When you live in the city, you become more and more attuned to the fact that time is always moving, or rather, that time is always there. Each person you sit next to in a bus has pages upon pages of deadlines that dictate things like when they will pass Senior High or if they will make it during a life-or-death surgical procedure.

Time ticks with every footstep that runs along with its beat. From watches to clocks, up to the bags under people's eyes—time is ever-present. That's why so many people in the city have regrets. Time is not merciful. It is objective.

Painfully so.

It does not care if you have said goodbye or held his hand last. Time will drag you politely by the throat and remind you that you only have a say in a moment—not in a lifetime.

That has been my mantra ever since I stopped putting Polaroids in my old photobook and blabbering about the different cats in our neighborhood at family dinners. You have to stay by time's side and look straight ahead to keep your wits about you. Time is not there to reminisce and reevaluate. It is there to make you move.

And as I walk around our old ancestral home a handful of times, I can safely say that the province is… a bit slower.

“Emma, dear. Did you lose something? I'm getting dizzy from watching you loop around the house like some kind of guard dog.” That’s my mother. Even without the “dear,” I know that the person currently concerned with my life choices is my mom—the low, whispery voice gives it away immediately.

“Mom, why… did you really accept dad's invitation? He hasn’t reached out to us for fourteen years now. The last time I saw him was when I was nine. Mom, I’m 23 now.”

Turning to my side, I see a woman in her late forties. Despite having dyed her hair black fairly recently, you can see traces of white peeking through. With the sun shining on her face, you can see wrinkles starting to show on her forehead and a bit on her cheeks. She is beautiful, despite the years of single parenting that are starting to show on her face. Her hair frames her face perfectly like some sort of halo. Her cheeks accentuate both her round eyes and plump lips. Her petite nose adds to her general adorableness. Time loves her. She is a testament to how time’s passing can help a rose bloom rather than wilt.

I wish every day to be like her.

And now, she chuckles as the honey of the setting sun fawns over her grace. There is a familiar hint of sadness in her eyes. It’s faint, though, and she’s somehow at peace with it.

“Blunt as ever,” she says with a laugh. “Dear, your dad is leaving for the States in a week and will probably stay there with your Aunt Marissa and Isha,” she continues, her voice almost breaking at the mention of my father's new family. Her eyes move like they're trying to find the right words. Maybe if she looks hard enough, she’ll be able to find a lie that can avoid the truth.

“It'll be the last time we'll see him, huh.” I would like to say I said that as neutrally as possible. But looking at my mother's wide eyes, I guess it was more pointed than I'd hoped.

A Mustang pulls up on the front porch. Fourteen years later, and the car hasn't changed a bit. But the man that steps out of the car has. Forget about his new ring. Forget about him having longer hair that seems more well-gelled. Forget about the way he tiptoes so unsurely, as if he doesn't know how to approach his first family. Forget about how he puts his hands in his pockets, not knowing what to do with them. This man bears no hugs to greet the girl who used to wait for him to get home, every five o’clock in the afternoon. Forget that. I don't know him and I probably won't try to, either.

I only came here for my mother, not the man who left us for the opportunity of getting his golden years back. Not the man who left us for his first love. Not the man who left his first daughter.

“Long time no see, Emy.” He greets me, adding a sigh at the end as he labors out the name. It’s like he hasn’t said it in years. Well, he hasn’t. He really hasn’t. And knowing that feels like someone is filling up my lungs with tar.

He tried to call me “Emy” like he didn’t leave us fourteen years ago. He tried to pretend like everything was fine, like he didn’t disappear from our lives without a single trace. He’s trying to walk back into our lives one last time, thinking I’ll forgive him—thinking I’ll make the stupid mistake of forgetting everything just because he called me “Emy.” Saying a nickname won’t erase the past.

My vision starts to blur and I feel my legs sway. This is what happens when you try to bypass the laws of time. This is what happens when you try to change the cogs of the grandfather clock. It stops ticking.

And like anyone trying to make up for wasted time, I run. I run to match the pace of the ticking time bomb inside of me and make a break for our old attic. No thoughts. Just the instinct of an eight-year-old kid trying to escape the sounds of screams and why’s.

“Emy!”

I close the door with a loud bang. In my panicked state, my eyes dart around and land on the old latch of the attic door still intact. Hastily, I fumble with the rusted metal and lock it from the inside. Still, my mind has one thought: I need to block the door.

Time is escaping from my grasp as their footsteps and pleas get louder. Old furniture, dollhouses, boxes, and books get moved in rapid succession. Finally, a mountain of old memories and forgotten knick-knacks barricade the door.

A few minutes pass—the doorknob jostles, accompanied by the voices from outside. The door can only creak with the weight behind it. And so, I stay safe in the confines of this dusty attic. Alone.

Then, it is quiet. The air goes still. So very still.

