It happened on a Thursday night.
I was heading to work after class—tired, hungry, and sleep-deprived—but pushing through, like always.
Until I didn't.
I blacked out just outside my office building.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. White lights. An IV in my arm. My father sitting beside me, his hands trembling as he held mine.
Dad (softly): "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Me (weakly): "I'm okay now, Dad. Don't worry."
A few minutes later, a doctor walked in, his expression serious, clipboard in hand.
Doctor: "You collapsed from exhaustion. Your immune system is dangerously low. How many hours of sleep do you get per day?"
Me: "Two... sometimes less. I study at night and work after class."
The doctor frowned.
Doctor: "That's not sustainable. You need rest—real rest. Either your job or your studies have to go. Your body can't take this much longer."
My father looked at me, guilt written all over his face.
Dad: "You don't have to carry everything on your own. Let me handle things this time."
But I couldn't afford to stop—not school, not work. I had no backup plan.
Me: "I'll figure something out, Doc. I promise I'll make a decision."
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I already knew I wasn't going to stop either one.
This was my dream. My duty. My fight.
A few weeks later, my vacation leave was finally approved—three precious days of freedom.
I slept. I ate properly. I caught up on lectures and reviews with my circle.
Krisia: "Hey! Look who's glowing again!"
Joy: "Let's not quiz you yet. You're still on recovery mode!"
Me (laughing): "Deal. No brain work for 24 hours."
For the first time in a long while, I wasn't a student on autopilot. I was just... me.
Tired, but proud. And alive.
Three days came and went like a breath. And when Monday arrived, reality hit me harder than my alarm clock.
Back to 6 a.m. lectures. Back to sprinting to my shift. Back to the endless cycle.
But something was different.
Maybe it was the way my father checked in on me every night, even if I got home past midnight.
Maybe it was the way my friends refused to let me eat lunch alone anymore.
Or maybe it was the memory of that hospital bed—the reminder that I wasn't invincible, no matter how hard I tried to pretend.
Still, the bills didn't care about my health. The tuition didn't slow down for my exhaustion.
So, I kept going.
This time, though, I carried more than just my bag and my books.
I carried the quiet promise I made to myself that night in the hospital.
To endure.
To survive.
But also... to live.
Weeks passed in a blur of lectures, group projects, and reportings. My body was still holding up.
For the first time in months, I felt... fine. No fevers. No migraines. No sudden chest pains.
And I had my new circle to thank for that.
They reminded me every single day that I was more than just a student or a worker—I was a person worth caring for.
Krisia: "Andrei, you're eating with us. No excuses."
Me: "But I have work in—"
Joy: "Sit. Down. The food's already here."
Me (laughing): "Fine, fine. You guys are impossible."
For two weeks, I lived like that—balanced, almost peaceful.
But reality has a way of catching up.
My budget was running low again. The kind of low that made my wallet feel lighter than my textbook.
So, I told myself it was time to pick up more shifts.
Me: "Guys, I have to report to work tonight."
Cleayay: "Again? You've been doing so well lately."
Me: "I know... but the bills won't pay themselves."
Christ: "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"
Me: "Always."
It was a good run—two weeks without breaking down, without feeling like I was one step away from another hospital bed.
And I was grateful for it.
Grateful for the people who reminded me that my health, my happiness, and my self mattered just as much as my grades and paycheck.
