The Circle We Keep

Prologue: The Breaking Point

In structural engineering, every beam has a maximum limit—a precise, calculated threshold of force it can sustain before it yields. Engineers call it the ultimate load capacity. You design for it, calculate for it, and reinforce against it.

They don't teach you what happens when the load isn't made of concrete or steel, but of expectations, unsaid words, and choices you never planned to make.

The storm outside my window matched the turbulence inside the building. The ambient sound of rain mixed with the rhythmic, relentless ticking of the clock on the wall—counting down the hours to a deadline that felt less like an academic requirement and more like an impending collapse.

"This freaking pen..." I hissed as I threw it across the room.

*someone knocks*

"Irene...it's already past your bedtime. I hope you're now preparing to rest?" I heard my mom spoke, "You should've done that earlier."

I took a sharp breath, closing my eyes tight until tiny white specks bloomed behind my eyelids. One, two, three. I forced my shoulders down, swallowing the sharp retort that bubbled in my throat.

It was always like this. As if time was a luxury I had somehow wasted, rather than a resource greedily consumed by endless problem sets, shear and moment diagrams, and the sheer effort of keeping my head above water. She didn't see the hours spent staring at a single equation until the numbers lost all meaning. She only saw the late clock.

"I'm almost done, Ma," I called out, forcing my voice to sound smooth, level, and entirely devoid of the storm brewing inside me. "Just wrapping up a few more calculations. I'll head to sleep soon."

I listened through the thick wood of the door until the faint rustle of her slippers faded down the hallway.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. I walked over to where my pen had landed near the foot of the bed, picking it up with a hollow sigh. The plastic casing had cracked down the middle—a micro-fracture under sudden impact.

How poetic.

Returning to the desk, I stared down at the scattered reviewers and testpapers. But as I picked up a fresh pencil and pressed the lead to paper, my fingers trembled just enough to ruin a straight line.

You can calculate the stress on a frame down to the exact kilonewton, but you can never predict the moment a heart decides to buckle under the strain. And right now, sitting in the quiet dark of my room, I wasn't sure which would fail first—my structural analysis exam, or me.

*phone buzz*

I looked at my phone that rests at the top of my bed.

Well, maybe I do need a rest.

I saw Jepoy's text that says...

"Nagreview kana tol?"

I let out a soft, dry laugh through my nose, staring at the glowing screen.

Leave it to Jepoy to drop a text like that at two in the morning, blissfully oblivious to the absolute war zone on my desk.

I sank back onto the edge of the mattress, the springs squeaking softly in the quiet room. The fatigue hit me all at once—a heavy, dull ache settling deep into my shoulders and behind my eyes.

I picked up the phone and typed back, my thumb hovering over the screen.

"Review? Tol, mas nauuna pang mag-yield 'tong utak ko kesa sa beam na cina-calculate ko."

A second later, the typing dots popped up immediately.

"HAHAHA GAGO SAME. Di ko pa rin ma-gets 'yung shear and moment diagram sa problem 3. Gising ka pa?"

I looked back at my desk—the cracked pen lying near the trash bin, the smudged tracing paper, and the mountain of reviewer sheets waiting to be memorized. For the first time all night, the oppressive weight in my chest eased just a tiny fraction.

"Gising pa," I replied, letting out a long, slow breath as I leaned my head back against the wall. "Halika, sagutan natin. Para kahit bumagsak tayo, may kasama."

I stared at his text message for a long moment, the dim blue glow illuminated the shadows under my eyes.

They call it Civil Engineering—the art of building structures meant to last a lifetime. Irony at its finest, considering I can't even see what my own future looks like, let alone predict the year I'll finally march with a diploma in hand. I didn't even know why I took this course in the first place. Was it pride? Expectations? Or just a naive belief that I was strong enough to handle the pressure?

I didn't have the answers. I had no idea what lay ahead on this path, or how many more sleepless nights it would demand from me.

But as another notification popped up from Jepoy—a chaotic voice message complaining about a load combination formula—the knot in my stomach loosened just a little. Maybe survival in this field wasn't about standing completely unyielding on your own. Maybe it was about finding the cross-bracing—the people who share the strain when the weight gets too heavy.

I set my phone face down on the nightstand, closed my eyes, and finally let out the breath I'd been holding all night.

The storm outside hadn't stopped, and the exam was still waiting for me in the morning. But for tonight, the structure held.