Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
February 23, 2026
I’m grateful for the self-control and sense of accomplishment I felt yesterday. I resisted the urge to post yet another reel in such a short span of time. Instead, I picked up On the Road and read past the 100-page mark. That alone felt like a victory—choosing depth over distraction.
My morning was productive in simple, grounding ways. I swept and mopped the floors—improvising by using my foot to guide the mop handle. I tackled the mountain of empty cardboard boxes stacked in the laundry room, flattening them and getting them ready for disposal. I washed my long-overdue blanket. I cooked. I showered. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work, and it felt good.
My only disappointment was my lack of control with carbs. I truly overdid it—bread, cookies, strawberries, and with my air-fried catfish nuggets, a full can of pork and beans. By 9:00 p.m., my blood sugar was still at 140 despite medication, when on a typical day it would be 100 or lower. That was a wake-up call. So at dinner, I avoided carbs and stuck to the remaining nuggets and fried eggs. Lesson learned—again.
I’m beginning to understand how closely my habits must align with my physical limits. Because of my blood sugar—and perhaps simply my age—I rarely sleep in one solid stretch. Instead, I break it up into segments. Around 11:00 a.m., I often start yawning heavily. Sometimes it’s sleep deprivation from the night before. Other times, it may be fluctuations in blood sugar. Either way, that wave of drowsiness affects my ability to focus on writing or reading.
In the past, I tried to override this by exercising through the fatigue. I ignored my body’s signals and paid for it later. I’ve learned that when my body asks for rest, I must rest. Yesterday was slightly different. The sleepiness felt intensified—likely driven by the spike in blood sugar. That kind of fatigue can be dangerous. Some people end up in serious medical situations when levels climb too high. I cannot afford to treat those signals lightly.
I’ve noticed a pattern. My most alert hours are right after waking—around 3:00 a.m. until about 11:00 a.m. That window is when I thrive. I meditate, garden, exercise, do household tasks, and sometimes write. By afternoon—the time I usually set aside for reading or learning—I begin to fade. I take a power nap, which typically restores me. But yesterday, after the carb overload, I slept closer to two or three hours. When I woke up, though, I was remarkably refreshed and read over 100 pages with sharp focus.
There is, however, an old habit I must guard against. In the past, I used social media to override my body’s call to rest. Reels, videos, online shopping, endless searching—anything to artificially stimulate myself and avoid sleep. I’m choosing not to live that way anymore. Life should be natural. That is one reason I retired early. I remember forcing myself to stay alert through work, constant activity, or even conversations with strangers just to avoid stillness. Those days are thankfully behind me.
Yesterday marked a return to self-control after two days of heightened social media activity. I must minimize that. I also reflected on how frequently I post compared to others. Since I’m not trying to build a massive following, there’s no need to flood multiple platforms or overwhelm friends with notifications. I realized I can turn off notifications on my Facebook page. That way, I can post without appearing as though I’m constantly seeking attention. I tested it—notifications were off, yet the reel still received views and a like within minutes. Likely followers who see it in their feed, but without blasting everyone’s email. That feels more dignified.
Last night, my brother messaged me about a former neighbor who urgently needs financial help for a medical visit. He can barely walk due to severe swelling and is reportedly suffering from prostate cancer. I remember when he was young—an only child, spoiled with every luxury. I used to envy him. Time changes everything. I’ve seen this story repeated: indulgent youth, no development of skills or education, then hardship later in life. I knew another neighbor who ended up begging in a nearby town, despite growing up in wealth. When easy money stopped flowing, there was nothing left to sustain them.
These stories are cautionary tales. I try to help quietly through my brother, but I do not see it as something to advertise. Charity should not become self-promotion or proof of reversed fortunes. That is not how the Lord calls me to act. It is not how I was shaped by the Holy Spirit.
Today’s devotional message was about faithfulness to the truth—the truth of Christ’s life, the presence of the Holy Spirit, and the promise of abundant life. Faith produces inner peace. Nothing destabilizes a person anchored in faith because he sees a rainbow despite the rain, light at the end of a dark tunnel, and an ending to every beginning—whether good or bad. Faith leads to stillness. And stillness is often found in solitude.
The truth has set me free.
