Nothing beats the thrill of crossing the road as cars dart toward you. Pedestrian lanes exist, and flyovers promise a safer path, but sometimes the lure of fewer steps—and the gamble of saving a few seconds—might be the key to beating that race with time. Life expectancy might drop to fifty, but as they say, “time is of the essence.” So, to chase the seconds, feet pounding against the odds, and to run, is not out of recklessness, but out of necessity.

Hurrying down the busy streets became my forte, and huddling into the cramped space of the bus is a skill of mine. 13C is now my newfound favorite number and letter combination, and who would’ve thought that either arriving early or late to a jeepney would still cost me my time? Then, traffic seems to be Cebu’s staple cuisine—served hot under the sun, with a side of exhaustion, and the aroma of dust particles and exhaust just perfectly fuses into a unique perfume that greets my nostrils each morning (and yet, I still forget to bring a mask). I have also mastered the art of sleeping on the bus and waking up only when I arrive at my stop.

So far, triumph has been on my side, and no late records have walked my attendance since. But even in victory, the race never ends.

Two months into college, and there has never been a morning when I did not rush. Every day, I race against time, and it has always been that way. I’m either rushing, behind, or late. But lateness is more than missing the clock—it’s an echo of how I move through life.

I always thought I had lots of time left.

Whether it is meeting someone at a certain hour or a deadline for a certain task, I stall, I stop, I take those few extra five minutes of sleep, or maybe ten. I move as if time will wait, like the next jeepney or the next class. But it never does. And then I arrive late. I’ve missed the moment. I’ve missed the goal. Because time moves, quietly and endlessly, and sometimes I wonder if I’ve spent too long in the rush that I’ve forgotten how to simply arrive.

I take time for granted, as if it’s mine to pause.

 Maybe being late is my way of measuring time—not by minutes, but by moments missed. I run through life thinking I’ll catch up someday, forgetting that maybe the point was never to be on time, but to arrive when I’m meant to. I can’t imagine the countless possibilities my life could’ve been, the life I dreamed of.  If I had just moved that day and used time to my favor, would things have ended up differently?

Being late has somehow become my identity.

I have lived the majority of my existence arriving late for something. Or maybe I’m always late because I’m afraid of being early. To be early means to wait, and waiting means you care. And caring—well, that’s the most vulnerable thing of all. To care is to expose yourself to disappointment and shame, to hope that someone or something meets you halfway. So instead, I run. I rush. I tell myself I’m just beating the clock when really, I’m running from what it means to truly show up.

And because I’m getting late, I rush. And I regret.

Nothing beats the sound of regret—the bell ringing, car horns never-ending, hurried footsteps running, and the jeepney’s fading engine, along with my panting breath. It’s the chorus of every morning I’ve lived, the soundtrack of running late once again. I have gotten so used to the rhythm of rushing, always chasing seconds that slip away into time.

But if there’s one thing college has taught me, it’s that tardiness always comes with a price. Not just missing an exam, or being marked as absent in your attendance, but when you arrive late in life, there may be no other chances to salvage what was now over and gone. Time does not pity nor stop for compassion, it will always move, with or without you. And amidst the preface of my college years, I have finally begun to understand that the race was never against time—it was always against myself. To conquer idleness, procrastination, and dismay. To beat the face of drowsiness, to move faster than my excuses, and to show up no matter the uncertainties and fears. Because, maybe the real way to beat tardiness isn’t to run faster, but to start caring enough to arrive.