My shoulders sink, and it feels like time's hands are resting on my shoulders—gently urging me to move, as I am the only one who can stop this standstill. It doesn’t help, though; it just makes me fidget a bit more with each step shakier and closer to the wall of the other side of the room. It feels as if time is taking a step backwards along with me.

I am not in the city anymore, a place where time was a one-lane tunnel with only one exit. I am no longer following the ticking of the clock. In the attic of my old house, I am leading Father Time to accompany me in my downward spiral.

As I try to find a wall to stabilize my body against, the back of my foot hits something pointy. Squinting, I crouch down and feel something with a leathery exterior, with peels from what I could guess are mouse bites and old age. A brass plaque is in the center of it: “My Memory Book: Emy :D.” The “Emy” is written in permanent marker and is neater compared to the blue smiley face next to it.

I just stare at the photobook for what feels like a lifetime. From the silence of the room, I can hear the faint pacing of footsteps outside. But like in some sort of twisted joke by the almighty hourglass in the sky, I don’t think I can hear my own heartbeat. It honestly feels like I’m dead. Despite this, time and my itch for a distraction beckon me to open a portal to a life different from mine.

One flip from my shaking fingers and I am greeted by a photo with a little girl covering half the lens. Spots of pink icing are on her nose, lips, and chin. Her tongue is sticking out as she fumbles with the camera that took the picture I’m looking at now. Behind her are a man and woman, both probably in their early thirties. Despite the photo being blurry, I can make out what looks like a cake fight as the man’s face is fully covered in frosting. The woman is about to make another attack with a cake slice. Beneath the photo, the words “Happy 6th Birthday, Emy! Mom and I are proud of you <3.” are written in red pen in the same handwriting seen in the plaque on the cover. Beside it is a sticky note, explaining how half of the cake was used for an impromptu food fight instigated by the man in the picture. It is short, and the handwriting is crude, but I know that the person who wrote it poured into detailing the event to the best of their ability.

The photobook is full of these candid moments where the little girl scrambled to get the camera because something exciting or funny happened. The sticky notes are always beside the photos explaining the events that followed these moments.

I land on the last page, and it just shows the little girl and the man on what they didn’t know would be the last Father’s Day they’d spend together before their relationship, just like the picture, would be left to dust.

Finally, the tears start to pour out. So many things have changed—but nothing has changed for the better. I miss the times where writing more than one sentence in my journal didn’t feel like repeatedly ramming myself into the wall. I miss taking pictures of the most absurd things. I miss when I could still look at the past and not feel bitter or left behind. I miss when my family was still complete. I miss the little smiling girl in the picture.

Sobs rack through my body, and each minute I feel like I’m about to combust. I clutch the photobook tighter as if it’s the only thing keeping me together—the only source of comfort in this frozen picture of an era that didn’t have a sticky note to explain it. There are no notes of encouragement from Mom or Dad, just the hands of time gently placed on my shoulders. I try to shrug the feeling off. I don’t care if my hands do nothing against the limbs of something as abstract as time. I just want it to stop.

The window in the attic starts to budge. In an instant, I'm face-to-face with my past, teary-eyed and bruised. He climbs through the window and rushes to tackle me in a hug. It somehow manages to feel like the ones he gave before. Yet instead of welcoming him home, it's to say sorry in his last goodbye. I shake even more, my body urging me to break from the hold.

My father coos softly, rubbing the back of my head. “I... remember fighting with someone for that journal. I don’t remember how but you already know how I get into the most stupid things. Like... climbing the side of the house, but at least I’m here now,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“I'm really sorry. I thought that the damage had been done and I couldn't fix our family anymore. I thought you wouldn’t want to see my face ever again.” My father struggles through every word, his breath labored through the tears as we hug. He tightens the hug before pulling away and sits across me with his left hand on mine. Due to instinct, I squirm a bit from the touch. As much as I need someone to hold me right now, the man in front of me, ironically, looks edited compared to the pictures in the photobook. He pulls his hand away. There, I see eyes clouded in years of confusion and hopelessness. He's scared of the past, too.

“I've only recently realized that I always had the time to explain and ask for forgiveness. And I wanted to do it before it was too late. I wanted to be better and I knew that time was on my side, even if it was only for a short while.” As my father speaks, I am reminded of why his absence broke me so much in the first place. His voice is warm and sincere, even when he first left me and mom. He feels like one of those old sundae parlors or bakeries near the town church—sweet and full of wonder. He is a welcoming dawn. Yet, he sits here right in front of me, so small against the moonlight that shines through the window.

“Well, maybe if you had come fourteen years earlier, you could have apologized to the little girl you wronged.” Despite my eyelids starting to droop, I look at my father dead in the eyes. “I am not ‘Emy’ anymore. That girl is long gone and her relationship with her father left with her.” As my voice cracks and becomes airier, my shaking fingers put the photobook down and shove it towards my father. I pass to him the memories of another girl as a way to show him that I can't redeem this relationship. I am merely a watcher—incapable of feeling what once was.

