I hated schools the most.

  I’d been having the most splendid dream about my crush—hands down the most beautiful girl in that boring school—when an earthquake jolted me awake. It wasn’t a destructive one, but it was enough to spring me out of bed and make my knees wobble.

  Earthquakes had been happening a lot recently here in Cebu.

  They made me anxious, which wasn’t surprising since I always had a knack for overthinking. A paranoid part of me had always feared the world might end at any moment. Combined with being overly sentimental and sensitive, it painted a pretty accurate picture of who I was. People could have judged me, but really, they couldn’t. They hadn’t lived my life, so how could they?

  If you did know me, though, there was one thing you’d always remember: I was lazy. Proudly, undeniably lazy. Procrastination was practically my trademark. It was a title I had begrudgingly earned and somewhat embraced. My friends, of course, capitalized on it by calling me Josh the Lazy Bum. I didn’t love the nickname, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

  I didn’t see it as a problem. I liked taking things slow. Rushing through life wasn’t my style. To me, everything would happen in its own time, so why hurry?

  But that earthquake? It sent my adrenaline into overdrive—faster than I’d ever been rejected by any of the girls I’d confessed to. Panicked, I stormed into my parents’ room to wake them up. Normally, they wouldn’t have appreciated the intrusion—they were the kind of lovey-dovey couple who valued their privacy. But this was an emergency.

  Thankfully, the quake stopped after a few seconds, and all our worries evaporated. It was a Sunday morning in January, and tomorrow was the first day of school in 2020. Just the thought of it felt like someone had dumped a sack of bricks on my shoulders.

  School was grueling—worse than any manual labor, at least in my mind.

  I had a great Christmas break, and I wasn’t ready to give it up yet. There were still beaches to visit, mountains to climb, and hours of pointless chitchat with friends to enjoy. If there was one thing I wasn’t lazy about, it was traveling.

  But here was the twist you probably didn’t see coming: I wasn’t a student.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  I was a teacher.

  And that gave me even more reasons to hate schools.

  When I was younger, I swore I’d never end up in a classroom again after graduation. I wanted to be an architect, but my family wasn’t financially well-off—architecture wasn’t cheap. So, I had to settle for a more affordable career path.

  That was how I ended up here.

  To my surprise, I discovered a passion for teaching somewhere along the way. I even started enjoying it—most of the time. Sure, there were regrets, but I wasn’t about to let them stop me. And, well, there was another reason I stayed in the profession. You probably guessed it by now.

  Still, I despised doing lesson plans. The way we did them didn’t even make sense to me: It was more of a log of what had already happened than an actual plan. I preferred spontaneity in my teaching, tailoring activities to my students’ needs and the resources at hand. Planning things out just felt like a waste of time.

  Or maybe I was just too lazy to do lesson plans in the first place.

  I knew I’d have to work on my laziness if I wanted to keep enjoying this job.

  Of course, if life had gone differently, I might’ve changed careers two years ago. A friend, Jef, once offered to cover my tuition at Cebu Engineering and Architectural Arts University. I was tempted to accept, but Jef wasn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill generous guy.

  He had a reputation. His “help” always came with a price. He was known for dating guys, and another friend told me he had his eye on me. Jef was a good friend, but I’d never thought about him—or any guy—that way. Besides, I already liked someone else.

  Speaking of which, there was something I hadn’t told you yet. A secret.

  It was not one of those lame secrets from movies or books. This one was bigger. Way bigger. It was so big you probably wouldn’t believe me. And that was fine. No one else would either.

  Ready? Well, here: I could imagine things into existence.

  Yes, really. Whatever I pictured in my mind became real.

  It was okay if you didn’t believe me. Even I had trouble believing it sometimes. It only happened once—on my seventeenth birthday.

  It started with a cake. My friends barged into my room, singing an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” while one of them, Freddy, tried to pour flour on my head. I didn’t even think about it—I just imagined the flour turning into flowers.

  And it worked.

  When Freddy let the flour loose, it transformed into an explosion of colorful blooms. My bed was covered in flowers, and everyone was stunned. Then, they laughed, assuming it was just one of my magic tricks. I laughed, too, but deep down, I knew something incredible had happened.

  I tried to make it happen again, but nothing worked. It was a one-time thing—or so it seemed.

  No one knew about this. After all, who’d believe me?