Yet the world feels increasingly fragmented—divided in beliefs, traditions, attitudes, and behavior. I’ve watched these changes unfold, and I’ve been influenced at times myself. For a while, I withdrew and lived quietly, almost invisibly. Then I immersed myself in social media, becoming an enthusiastic participant. Some of my content was well received. But I eventually asked myself: Is this lasting? Will anyone return to truly know me? Or will they simply move on to the next trend?
Performance is often superficial. It projects an image meant to evoke admiration, pity, or validation. At my age, I should know better.
Sometimes I ask: What is my role now? What space do I occupy? I’m grateful to still be alive, but there are moments when sitting quietly in my small room feels almost indistinguishable from being forgotten. Why do I still seek validation when I was validated decades ago? Why try to “break into” social media as if I were young and auditioning for approval?
I believe the Lord is teaching me. I’ve reduced posting on Facebook and shifted more toward YouTube and TikTok, where responses come from strangers rather than familiar faces. Facebook is filled with old friends and acquaintances—some supportive, some curious, perhaps some quietly critical. Other platforms feel different. Responses seem more neutral, sometimes more sincere. Perhaps my content can inform or encourage someone. That possibility has justified my online presence.
But here is what stands out: I wrote this reflection effortlessly, without pause. Writing flows naturally for me. I’m rediscovering joy in reading good books and writing reviews. I maintain websites where I can express myself through blogs and reflections. Even if traffic comes from search engines or bots, the fact that my work appears in searches is enough.
Facebook analytics have humbled me. When I post my face, views increase. When I share articles, plant hobbies, or thoughts on books, interest drops. That is reality. I must accept it without resentment.
I should expect nothing beyond the simple desire to express and share. The danger lies in being influenced by the chase for likes and views as measures of worth. There is dignity in aging. Not everyone is meant to live as a public spectacle. Some thrive in that arena—the young, the exceptionally talented, the naturally entertaining. I am not that person. My calling is quieter.
So I return to writing. Social media had begun to crowd it out, but writing is what gives me joy. The Lord has equipped me—motivation, skill, even AI tools for editing and graphics. My background in IT allows me to manage websites. Everything is in place.
Now what remains is focus.
I will build my days around my natural rhythms, honor my physical limits, write during my hours of clarity, rest when my body asks, and give quietly without display.
And that is enough.
2026-02-23 12:40:33
blog
The Long, Boring Monologue of Mod’s Dreams
When Sonny woke up, Jaime was gone. So was Rene.
In their place, taped to the wall above the study table, was a small sheet of bond paper with a message written in thick black marker:
THANKS A LOT, GUYS. —Jim
Sonny smiled, rolled onto his side, and hugged his pillow. The morning air was cool. The room, for once, was quiet—much quieter than the chaos of the night before. Still, something felt different.
The faint sour smell of Jaime’s vomit lingered in the air. The drawers that had been yanked open in last night’s commotion were now neatly closed. But it was the fourth bed that caught Sonny’s attention. Once empty, it now held a trunk, a bundle of clothes, pillows, blankets, and a cardboard box filled with novels—classic titles, their spines worn from use.
The fourth roommate had finally arrived.
Sonny felt a flicker of excitement. And a cautious hope.
Maybe this one would be better than the first two. Jaime and Rene were colorful, loud, volatile—too volatile. They carried tempers like loaded guns. Sonny had imagined college roommates who were serious, studious, perhaps even refined. So far, reality had disappointed him.
From the small kitchen area came the hard dragging sound of slippers across the cement floor.
The sound reminded him of Lola Sabel.
Back home, Lola Sabel rose before dawn every single day, determined to “beat” the sunrise. Her wooden clogs were worse than an alarm clock—sharp, loud, relentless. By five in the morning she would already be sweeping, tending the firewood stove, setting water to boil. Smoke would drift through the hut, forcing Sonny to wake up whether he wanted to or not.
She believed people must rise before the sun to receive God’s morning grace—even during typhoon season when the sky stayed dark and swollen. Dawn was her sacred hour. Her shrill voice would join the roosters’ crowing, pigs’ grunting, horses’ snorting, and Sonny’s reluctant groans.
With Lola Sabel, the world felt secure in its repetition—sunrise and sunset, birth and death. A beautiful monotony. The air would be cool and damp, carrying the scent of fishpond water and wet soil.
