If I spoke about it, if I finally did, what would I tell you? Would I recount the time the sky turned gray? Or describe the market, fresh from the smell of dried fish? Or would I tell you about the little prince who spent his childhood among strangers? Perhaps I would just warn you. For this was not a fairy tale story. But rather a tale of love and loss. — Once upon a time, there was a 12-year-old boy named Ato. Every morning, at exactly six o'clock, Ato walked five miles to the public market. The weave of the bilao he carried bit into his small arms, leaving red marks in his tender skin. As soon as the unmistakable scent of dried fish hit him, the little prince wore his innocent smile and raised his voice for all the strangers to notice. “Banana cue! Turon!” he shouted until the coins dragged his pockets down, hopefully enough to feed his family for one more day. Ato returned home right before the clock struck 12. “How much did you earn today, anak?” his mother asked softly. “Around two hundred pesos, Ma. Enough for today's meal, I guess.” His mother nodded gently. “What about the allowance of your two older sisters?” Her hands trembled as she wiped the kitchen table, exhaustion worn on her face. “We'll make it work,” he said. But every night, the little prince would always cry himself to sleep, praying for some things to change. The next morning proved no different whatsoever. It was six o'clock again, so Ato began the five-mile walk to the market. Except that when he passed by the neighbourhood playground, his friends were there playing joyfully. “Ato! Come play a game of patintero with us!” they shouted at him. His eyes sparkled, and for a second, his feet moved on their own towards them. But his fingers tightened against the woven bilao on his arms. “Maybe next time, guys.” Ato forced a smile before walking away. That next time never came. Until one cloudy morning, at six o'clock, the loud shattering glass tore Ato from his sleep. His knees were trembling as he darted towards their living room. The closer he got, the clearer the smell of cheap gin became. “Where's the goddamn money?!” his father shouted, towering over his mother. Before his father's fist could find a target, Ato emptied his pockets and handed the crumpled bills he had earned the day before. “PUTANGINA!” His father snatched the money from Ato's tiny hands before aggressively slamming the door shut. Seven years passed and mornings remained the same for Ato who became 19. He earned admission to his dream university and thought that his fairy tale was about to begin. Until his mother sat beside him one evening. “We can't afford it,” she whispered to Ato. “Your two older sisters should finish college first.” Ato felt silly, what was he even thinking? He looked down on his arms, a little bigger than before, but still the same ones that were expected to carry bilao, and not notebooks. So instead of fantasizing those impossible dreams. The little prince just worked harder and harder until everything finally exploded on a perfectly ordinary morning. At six o'clock, his mother entered Ato's room with the same demand on her lips. “Anak, your sisters need their allowance.” These exact words hung in the air, slowly suffocating Ato. His throat began to tighten. And before Ato realized it, words were already coming out of his mouth. “I am the youngest, Ma. Why am I the one growing old so everyone else can live?!” Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was anger. Or maybe his resentment toward the family he carried since childhood can no longer be bottled up. “It's for the family, anak.” Ato looked down to the invisible red marks on his arms that suddenly felt piercing in his skin, in his once-gentle heart. “If I do this any longer, there will be nothing left for me.” Ato turned his back to hide the tears falling from his face. Because for the first time in his life, he chose himself before anyone else. Some months later, Ato began doing something that once felt impossible. He started saving his hard-earned money. Not all of it, but enough to remind him that he existed too. And when the alarm rang at six o'clock again, Ato would smile before opening his eyes. With a plain black bag on his back and a tidied university uniform brushing against his arms, Ato felt his chest lighten. Perhaps, this time around, he could love himself better. — If I told you about that little prince, what would I say? That he lost his childhood? Yes. That he believed in fairy tales? Possibly. But I would also tell you this: Even after life stole nearly everything away from him, it never managed to steal his hope. For dreams are patient and stubborn. And when his heart is finally ready to dream again. Perhaps, at long last, he lived happily ever after.