
It is heavy.
It's misery.