While the rice simmered, she would step outside with a rake and sweep the yard clean of plastic wrappers, fruit peels, dried mango and guava leaves from her sari-sari store. The pile would grow like a small hill. The yard, marked with neat rake lines, would look reborn—as if its sins had been gathered and cast aside. She would burn the pile in the corner. Neighbors would gather around the small bonfire, trading stories before the day began. By sunrise, her store would be open and the village alive.
“Good morning.”
The voice startled Sonny.
His new roommate stood at the doorway, grinning from ear to ear, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.
For a moment Sonny’s vision blurred with sleep. The young man seemed almost ghostlike, emerging from the kitchen light.
“I’m Mod,” he said.
Sonny gave a drowsy salute and buried his face in his pillow again.
If Sonny was an ordinary provincial boy, Mod was even more so. Rubber slippers. Shorts obviously cut from old trousers. Hair slicked with what looked suspiciously like pomade. The very fact that he had come to Maliwalu City—worse, to the State University—dressed like this made Sonny shiver.
If Sonny, with his bell-bottoms and barrio fashion, already felt out of place at State U, how much more would this boy?
Mod moved calmly, unhurried, as though he were simply passing through. Not nervous. Not excited. Just… present. He looked around the room with dreamy eyes, as if expecting to read invisible graffiti on the walls. And yet, he had clearly cleaned the entire lodging before dawn.
“What are you taking up?” Sonny asked, mostly out of courtesy.
“Literature,” Mod replied.
Sonny instantly regretted asking.
There are people who spend their whole lives waiting for one question. And when it finally comes, they unleash years of accumulated thought.
Mod exploded into speech.
He talked as if delivering a lecture at a symposium. Sonny lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, trapped by politeness. As Mod’s voice droned on, Sonny imagined animals startled into motion above him—snakes slithering, lions pacing, tigers prowling across the ceiling. You don’t startle animals. And you don’t ask certain boys simple questions.
Mod spoke of thoughts gathered like pebbles from brooks. Thoughts formed while riding water buffalo across rice fields. Thoughts carried from muddy barangay classrooms to the concrete towers of State U.
“I’ll write about our country,” Mod declared. “I’ll write stories that come from the heart of the Filipino. Our literature today sucks.”
Sonny’s jaw dropped.
“It’s full of romantic fantasies disconnected from reality. Our nation carries billions in debt, yet our fiction parades rich lovers vacationing in Europe. It insults me. Literature should reflect its time. I can’t write about the past or the future. I can only fix today—this hour, this minute—into words.”
Sonny blinked.
“My goal is to fix time,” Mod continued. “Because tomorrow, today is forgotten.”
He went on about relevance, realism, and truth. He attacked sentimental love stories, elite historical sagas, anti-American novels, obscure poetry. He jumped from literature to film, criticizing actors with foreign features who became instant stars, filmmakers who relied on plastic fantasies, writers obsessed with prestige degrees instead of readers.
Sonny was lost. Literature? Movies? Rizal’s intestines? Tandang Sora’s sex life? A boy making love to a buffalo? A grasshopper turning into Saint Francis of Assisi?
Mod’s ideas tumbled over one another.
“I want to write about ordinary dreams of ordinary people,” he said passionately. “The youth. The streets. The church. The jeepneys. The way we talk and fight and laugh. These are beautiful.”
He spoke of aging, of using his strong arms and sharp mind before they faded. Of refusing to grow old filled with regret.
“Every day I ask myself—did I do something good? Did I write something true? There must be something good in our time. If no one sees it, I will.”
He invoked Dostoevsky, Dickens, Balzac. He compared Maliwalu to Petersburg and London in their suffering. He spoke of poverty as furnace-fire shaping gold. Of hope in hardship. Of gratitude in suffering.
Sonny’s temples throbbed.
Mod’s voice filled the small room like an overinflated balloon.
Finally, Sonny couldn’t take it anymore. He clamped his hands over his ears and shouted,
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Silence.
Mod stopped mid-sentence. He stared at Sonny, wounded but composed, then quietly turned toward the door.
Sonny sat up, exasperated.
“I just asked what your major was,” he muttered. “Wow.”
He sighed deeply.
And just like that, the fourth roommate had arrived.