My father stares at me then back at the book. He opens the photobook and flips through the pages, landing on a picture of an awards ceremony. It shows the little girl holding a “The Most Creative” award. She did like taking pictures.

“That's you. And that's me.” He points at the girl and the man shaking hands with the principal. He flips the page again and points out another picture. “That's you. And that's me. That's us.” And he repeats it again. And again. And again. Until he reaches the Father's Day picture. My father looks at me, tears in his eyes. He points to the pictures, then to himself and me. “That's you and me.”

“I know we've grown away from each other. But the ‘Emy’ you think you've lost is still there. You never changed yourself because you wanted to. You changed because of me and my mistakes. You're just trying to move on without the missing pieces that I stole. And that's not right.” My father's voice gets louder but it does not get more stable. Instead, it warbles even more with each “you” he cries.

“Then how can I get ‘me’ back? How can I get little Emy and her father going to the sundae parlor back? How can I get little Emy and her father chasing each other around the backyard during Saturdays back? How can I get little Emy with her father getting donuts for mom after school back? How can I get Emy and her dad back?” I shout, each question louder than the last. My despair gives my voice renewed strength before I shrink back into my sorry state.

“I'm here now. And I promise I will stay. I was scared, too. I thought I also lost my past self and trying to look for it would just be a waste of everyone else's energy. But that meant I forgot about everything my past self held dear. That meant... I forgot Emy. And I knew Emy was there and I needed to be there for her. Do you know why I knew Emy was still there?” My father asks as he nudges ever so slightly closer to me.

“Why?” I reply.

“Because Emy has always been my daughter. You will always be my daughter. No matter how much I think I've changed. No matter how much I run away from the past. She's there, broken because of me—and if I try to look for her old father, she's free to be her old self again.” He answers without any hesitation. He didn't mess up his words. There were no cracks or moments of silence. He is sure of his answer and he is going to make everyone believe in it. He knows he's in the wrong and he is not afraid to own up to it.

“You say that, but will you actually stay? Aren't you leaving for America next week?” I don't look up to him. I feel a certain sense of déjà vu. Different question yet the same feeling of broken promises and being left alone in the dark.

“I actually talked to your Aunt Marissa about it and if you would allow me, I could stay here in the Philippines until you graduate and get settled into a job. It's your last year of college before you get your bachelor's degree, after all. Isha thinks it's a good idea, too! I'll be sure to call her every day. Maybe, we can have family day calls once things get better. But know that it's up to you.” My father offers me a sad smile, still understanding the possibility of my rejection. He's not open by any means but he seems to know that boundaries need to be respected.

I sit there in silence, looking at my father. His eyes have a faint twinkle though they seem to be drooping as well. He has his hands on his lap and his feet are wiggling a bit. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s eager, exhausted, or both. Probably both. Tired but hopeful. Maybe he didn’t change that much at all.

I space out; time's hands are still on my shoulders, but rather than urging me to move, it stays there to somewhat comfort me. I feel the most at ease right now since we arrived in the province. It could be because my photobook has somehow found its way to my father's lap again. It could be me finally having the space to look around the old attic. It could be my dad saying sorry.

I'm not shaking that much right now—it's mostly just my fingers. I feel nauseous, and my head is pounding at random intervals. But for the most part, I don't feel like running away. I have the time to think because time is here, right beside me. It stays.

And maybe, other people can stay as well. Maybe, there is time for things to be better.

"We can try. Promise me you'll try, or else I won't forgive you." I look up to my dad and I see him straighten his back. He smiles—the first time I've seen him smile in fourteen years. He opens his arms and I take the invitation.

It will probably take long before I can properly forgive him, but like I said, "We can try." And as my father and I hug, I feel like this a step in the right direction.

Perhaps, Dad is right about the "old us" still being there. Perhaps, we can meet them fully in time. Seeing glimpses of them already in this moment, I feel hopeful.

In the attic, it feels like nothing’s changed except for a few sobs and hiccups here and there—memorabilia of a time found through mending and forgiveness. The girl and her father are still there. They had only been broken down and withered by time. And I now understand that the nature of time allows things like the relationship of the little girl and her father to be fixed. Because time stays, and it will always change.

The people we love stay the same. We stay the same. We only get buried in the dunes of Father Time. And with the ever-changing landscape of the clocks of the universe, there will always be a chance to dig up our old selves again. The minutes that pass shouldn’t be a point of stress and constraint, but instead, a point of betterment and evolution. Time will change around you, and will always leave a chance for self-discovery or self-betterment.

There will always be time to fix what has been broken, and to retrieve what has been lost. Because time stays, and it will always change.

