# Thirty-Two Missed Calls
At 3:14 in the morning, Isabel woke up to thirty-two missed calls from her younger brother. Her stomach dropped instantly. No one calls thirty-two times unless something terrible happened. Hands shaking, she called back immediately. The line rang twice before her brother answered crying. “Ate…” Everything after that became noise. Hospital. Motorcycle accident. Critical. Come quickly. By 4AM, Isabel was inside a Grab speeding through empty Manila streets while wearing yesterday’s oversized shirt and slippers she forgot to change out of. The entire ride felt unreal. Streetlights blurred past the windows while her mind kept replaying one horrible thought over and over: She ignored the calls. Because she was asleep. Because she was tired. Because she silenced her phone after another exhausting shift at work. When Isabel arrived at the hospital, her brother was sitting outside the emergency room covered in dried blood that was not his. “Mama’s inside,” he whispered. Those words changed everything. Their mother survived. Barely. Broken ribs. Head trauma. Months of recovery ahead. The driver who hit her was drunk and wealthy enough to make the case disappear quietly. “Mag-usap nalang tayo,” their lawyer later suggested carefully. “Mahabang laban ‘to pag tinuloy.” Isabel wanted to scream. But rage is expensive when you are poor. So instead, she started working two jobs. Morning office work at a logistics company. Nighttime online customer service for Australian clients. Four hours of sleep became normal. Coffee replaced proper meals. Her body constantly felt seconds away from shutting down. Still, it was never enough. Hospital bills multiplied faster than salaries. Medicine prices climbed weekly. Collectors called nonstop. Meanwhile her younger brother stopped attending school quietly because somebody had to stay beside their mother during therapy sessions. One night, after a sixteen-hour workday, Isabel sat outside the hospital stairwell eating crackers for dinner when someone suddenly sat beside her. “You’re gonna faint eventually.” She looked up, irritated immediately. The guy beside her wore navy-blue scrubs and looked around her age. Dark circles under his eyes. ID hanging loosely around his neck. “I’m okay,” she answered automatically. He glanced at the untouched crackers in her hand. “Sure.” Normally Isabel hated strangers talking to her. But exhaustion weakens pride. “I said okay nga.” “And I said mukha kang mamamatay.” Despite herself, she laughed shortly. The guy offered his hand casually. “Gab.” “Isabel.” “Bantay ng patient?” “Anak.” He nodded once like he suddenly understood everything. After that night, she started seeing him everywhere. Sleeping awkwardly in hospital chairs during breaks. Drinking vending machine coffee at impossible hours. Walking through hallways carrying exhaustion like second skin. Gab was a resident doctor. Twenty-nine. Chronically sleep-deprived. Apparently incapable of minding his own business. Somehow he always appeared whenever Isabel looked closest to collapsing. Once he caught her sleeping outside the ICU and silently placed a bottled water beside her before leaving. Another time he found her crying alone in the pharmacy hallway after learning another surgery was needed. He sat beside her quietly and said the worst possible thing: “Pagod ka na no?” And just like that, Isabel cried harder. Because everyone kept asking if she was strong enough. Nobody asked if she was tired. Months passed. Her mother slowly improved. Debt continued growing. Life remained painfully difficult. Still, somewhere between hospital corridors and 2AM coffees, Gab became part of her routine. Not romantic immediately. Just familiar. Safe. The kind of person who remembered whether you already ate. The kind who noticed when your smile looked forced. One rainy evening, Isabel finally asked the question that had bothered her for weeks. “Bakit parang lagi ka ring pagod?” Gab laughed softly at that. “Because I am.” But later that night, while sharing instant noodles beside the hospital vending machines, he finally told her the truth. He used to be engaged. Wedding planned. Future prepared. Everything stable. Until his fiancée died from leukemia six months before the wedding. “I became a doctor because of her,” he admitted quietly. “Tapos hindi ko rin siya nasave.” Isabel did not know what to say after that. Because grief recognizes grief immediately. And suddenly she understood the sadness behind his kindness. Gab spent his life trying to save people because he failed once. After that conversation, something changed between them. Not dramatic. Just deeper. They started waiting for each other unconsciously during late nights. Gab began bringing extra coffee without asking what she wanted. Isabel started smiling more without noticing. For the first time in nearly a year, life no longer felt entirely hopeless. Then one morning, after finally being discharged from the hospital, Isabel’s mother asked quietly while fixing her blanket inside the taxi: “Sino yung doctor na laging nakatingin sayo?” Isabel laughed immediately. “Wala yun.” But her mother smiled knowingly. “Mukha kang humihinga ulit kapag kasama mo siya.” That terrified Isabel more than it should have. Because she realized it was true. Somewhere between the hospital bills, sleepless nights, and thirty-two missed calls that ruined her life, she accidentally met someone who made surviving feel slightly less lonely. And after months of only living from emergency to emergency, that kind of softness almost felt impossible to trust.