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Patricia rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh, right, how could I forget? Your moral support was invaluable. I couldn't have done it without your commentary."

Alfred and Francheska were switching places; like clockwork, their movements were practiced, like they had done it for years; every time Patricia's presence lingered nearby, they instinctively adjusted their eyes, darting to ensure that their secrecy remained exclusive and no one could hear them.

Patricia is already noticing them, but all she could think was her birthday this February 16th and how their subtle glances are making her feel a mixed emotion inside her, happy that she thinks that they remember her as a friend, but on the other hand, a feeling of gut-churning sensing there's something they are not telling her, and they are excluding her from their plans.

She smiled faintly to herself at the thought: Her friends care. They care. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag as she walked past them, while forcing a smile for her, appreciating the nature, the achievements she did for the school as re-elected student council and most voted.

 "I don't care now if I would have a bad day today, all I care was appreciating what god has given to me to appreciate 24/7 that he also gave to people who deserve it and to those don't deserve it"

She's observing the Tarpaulin that is made by her team, thanking everything that she has achieved or made is her achievements every single day as well as long as the students would benefit on it. She smiles warmly to herself before moving forward on walking to her office.

Her office wasn't grand but it has its charm—a modest room tucked away at the corner of the building, sunlight bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through slatted blinds.

A desk that's not that large but enough to hold space A sleek, black pen holder sat at one corner, its contents neatly arranged, and a notebook with faintly scribbled plans and sketches lay open in the middle. Beside it, an old but reliable laptop hummed quietly, patched with a few custom stickers—a rooster emblem, a constellation, and a print that says.

"Adapt. Improvise. Overcome."

The walls were a muted gray, but Patricia had added her own touch: a single, framed photograph of her and her team during a school cleanup drive, a pinned map of the school grounds annotated with colorful sticky notes, and a small corkboard cluttered with neatly arranged reminders and to-do lists. One corner of the board held a cluster of seemingly random objects—small metal trinkets, a keychain with a crescent moon, and a tiny screwdriver set—as if she liked to keep her hands busy during quiet moments.

The chair she sat on wasn't anything fancy—just a standard monoblack-- but Patricia had adjusted it to her liking. She leaned back slightly, legs crossed, radiating a calm authority that didn't need to be loud to be noticed.

Patricia's head on the other hand is resting on her four arms, sleeping on her desk as task awaits her this afternoon.

"The donation box is fixed but the donations weren't there"

Patricia gazes at the yellow sticky note she's holding that is stacked on her desk randomly, she sighs unable to find the senior who stole it. Adds stress into her plate at all, since no one could admit who stole it from the higher ups, and they won't find the ones who stole it at all.

A random student was brought to her office with the faculty, she sigh and sit back while observing the scenario in front of her.

"Ma'am, shouldn't this be the guidance counselor's responsibility and not ours?" Patricia asked with a hint of confusion, her tone calm and straightforward as she casually brushed it off.

"How much do you need?" Patricia asked abruptly in a firm tone, leaving everyone flabbergasted by her straightforwardness.

 "Excuse me? How dare you try to buy me, do you know who my father is?" he snapped.

Patricia nodded calmly and responded in a defiant tone, "Yes, I do know your father, he's a famous celebrity. But did you know what that donation box is for?" he replied.

"Yeah!" Patricia replied back, her voice rising with conviction. "It's FOR THE POOR! POOR STUDENTS who need lunch money and money for school supplies. It's donated by random students with good hearts and SOULS!" She paused for a moment, tilting her head up, her expression firm and serious. "Now, how much do you want?"

He shot back, "Typical of someone born into a political family! You just want people to beg for their own money so you can keep playing your re-election game! Am I wrong, Trish?"

Patricia narrowed her eyes, her expression unwavering. "Is that what you think?" she asked coolly, her voice dropping to a calm but firm tone. "You think people are giving out of selfish motives, just to stay in power? Let me tell you something, it's not about politics. It's about helping those who can't help themselves. You don't get to twist that into something it's not. But go ahead, keep believing whatever suits you."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp. "And just so we're clear, it's Patricia, not 'Trish.'" He chuckled mischievously.

"You know what? I don't even know why I am here for a reason! You can't blame anyone because you have no one else to blame for and CALL IT A DAY"

He left with the teachers, heading to the guidance office for further questioning, while Patricia stayed at her desk. Her fingers lazily tapped the edge of her papers, a pile of responsibilities waiting to be tackled. She exhaled sharply, her brain swimming in fatigue. She still had essays to write on that cursed intermediate paper, its cheap texture only adding to her irritation.

Her lips quirked into a dry smirk as a thought crossed her mind. "I could just lie and say my dog ate it..." She paused, furrowing her brow. "But I don't have a dog."

She let the thought hang there for a second, amused at her own ridiculousness. With a shrug, she straightened the papers in her hand. "Guess it's just me and this crappy paper, huh?"

Patricia always stuck between her plates Her world spun on an unpredictable axis, her intentions as clean as spring water, yet the faces at her feast blurred into shadows., she gaslights herself that they are being genuine, that their hands don't have knives beneath the tablecloth. They eat on the fruits of labor she grown, each bite was a silent theft of her trust she so desperately wanted to believe in.

She smiled happily as they appreciate the dinner she serves for her friends; to Alfred and her team.

Yet, as the dinner continued, Patricia couldn't help but wonder: was she the guest or merely the meal?