After a few minutes, my father and I slowly stand up and remove the barricades in front of the attic door, poking fun at some of the relics we stumble across. Holding hands, we open the door and find my mother calmly wiping her tears with her hands. I move from my father’s side and gently wipe my mother’s tears. The faint sadness in her eyes is overwhelmed with pride and relief as she brings my hands to her cheeks. I lay my head on her shoulder while my dad pulls us into a hug. We stay like that until we decide it’s time for dinner.

At the dinner table, I blabber about nonsensical things, like the kittens I saw while walking around the house. Suddenly, my father starts crying, saying he got barbecue sauce on a bruised elbow that apparently got caught in a wire while he was climbing up the house a while ago. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to take a photo. Besides, the old photobook had a few pages to spare.

I catch a glance in the mirror, and I see my mother’s eyes in me. It dawns upon me that maybe she is time’s rose because she embraces the past as much as she does the present. Maybe I have always been loved by time, and it only took me looking back to realize.

Because time stays. And with every iteration, it bears guidance to those who traverse the sand dunes of the universal hourglass.

If I had known that was the last time, there is no doubt that I would have done so much more with you.

I would have stayed later than I usually did. I would have stayed longer in the library, maybe even chat with the librarian even though she scolded us on a daily basis for using the place to play and hang out rather than to study. I would have asked for more of those stupid, invented games, such as Dodge Rock. Whenever we played, your boisterous laughter would always accompany our games. It was infectious, I believe, because entering the hallways, I’d see others laughing along. Remember when we’d chase each other down the hallway no matter how many times a student council officer told on us, and whenever we were in the air-conditioned music room, singing enthusiastically to another song from our music teacher who had a priceless smile on her face?

I think I would have asked for more day-to-day moments like that. I would have been more selfish and asked for more time with you.

Perhaps I would have watched the sunset, too. I never thought sunsets were a big deal until now. I wonder how they would have looked in your eyes. Me? I probably wouldn’t have been able to take my eyes off of you.

But you’re no longer here, are you? You haven’t been for a while now.

Forgive me. I might be romanticizing the past, as they would say. But what are we teenagers for if not to romanticize our own experiences and memories, right?

Without any warning, your existence was replaced by a windowless urban, now often crowded and even proudly presented by businessmen in suits. But to me, they were just people who had no regard for your beauty. They didn’t see you as anything but something to demolish, something that had to go. I wonder what I would have really done, had I known this would become your fate eventually.

Today, I am still here. You aren’t. Someone could say you still are, but I no longer recognize you—if it really is you. You’re different and confusing and unfamiliar and overall a complete stranger. I don’t see how anyone could look at you and say that you are still here. But today, I put their lenses on and attempt to see for myself. Hesitantly, though. You’ve always known me for being a skeptic. After all, you were the one who taught me to be one, weren’t you?

When I walk through the quadrangle, I don’t see that familiar, stupid game of Dodge Rock. No—instead, there are students grouped together, sitting on the stone benches. Most of the benches aren’t actually occupied by that many students, but by bags that take up the seats instead.

I look around, scanning for something that could give me a sense of familiarity. Still, no sign of you. Not surprised. I sigh and almost give up… until an odd-eyed cat with white fur comes up to me. I squat down to her from a distance, not expecting anything to happen, until she rubs against my leg.

My heart feels warm.

I hear a noise from the quadrangle, and sure enough, it’s from students yelling—throwing and running around over a disc. I try to hold back a grimace because the image becomes clearer now, but I don’t see it. I don’t see you.

Then, one person falls on their butt to save the disc from touching the ground. Everyone laughs and calls their friend dumb nicknames. Soft laughter erupts somewhere else, catching my attention. It reminds me of you, somehow.

I look back at the cat, who is already looking back at me, and I notice that her eyes bore combinations of blue and green respectively in each eye. She gives me a look, as if to say, Well? I sigh and smile at her, bidding her a goodbye before getting up and entering the academic building.

There is no boisterous laughter that immediately greets me the way you did before. Instead, I am met with a teacher’s gaze, accompanied with a smile almost instantly. I return the smile a few seconds late, unable to process whatever my heart is starting to feel again.

Before I can even comprehend whatever it is, a group of students grab some guitars lying around and sit on the floor. As they strum, I recognize a few familiar songs, varying from the latest OPM to timeless, popular songs that almost everyone knows by heart. I stay nearby, in front of the Science department, as they sing loudly, some perfecting the notes and some hopelessly failing, yet all smiling at one another like they share a secret. Unconsciously, my face starts to copy theirs and a smile appears on mine, too. As if I were part of a big theatrical act, the hallway starts to fill up with another type of noise, when more students are dismissed from their classes. Their silly anecdotes from the previous classes and whatever they had watched last night join the melodies and harmonies of those sitting on the floor. Laughter—more laughter and more tunes take up the background, until there’s little room left for silence.

Ah. There you are.

There aren’t any students chasing each other down the hallway, though, nor are we in the library being nuisances to the librarians. The music room is different, too. It’s on the fourth floor now, but I think they were right. You are still here. Different, though. Good different.