2026-02-16 13:32:25
4students
Reflection2_23_26
February 23, 2026
I’m grateful for the self-control and sense of accomplishment I felt yesterday. I resisted the urge to post yet another reel in such a short span of time. Instead, I picked up On the Road and read past the 100-page mark. That alone felt like a victory—choosing depth over distraction.
My morning was productive in simple, grounding ways. I swept and mopped the floors—improvising by using my foot to guide the mop handle. I tackled the mountain of empty cardboard boxes stacked in the laundry room, flattening them and getting them ready for disposal. I washed my long-overdue blanket. I cooked. I showered. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work, and it felt good.
My only disappointment was my lack of control with carbs. I truly overdid it—bread, cookies, strawberries, and with my air-fried catfish nuggets, a full can of pork and beans. By 9:00 p.m., my blood sugar was still at 140 despite medication, when on a typical day it would be 100 or lower. That was a wake-up call. So at dinner, I avoided carbs and stuck to the remaining nuggets and fried eggs. Lesson learned—again.
I’m beginning to understand how closely my habits must align with my physical limits. Because of my blood sugar—and perhaps simply my age—I rarely sleep in one solid stretch. Instead, I break it up into segments. Around 11:00 a.m., I often start yawning heavily. Sometimes it’s sleep deprivation from the night before. Other times, it may be fluctuations in blood sugar. Either way, that wave of drowsiness affects my ability to focus on writing or reading.
In the past, I tried to override this by exercising through the fatigue. I ignored my body’s signals and paid for it later. I’ve learned that when my body asks for rest, I must rest. Yesterday was slightly different. The sleepiness felt intensified—likely driven by the spike in blood sugar. That kind of fatigue can be dangerous. Some people end up in serious medical situations when levels climb too high. I cannot afford to treat those signals lightly.
I’ve noticed a pattern. My most alert hours are right after waking—around 3:00 a.m. until about 11:00 a.m. That window is when I thrive. I meditate, garden, exercise, do household tasks, and sometimes write. By afternoon—the time I usually set aside for reading or learning—I begin to fade. I take a power nap, which typically restores me. But yesterday, after the carb overload, I slept closer to two or three hours. When I woke up, though, I was remarkably refreshed and read over 100 pages with sharp focus.
There is, however, an old habit I must guard against. In the past, I used social media to override my body’s call to rest. Reels, videos, online shopping, endless searching—anything to artificially stimulate myself and avoid sleep. I’m choosing not to live that way anymore. Life should be natural. That is one reason I retired early. I remember forcing myself to stay alert through work, constant activity, or even conversations with strangers just to avoid stillness. Those days are thankfully behind me.
Yesterday marked a return to self-control after two days of heightened social media activity. I must minimize that. I also reflected on how frequently I post compared to others. Since I’m not trying to build a massive following, there’s no need to flood multiple platforms or overwhelm friends with notifications. I realized I can turn off notifications on my Facebook page. That way, I can post without appearing as though I’m constantly seeking attention. I tested it—notifications were off, yet the reel still received views and a like within minutes. Likely followers who see it in their feed, but without blasting everyone’s email. That feels more dignified.
Last night, my brother messaged me about a former neighbor who urgently needs financial help for a medical visit. He can barely walk due to severe swelling and is reportedly suffering from prostate cancer. I remember when he was young—an only child, spoiled with every luxury. I used to envy him. Time changes everything. I’ve seen this story repeated: indulgent youth, no development of skills or education, then hardship later in life. I knew another neighbor who ended up begging in a nearby town, despite growing up in wealth. When easy money stopped flowing, there was nothing left to sustain them.
These stories are cautionary tales. I try to help quietly through my brother, but I do not see it as something to advertise. Charity should not become self-promotion or proof of reversed fortunes. That is not how the Lord calls me to act. It is not how I was shaped by the Holy Spirit.
Today’s devotional message was about faithfulness to the truth—the truth of Christ’s life, the presence of the Holy Spirit, and the promise of abundant life. Faith produces inner peace. Nothing destabilizes a person anchored in faith because he sees a rainbow despite the rain, light at the end of a dark tunnel, and an ending to every beginning—whether good or bad. Faith leads to stillness. And stillness is often found in solitude.
The truth has set me free.
