Have good results (website traffic increased 4x), multiple projects running, just fresh out of my busiest week.

Then I got an email on a Saturday, sent while I was asleep, saying they are ending the engagement. I asked for a reason, no email yet.

I can't fucking do this. I have a son needing therapy.

What do I do now?

Anyone up for a chat (kahit sa Reddit lang)? The timing was so awful. My wife and son are outside.

(Reposted. I accidentally posted using a traceable account earlier.)

It is the most serene afternoon. The tea feels warm and comforting while I watch the pink petals fall down from the tree. Then I see it out of the corner of my eye.

An orange blur of claws and swords shoots like a firecracker. Only the firecracker is aimed at me instead of the sky.

I only have a teapot to block with but I do so skillfully thanks to my late master who taught me the mystic art of blocking using teapots.

I ask the terrifying beast who are you.

He says I killed his master Shadow Paw. A dun-dun fills the air. I did not kill that dark phantom. I simply avoided walking under ladders.

I open my mouth to pacify my newfound enemy.

But the assault resumes before I can talk. A whirlwind of fleas and shuriken. I use my table as a shield and throw it back at him. He obliterates it in just one powerful strike.

He declares he won't hold back and poses like a bodhisattva on lotus. He produces a glock and aims it at my brain.

But I am more prepared than he is. I have a secret weapon.

I dive to my side and point my weapon at the wall, and he gets distracted by his arch enemy — The Red Firefly Who Can't Be Caught. He lunges at the vile thing.

I point my weapon at the fence. As he leaps, I punch him with the strength of a mochi baker.

Darn you Red Firefly! I hear as I watch the orange dot get smaller in the sky.

You just finished an all-nighter. Seven hundred ten inspired words. You decide to play a round or two of Fall Guys.

You click the icon, but accidentally drag it to a folder. You don't remember this particular folder. It's just named "dead."

You double-click it to retrieve your game, and your monitor expands. The next thing you see is a landscape. A half-tone orange sunset, gilding the mountains, a waterfall made of beautiful words, a cascading deluge of purple into the abyss. Birds with no color sing broken songs, like you don't know where the notes begin or end.

A woman, with a piercing green eye, thin mouth, no nose, and hair, greets you. Half of her face is covered in a satin shawl. She is smiling, but there is no joy in her expression.

"Do you remember me?" she asks in a garbled voice, like it cannot decide whether it is high-pitched or contralto. Her question isn't accusing. It is curious.

"No," you answer truthfully.

She just nods and tells you to follow her.

You walk. That's when you realize you're barefoot. Each step on the discolored grass feels like crumpled paper. You walk behind her for a long time. It rains em-dashes. "We're almost there," she says, and somehow her voice has become clearer. She points to a cave where two figures hunch over a campfire by the mouth.

As you get nearer, the first thing you notice is the fire. Static and unmoving, unnatural. You cannot fathom a fire like that. A fire should move and flicker, swaying with the wind and dancing with the hands that warm over it. And suddenly, it does.

You step over some twigs, and they snap. The two turn their heads towards you.

One of them is a toddler, in a midnight blue pirate costume, carrying a bag of... You don't know what. But you know it's something, because it bulges the net. He doesn't have a mouth, but you know he is happy to see you because he runs and hugs you by the waist.

"Guess who finally decided to show up. Do you even know who he is? Who am I? Who's that lady who brought you here?" The old man's voice is stern and curt, and he doesn't look at you. He’s in a wheelchair, and you remember.

"You're blind," you tell him.

"And nameless." Unlike the woman, there's a wound in his words. "Banished to this damned place because you couldn't find me a name."

He was supposed to give Orion the Flame, but you scrapped him in favor of a Vestal. Orion carried on with his adventure and even won you an award at your university.

"You dropped me for another nameless soul, that Vestal." You watch him stretch his hands over the fire.

You try to approach the old man, but you feel a tug on your shirt. The little boy is grunting and pointing at his loot bag. Inside are blobs of nothing.

And you remember him, too. He was riding his father's shoulders, happily dancing. But you couldn't imagine what his laugh would look like, so a little girl in a pink tutu replaced him. His net bag was supposed to be full of golden chocolate coins.

You bury your face in your hands. "I'm sorry," you say. "I didn't know."

That's when you feel another tug, and the boy is offering you a chocolate coin from his bag. You nod, and he peels it for you. You take it and eat, and watch him run around, jiggling the bag that now glints in the fire's light.

"Find us a home," the woman says, hoarse but much clearer now. The wind blows on her scarf, and you see the other half of her face. Nothing. You worked on her face for weeks, a face so beautiful a church would canonize her, but you just couldn't find the words.

Your hands cover your face again. "Yes, yes, I will. Again, I'm so sorry."

And when you look up at her, you're facing your computer again, staring at a bunch of text, passages, descriptions, and characters.

You don't feel like gaming anymore. You open Google Docs and begin to type.

"You just finished an all-nighter..."

Every afternoon, when my friends and I came home from school, we always ran into Manok. He didn’t really look like a chicken, but that’s what we got used to calling him ever since we heard Ryan’s dad call him “chicken feet.”

“Manok, manok, bok bok bok,” we would tease whenever we saw him flying a kite. “A grown up that thinks he’s a kid!” Ryan would add with a laugh. Then we would laugh along. Manok would just smile, which made his flat face and upward-slanting eyes even more ridiculous.

We grew up, got married, and had successful careers. During a visit, Ryan broke the news. “Manok is dead,” he said while handing me a shot glass.

“Why? What happened?” I replied, downing the whiskey. Bitter.

“Some teenagers beat him up last month,” Ryan said. “The neighbor saw it. They were mocking him between hits. Bok bok bok,” he added, and smacked his toddler’s head for helping himself to the chips.