In the faces of teachers who willingly give out friendly smiles, in the eyes of friendly stray cats, in the melodies and harmonies of students, and in everything else in between—there is no doubt about it. You have been here all along.

You are still here. You always have been.

One step forward, two steps back

Pulled my hair into a bun

Buried flair to be unpacked

Conclude what is left undone

Met my reflection once more

As my soul fused with the piece

Feet that used to shun the floor,

Can finally move with ease

Spinning along these gray walls

And recalling how we swayed

Feared to prance around the halls

Without an escort's embrace

Should have tried to move before

And finish the song alone

Instead, I cursed you and swore,

Heart for dancing would be thrown

Lost in your shadow’s motion

Followed every step you took

When we had our implosion,

From my groove, I was unhooked

Two steps forward, don't look back

Body's flowing with the beat

Intricate moves, I attack

Ecstatic, as I retreat

Para sa aking nakaraan,

Marahil ay nagtataka ka kung sinong nagpadala nito at hindi mo rin paniniwalaan ang mga sasabihin ko ngunit mabuti na ring aking sinubukan. Ako ay ikaw sa hinaharap. Kung tama ang aking kalkulasyon, dapat ay matatanggap mo ito sa ika-6 ng Marso, taong 2020, ang huling araw na malaya ka pang gawin ang lahat. Mula bukas ay malaki na ang mga pagbabagong haharapin mo ngunit hindi ako maaaring magsabi ng kahit na anong detalye.

Alam kong nag-aalinlangan ka ngayon dahil kung tunay ngang ako ay ikaw, masusing mga panuto dapat ang nakasaad dito dahil sigurista kang tao. Subalit, kung gagawin ko iyon ay hindi ako kailanman mabubuo. Ang prosesong pagdadaanan mo ang magpapahusay at magpapatibay sa’yo upang maabot ang posisyon ko ngayon kaya hangga’t maaari ay wala sanang pagbabagong maidulot ang sulat na ito sa mga gagawin mo sa hinaharap. Ang tanging dahilan ng paghatid ko ng mensaheng ito ay mayroon lang sana akong isang pakiusap sa’yo.

Pilitin mong tandaan ang mukha ng iyong mga kaibigan, kaklase, at mga malalapit na tao sa iyong puso. Tandaan mo kung paano sila ngumiti sa’yo, ang kanilang hagikgik sa tuwing ika’y nagbibiro, mapanudyong boses tuwing inaasar ka nila, at ang paraan ng kanilang paglalakad tuwing ika’y kanilang kasama. Pahalagahan mo ang lahat ng maliliit na bagay na nagpapaalala sa’yo kung sino sila at huwag na huwag mo itong kalilimutan. Iyan ang hindi ko nagawa noon na sana’y magawa mo upang hindi mo pagsisihan kalaunan.

Siguro’y nababalot ka na ng takot dahil sa aking mga nabanggit. Huwag kang mag-alala, hindi ka pa mamamatay. Mahaba pa ang iyong tatahaking landas at tiyak na may mga panahong panghihinaan ka ng loob ngunit alam kong hindi ka susuko. Lahat ng iyong mararanasan ay naranasan ko na at naniniwala akong kaya mo. Tatagan mo ang iyong loob at patuloy na harapin ang kinabukasan ng bawat araw.

Kung iniisip mo na kaya ko nasasabi ang mga ito ay dahil nalagpasan ko na ang lahat ng pagsubok na ating kahaharapin, nagkakamali ka. Katulad mo, ako ay nasa proseso pa rin ng pagharap sa mga hamon na hatid ng buhay ngunit masasabi ko naman na ako’y maligaya sa aking kasalukuyang sitwasyon. Hindi pa man bumabalik ang lahat sa dating kalagayan natin noon, hindi kailanman mawawala ang aking pag-asa na balang araw ay masisilayan nating muli ang liwanag na taglay ng mukha ng mga taong mahahalaga sa atin.

Bilang pagtatapos, ito lang ang aking huling paalala sa’yo. Lagi mong panghawakan na mas mabuti nang nagtapos ang masasayang araw kaysa hindi ito nangyari kailanman. Kasama talaga sa buhay ang mga hangganan ngunit mahalaga na huwag mong kalimutan ang mga nakasama mo sa paglalakbay patungo rito. Kayanin mo para sa sarili mo at para sa kanila. Kung susuko ka agad, hindi mo ako maaabutan. Sana hindi ito ang huli nating pag-uusap.

Nagmamahal, 

 Iyong hinaharap

Dearest past self,

We had always wanted to see outer space. Why? Our childhood was solitary, and so was the outside of planet Earth. We spent our younger years inside the K-2 library, as we never really made friends nor ever spoke a word to our classmates or anyone at all. And so, we were labeled a loner. No one dared to approach us. We didn't take it personally, though. Instead, we took it as a compliment, as we truly enjoyed being alone in the depths of row after row of bookshelves that we called our very own galaxy, with the books serving as the stars.