Yet the world feels increasingly fragmented—divided in beliefs, traditions, attitudes, and behavior. I’ve watched these changes unfold, and I’ve been influenced at times myself. For a while, I withdrew and lived quietly, almost invisibly. Then I immersed myself in social media, becoming an enthusiastic participant. Some of my content was well received. But I eventually asked myself: Is this lasting? Will anyone return to truly know me? Or will they simply move on to the next trend?
Performance is often superficial. It projects an image meant to evoke admiration, pity, or validation. At my age, I should know better.
Sometimes I ask: What is my role now? What space do I occupy? I’m grateful to still be alive, but there are moments when sitting quietly in my small room feels almost indistinguishable from being forgotten. Why do I still seek validation when I was validated decades ago? Why try to “break into” social media as if I were young and auditioning for approval?
I believe the Lord is teaching me. I’ve reduced posting on Facebook and shifted more toward YouTube and TikTok, where responses come from strangers rather than familiar faces. Facebook is filled with old friends and acquaintances—some supportive, some curious, perhaps some quietly critical. Other platforms feel different. Responses seem more neutral, sometimes more sincere. Perhaps my content can inform or encourage someone. That possibility has justified my online presence.
But here is what stands out: I wrote this reflection effortlessly, without pause. Writing flows naturally for me. I’m rediscovering joy in reading good books and writing reviews. I maintain websites where I can express myself through blogs and reflections. Even if traffic comes from search engines or bots, the fact that my work appears in searches is enough.
Facebook analytics have humbled me. When I post my face, views increase. When I share articles, plant hobbies, or thoughts on books, interest drops. That is reality. I must accept it without resentment.
I should expect nothing beyond the simple desire to express and share. The danger lies in being influenced by the chase for likes and views as measures of worth. There is dignity in aging. Not everyone is meant to live as a public spectacle. Some thrive in that arena—the young, the exceptionally talented, the naturally entertaining. I am not that person. My calling is quieter.
So I return to writing. Social media had begun to crowd it out, but writing is what gives me joy. The Lord has equipped me—motivation, skill, even AI tools for editing and graphics. My background in IT allows me to manage websites. Everything is in place.
Now what remains is focus.
I will build my days around my natural rhythms, honor my physical limits, write during my hours of clarity, rest when my body asks, and give quietly without display.
And that is enough.
2026-02-23 12:40:33
blog
Four Students 7
The Long, Boring Monologue of Mod’s Dreams
When Sonny woke up, Jaime was gone. So was Rene.
In their place, taped to the wall above the study table, was a small sheet of bond paper with a message written in thick black marker:
THANKS A LOT, GUYS. —Jim
Sonny smiled, rolled onto his side, and hugged his pillow. The morning air was cool. The room, for once, was quiet—much quieter than the chaos of the night before. Still, something felt different.
The faint sour smell of Jaime’s vomit lingered in the air. The drawers that had been yanked open in last night’s commotion were now neatly closed. But it was the fourth bed that caught Sonny’s attention. Once empty, it now held a trunk, a bundle of clothes, pillows, blankets, and a cardboard box filled with novels—classic titles, their spines worn from use.
The fourth roommate had finally arrived.
Sonny felt a flicker of excitement. And a cautious hope.
Maybe this one would be better than the first two. Jaime and Rene were colorful, loud, volatile—too volatile. They carried tempers like loaded guns. Sonny had imagined college roommates who were serious, studious, perhaps even refined. So far, reality had disappointed him.
From the small kitchen area came the hard dragging sound of slippers across the cement floor.
The sound reminded him of Lola Sabel.
Back home, Lola Sabel rose before dawn every single day, determined to “beat” the sunrise. Her wooden clogs were worse than an alarm clock—sharp, loud, relentless. By five in the morning she would already be sweeping, tending the firewood stove, setting water to boil. Smoke would drift through the hut, forcing Sonny to wake up whether he wanted to or not.
She believed people must rise before the sun to receive God’s morning grace—even during typhoon season when the sky stayed dark and swollen. Dawn was her sacred hour. Her shrill voice would join the roosters’ crowing, pigs’ grunting, horses’ snorting, and Sonny’s reluctant groans.
With Lola Sabel, the world felt secure in its repetition—sunrise and sunset, birth and death. A beautiful monotony. The air would be cool and damp, carrying the scent of fishpond water and wet soil.
