Two Hundred Pesos and Empty Promises
The first thing Lia noticed about the café was how small it was. Not cozy small like the ones people posted on Instagram with warm lighting and peaceful music. This one was cramped. Seven employees squeezed behind a counter barely big enough for three people, all trying to survive rush hours while pretending the stress was manageable. The coffee shop had only been open for a little over a month in Calamba, Laguna. New enough that the paint still smelled fresh near the storage area. New enough that customers kept entering out of curiosity. The owner loved bragging about how “successful” the business was becoming online. But the employees knew the truth. The café survived because students were desperate enough to accept almost anything. Lia and her boyfriend, Nico, started working there during their second year in college. At first, it felt exciting. Their schedules matched. They got to see each other after classes. They imagined cute little moments together while working part-time like the couples in movies. Reality looked different. Their agreed salary was two hundred pesos for four hours. No benefits. No proper break. No overtime pay even when shifts stretched into eight or nine exhausting hours because somebody else became unavailable. Still, they endured it because everyone around them was struggling too. The other employees were students too. Bea from nursing who secretly cried in the restroom whenever grades came out. Jolo who pretended he was okay despite constantly worrying about tuition fees. The twins who worked alternating schedules because one of them always needed to stay home and watch their younger siblings. They were all tired in similar ways. Some nights after closing, they stayed outside the café eating instant noodles from a nearby convenience store because nobody had enough energy or money left for anything else. Those became Lia’s favorite moments somehow. Not because life was easy. But because suffering together made things feel lighter. Then problems inside the café slowly became impossible to ignore. Delayed salaries. Longer hours. Broken promises. The owner kept saying things like, “Konting tiis lang muna habang lumalaki business.” But the business was growing while the employees remained exhausted and underpaid. One by one, frustration started showing on everyone’s faces. Until finally, near the end of April, the five employees who had been there before Lia and Nico made a decision quietly among themselves. They would leave after getting their salaries. Lia still remembered that night clearly. The café had already closed. Chairs were upside down on tables while the espresso machine made low humming sounds in the background. Bea stared at the counter silently before speaking. “Hindi na worth it.” Nobody argued. Because deep down, everyone already knew. The others left exactly as planned after payday. No dramatic confrontation. No shouting. Just resignation messages and tired faces walking away one by one. Suddenly the café felt emptier. Only Lia and Nico remained. At first they tried convincing themselves things would improve. Maybe the owner would finally hire properly. Maybe the workload would become manageable again. Instead, everything became worse. They handled nearly everything alone now. Opening shifts. Closing shifts. Inventory. Cleaning. Rush hours. There were days Lia attended college classes running on barely three hours of sleep because she closed the café the night before and opened it again the next morning. Nico started becoming quieter too. The playful boyfriend she used to laugh with behind the counter slowly disappeared beneath exhaustion. Small arguments became frequent. Tiny misunderstandings suddenly turned into full fights because both of them were emotionally drained all the time. One rainy evening, while wiping tables after closing, Lia suddenly burst into tears without warning. Not because customers were rude. Not because work was difficult. But because she realized she was becoming miserable somewhere she once thought would make her happy. Nico stood there frozen while rain hammered outside the glass windows. Then softly he asked, “Hanggang kailan tayo ganito?” Lia had no answer. Because that was the terrifying thing about survival. Sometimes people become so focused on enduring that they forget to ask whether the suffering is still worth it. A week later, Nico resigned first. Lia got angry at him initially. She accused him of abandoning her there alone. But the truth was deeper than that. She envied him. Because he became brave enough to leave first. The following days inside the café felt unbearable after that. Customers still entered happily ordering drinks while Lia silently calculated whether her salary would even cover transportation and school expenses that week. Then one afternoon, during a particularly busy shift, the owner casually mentioned expanding the café soon. Lia looked around the tiny coffee shop. At the broken equipment. At the overflowing trash bins. At her own tired reflection against the coffee machine. And suddenly something inside her snapped quietly. That night she submitted her resignation too. The owner looked annoyed more than surprised. “Sayang. Kala ko loyal ka.” Lia almost laughed hearing that. Because loyalty means nothing when people are already destroying themselves just to survive your business. Years later, Lia would still pass by that same coffee shop sometimes. Different employees. Different aesthetic. Different menu. Customers sitting inside would probably never realize how many exhausted students once sacrificed sleep, health, and peace inside that tiny café just to keep it running during its first months. But Lia remembered. And maybe that experience taught her one of adulthood’s hardest lessons: Just because you can endure something does not mean you should stay there forever.