Our favorite book was the one named The Big Book of Space, containing 132 pages precisely, all about the beauty of the solar system. We read about constellations, that Halley’s Comet from 1986, space equipment, how gravity works, and space probes. Even the layers of our atmosphere and what elements it contained, which would later be useful in our higher-grade-level studies. Because of these wonders, we dreamed of becoming an astronaut—wanting to see, not just read about outer space.

And of course, this was along with wanting to look at one of the most gorgeous and breathtaking formations of gas residing millions of lightyears away—the nebula, which we later discovered cannot be seen by the naked human eye.

Moving on from that disappointment, we took the nebula as an inspiration to start drawing and painting. Our very first piece was a poorly watercoloured nebula. Despite it being crappily drawn, we were finally able to express ourselves. It may not have been with words, but drawing later opened many opportunities and experiences in our lives. The first and most memorable one was when someone decided to join us—our first friend.

They found us humorous when we decided to duck under the bulletin board of the K-2 hallways during an earthquake drill. They then attempted to become our friend by borrowing glue for an activity conducted by our teacher. And when we sat alone on the bus during the K-2 school field trip, they asked if they could sit with us, which we gladly allowed. Though, we didn't know that they wanted to be our friend—with every interaction, we only nodded, no words were spoken, and it wasn't until they asked to be, a year later when we answered with another nod, that we found out.

Eventually, we learned that they, too, enjoyed drawing, making our friendship more exciting. This common interest later became our main bonding activity. Since then, our life expanded and revolved not only around the K-2 library, but even around other beautiful planets like the multi-purpose hall where we ate lunch with our first friend, the new building's corridors where we cried and had someone to pat us back to comfort us, and Aling Norm's old selling spot in UPHS Katipunan where our first friend simply talked and told stories—unknowingly helping us form and speak words out loud. And now, instead of becoming dizzy when a stranger walks our way, or becoming a stuttering mess and just nodding when someone speaks to us, we finally have enough courage to approach and socialize with other individuals. We’ve even expanded our circle with supportive people who are genuinely ecstatic to see our drawings. All of these made us who we currently are: an artistic yet introverted and socially anxious individual.

Which makes me wonder: if given another chance, past self, what would you have done differently? Would you still have painted that piece?

Personally, I like where I am right now. Sometimes I do wish that I could interact with others easily, though I've embraced moving at our own pace.

Past self, I wish you well. Do keep in mind that things won't always turn out the way we expect, as the world works in unpredictable ways. I mean, who knew you'd turn out becoming artistic? That you'd eventually make cherished friends? That you'd finally have the courage to speak even a few words out loud? And that from becoming an unseen nebula, you'd become a brilliant supernova?

You hid in the corners of the kindergarten library, where no one ever found you despite being surrounded by glowing stars. So, keep reading, Nebula, and eventually, you'll find yourself. And when the time comes, Supernova, other stars will find you and shine with your glow.

Millions and millions of lightyears away resides an apprehensive, somehow sociable, and improving form of a human body yet to be known.

Because as much as I enjoyed our time
The past is only a part of the climb
To our great future not together
Towards things that’ll last a lifetime

But thank you my past lover
Our memories I will treasure
You’ve taught me that maybe
It’s not so bad to trust one another

have we met before?

for your eyes twinkle
a gentle shine i adore

your smile so bright,
a gentle light to my darkest lores

and your voice so heavenly,
a gentle call i can’t ignore

i want to hold your hand,
to not let go anymore

would your hand feel the same
as theirs did before?

a familiar feeling
that once led my heart to war

though now there’s nothing left
but a lovely battle scar

a great love that's been lost
no longer makes my heart sore

yet i find my thoughts drifting
back to them once more

from seeing you, stranger,
someone i thought i knew before—

wait, stranger
don’t leave, stranger

stay a while longer,

and we can talk some more
‘til our stories get worn

i can't say i know you well,
but we’ll be up ‘til dawn

learning each other’s folklores and myths
until all is said and done

you’ll say something i won't catch,
i’ll sit and stare as you ramble on

i’ll look into your eyes,
to your soul, i’d feel drawn

and just like that,
i’d feel all my worries have gone

forgive me for my daydream—
a while has passed, i’m sure

since i last saw a stranger

who shared the same soul

as the one whom i wished
had stayed for evermore

after all the dances,
their two left feet i so adored

after watching the starry skies—
even then, they shone more

being with them sent me to heaven,
the greatest blessing i could ask for

but they had to let go

and we turned into strangers,
nothing left of our adventures

so it makes me wonder

will this end up
like how it did before?

or will this be different?
is this worth fighting for?

they gave me a warmth
that made my heart leap and soar

while you give me a warmth
that comforts, embraces

a warmth i know is pure

and now i am sure of
the hope that's grown

from meeting you, stranger,

a familiar figure
who feels like home

i promise you stranger,
if you drift away like the one before

i will keep searching for you

from dusk ‘til dawn
from spring ‘til fall

and one day i hope

i find my way back

to the familiar figure
who feels like home

but do tell me this, stranger,

for i fear the unknown:

why does my heart ache and long

for things i have never known?