While the rice simmered, she would step outside with a rake and sweep the yard clean of plastic wrappers, fruit peels, dried mango and guava leaves from her sari-sari store. The pile would grow like a small hill. The yard, marked with neat rake lines, would look reborn—as if its sins had been gathered and cast aside. She would burn the pile in the corner. Neighbors would gather around the small bonfire, trading stories before the day began. By sunrise, her store would be open and the village alive.
“Good morning.”
The voice startled Sonny.
His new roommate stood at the doorway, grinning from ear to ear, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.
For a moment Sonny’s vision blurred with sleep. The young man seemed almost ghostlike, emerging from the kitchen light.
“I’m Mod,” he said.
Sonny gave a drowsy salute and buried his face in his pillow again.
If Sonny was an ordinary provincial boy, Mod was even more so. Rubber slippers. Shorts obviously cut from old trousers. Hair slicked with what looked suspiciously like pomade. The very fact that he had come to Maliwalu City—worse, to the State University—dressed like this made Sonny shiver.
If Sonny, with his bell-bottoms and barrio fashion, already felt out of place at State U, how much more would this boy?
Mod moved calmly, unhurried, as though he were simply passing through. Not nervous. Not excited. Just… present. He looked around the room with dreamy eyes, as if expecting to read invisible graffiti on the walls. And yet, he had clearly cleaned the entire lodging before dawn.
“What are you taking up?” Sonny asked, mostly out of courtesy.
“Literature,” Mod replied.
Sonny instantly regretted asking.
There are people who spend their whole lives waiting for one question. And when it finally comes, they unleash years of accumulated thought.
Mod exploded into speech.
He talked as if delivering a lecture at a symposium. Sonny lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, trapped by politeness. As Mod’s voice droned on, Sonny imagined animals startled into motion above him—snakes slithering, lions pacing, tigers prowling across the ceiling. You don’t startle animals. And you don’t ask certain boys simple questions.
Mod spoke of thoughts gathered like pebbles from brooks. Thoughts formed while riding water buffalo across rice fields. Thoughts carried from muddy barangay classrooms to the concrete towers of State U.
“I’ll write about our country,” Mod declared. “I’ll write stories that come from the heart of the Filipino. Our literature today sucks.”
Sonny’s jaw dropped.
“It’s full of romantic fantasies disconnected from reality. Our nation carries billions in debt, yet our fiction parades rich lovers vacationing in Europe. It insults me. Literature should reflect its time. I can’t write about the past or the future. I can only fix today—this hour, this minute—into words.”
Sonny blinked.
“My goal is to fix time,” Mod continued. “Because tomorrow, today is forgotten.”
He went on about relevance, realism, and truth. He attacked sentimental love stories, elite historical sagas, anti-American novels, obscure poetry. He jumped from literature to film, criticizing actors with foreign features who became instant stars, filmmakers who relied on plastic fantasies, writers obsessed with prestige degrees instead of readers.
Sonny was lost. Literature? Movies? Rizal’s intestines? Tandang Sora’s sex life? A boy making love to a buffalo? A grasshopper turning into Saint Francis of Assisi?
Mod’s ideas tumbled over one another.
“I want to write about ordinary dreams of ordinary people,” he said passionately. “The youth. The streets. The church. The jeepneys. The way we talk and fight and laugh. These are beautiful.”
He spoke of aging, of using his strong arms and sharp mind before they faded. Of refusing to grow old filled with regret.
“Every day I ask myself—did I do something good? Did I write something true? There must be something good in our time. If no one sees it, I will.”
He invoked Dostoevsky, Dickens, Balzac. He compared Maliwalu to Petersburg and London in their suffering. He spoke of poverty as furnace-fire shaping gold. Of hope in hardship. Of gratitude in suffering.
Sonny’s temples throbbed.
Mod’s voice filled the small room like an overinflated balloon.
Finally, Sonny couldn’t take it anymore. He clamped his hands over his ears and shouted,
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Silence.
Mod stopped mid-sentence. He stared at Sonny, wounded but composed, then quietly turned toward the door.
Sonny sat up, exasperated.
“I just asked what your major was,” he muttered. “Wow.”
He sighed deeply.
And just like that, the fourth roommate had arrived.
2026-02-16 13:32:25
4students