To the person who turned my world upside down, this one’s for you.

Every once in a while, I wake up drowning.

It does not have a face, and yet it is wholly familiar in the way it rests heavy in my weary bones, settling comfortably in the crevices of my chest as one would a home. It is present in every breath I take—or rather, try to take, as it fills my lungs to the brim and grasps my heart like a hand holding on for dear life.

Longing is its name—and I can do little but watch as it drags me down, down to the deepest depths of the sea.

It taunts me in our descent, torments me with memories of a time filled with bright-eyed smiles and shared warmth and a foolish certainty that things would remain as they are; a time when longing was nothing but a passing stranger instead of this unwelcome companion that seeks to take what little solace I have left.

It is then that I allow myself to sink, sink—

The sound of laughter cuts through the muffled haze.

Suddenly, I remember how to swim.

I wake to the bright glare of sunlight seeping through my bedroom window. For a moment, all is quiet and still—and then I hear it once again: the laughter of my loved ones; the same laughter that gave me the courage to swim ashore. It is then that I realize: I may not be as happy as I once was, but I am alive and well.

For now, it is enough.

Kung mayroon akong pagkakataong makabalik sa isang panahon, pipiliin kong bumalik sa panahong nakapaglalaro pa ako sa labas ng bahay ng piko, ten-twenty, patintero, luksong tinik, at iba pa kasama ng kaibigan ko. Pinili ko ito dahil, masaya. Walang masyadong takdang-aralin na inaasikaso, nakatutulog nang maaga, walang iniisip hanggang madaling araw, nakatatanggapng magagandang salita o mga regalo, at walang stress, depression, at anxiety na nararamdaman.

Ngunit hindi lang ‘yan ang dahilan kung bakit gusto kong bumalik sa panahong ‘yon. Nais ko rin sanang makapagpasalamat sa aking ina noong nasa ibang bansa pa siya. Gusto kong bumalik para mapasalamatan ko siya sa lahat ng ginawa niya para sa amin at dahil hindi ko rin naiisip na araw-araw, tatlo hanggang apat ang trabaho niya sa isang linggo. Hindi ko man lang naisip na pasayahin siya para ganahan siya sa pagtatrabaho at para mabawasan ang lungkot at pagod na kanyang nararamdaman dahil nami-miss niya kami dahil sa salungat na oras at bihira naming pagkikita.

Naiinis ako sa sarili ko ngayon dahil bihira ko lamang sabihin sa kanya noon na mahal na mahal ko siya. Sana’y naramdaman ng aking ina na hindi siya mag-isa at mayroon pa ring nagmamahal sa kanya. Nagsisisi ako dahil sana binigyan ko siya ng oras upang makapag-usap kami kasama ang aking kapatid at makapagkwentuhan tungkol sa mga nangyari sa araw namin para hindi na siya nag-aalala para sa aming dalawa. Nakakainis din na lagi kong inaabangan ang pagdating ng balikbayan box pero hindi ko man lang naisip ang paghihirap na dinanas niya upang mabili ang mga inaabangan kong pasalubong. Hindi ko rin naisip na inaabangan pala niya ang salitang ‘salamat’ kahit sa Messenger lamang.

Kaya ngayon, puno ako ng pagsisisi. Sana’y pinagtuunan ko ng pansin ang mga homework ko upang maipagmalaki niyang mataas ang mga grado ng kanyang anak. Sana'y napagaan ko pa ang kanyang pakiramdam sa pamamagitan ng pagpapakitang nakakapag-aral kami nang maayos. Sana pala hindi na ako nagpabili ng maraming gamit para hindi na siya nahirapang pagtrabahuhan ang mga gastusin sa bahay pati sa pag-aaral namin. Sana nag-isip ako nang mabuti at gumawa ako ng paraan para mapasaya ang aking ina upang hindi siya ma-stress, ma-depress, at makaramdam ng anxiety. Sana natulungan ko siyang maging matatag at sana kasama niya kami roon sa ibang bansa nang sa gayon, kahit sandaling panahon ay magkasama-sama kaming muli.

Inaamin kong hanggang ngayon, dala ng hiya, hindi ko pa rin siya napasasalamatan para sa mga paghihirap at pagtitiis na kanyang dinanas para kami'y buhayin kahit pa napalayo siya sa amin. Pero alam ko sa sarili ko na lahat ng ginagawa ko ngayon ay para sa kanya. Ibibigay ko rin ang lahat ng aking makakaya upang mapasaya siya nang hindi niya na muling maranasan ang buhay na dinanas niya noon. Gagawin ko ang lahat upang mapagaan ang kanyang loob at nang maramdaman niya ang pasasalamat ko sa kanya.

Ma, kasama mo na ‘kong lalaban. Kaya natin ‘to.

Sa paglalakbay patungo sa hinaharap, hindi ko maiwasang sulyapan ang kahapon. Sa bawat hakbang, ‘di pa rin mawari sa isip kung saan nagkulang. Mga pagkakataong nasayang, patuloy na pinanghihinayangan. Pagod na sa katatanong kung bakit. Bakit ito nangyari sa akin? Bakit lahat ng pagsubok ay dapat kong harapin? Sa paglalakbay patungo sa hinaharap, aking napagtantong hindi lahat ng problema ay dapat akuing mag-isa. Maaaring huminto at magpahinga. Bigyang halaga at unahin ang sarili bago ang iba. Kasabay sa pagpapatawad ng sarili, patawarin din ang iba. Matuto sa pagkakamali ng nakaraan. Sa paglipas ng oras, maghihilom din ang sugat ng nakaraan.

but I won’t look back for as long as as I live

    Poot ng nakaraan? Maibabaon ko ‘yan. Nadapa ako noon? Tatayo ako ngayon. Nagsisisi ako? Babawi ako. Maibabalik pa ba ang mga nangyari sa nakaraan? Hindi na, ngunit paghuhugutan ko lahat ng ‘yon ng lakas para makasabay sa kasalukuyang agos ng buhay. Ulitin mo.

        Poot ng nakaraan? Maibabaon ko ‘yan.

    Naniniwala ako sa’yo. Naniniwala ako sa mga sinabi mo. Tunay na hindi dapat tayo magpaiwan dahil hindi tayo hihintayin ng oras at panahon. Kung may gusto man tayong balikan upang ayusin at baguhin ay hindi na rin natin maisasakatuparan pa dahil ganap nang wala ang mga ‘yon. Ang tanging magagawa na lamang natin ngayo’y harapin ang kasalukuyan at iwasang maulit muli ang mga pagkakamali ng nakaraan. Ngunit paalala, ang pagkakamali ay isang siklong walang katapusan, gano’n din ang pagkatuto. Kaya sa susunod na magkaroon ka ng mga panibagong pagkakamali ay huwag matakot. Alalahanin mo lang ang mga sinabi mo kanina upang makasabay ka ulit sa agos. Itatak mo rin sa iyong isipan na hindi ka nag-iisa. May kasama ka sa paglalakbay ng buhay na ‘to at naniniwala ako na sabay nating mapagtatagumpayan ito.

Every morning, I wake up from a different dream.

Yesterday, it was the year 2012. We jammed to One Direction's What Makes You Beautiful and ran around the fields with the remnants of the old high school building in the background. The canteen sold ice pops and iced choco while lines of students formed until the canteen ran out. We all headed home with our shoes covered in sand and socks colored brown.

After that, I woke up.

The other day, it was 2013. I played Minecraft with friends and acted as if we were some characters from a video game. We transferred buildings and cleaned the rooms of our new home every single day. We stocked up on masking tape and scratch paper to make balls to throw during countless games of dodgeball.

After that, I woke up.

One time, I went back to 2015. No day ended without us whisper-singing Pop Danthology 2014 in class, not missing a single lyric. We’d huddle in the corner of the room playing Five Nights at Freddy’s 3 on the screens of our small phones. We would talk about the stories our friends wrote on Wattpad and guess their crushes based on the obvious details they left out in the open. It was funny, but I do wish we’d write stories like that again.

After that, I woke up.

When I dreamt of 2016, Closer by The Chainsmokers was playing and I was reminded of the changes we’ve experienced. We greeted our first year in high school after a four-month vacation. A new building, a new set of people, a new schedule to follow—we gained a new light. We ventured forth various paths and stumbled upon obstacles of different sizes. Everything was new to us, and it was amazing.

After that, I woke up.

Every day, it was another year. In 2017, K-pop was becoming more prevalent. Despacito was playing nonstop. In 2018, things became a little more complicated. A bunch of new people showed up, and I guess that was okay. In 2019, things were starting to settle down.

But 2020 showed up, and I realized I wasn’t dreaming. Masks were a must, we had face shields covering our faces, and we couldn’t go outside without being scared of what we might bring back home. On the brighter side, we had our own coping mechanisms. TikTok started blowing up, Among Us brought friends together, and a lot of online businesses came to life.

I fell asleep.

In my next dream, there was a time machine. It was 2021 and I could finally go back and tweak the past to fix the future like what other people would do.

I didn’t, though. Not even when I wake up.

If anything, I’d go back just to experience those times all over again. I’d savor the moments a little bit more. Take with me as much as I can. Go through every little detail ‘til I miss it no more. After all, those experiences are what made me who I am today, and I’d love to go through that journey one more time.