Sa tingin ko, isa sa pinakanakakatakot na bahagi ng pagkilala sa isang tao ay ang posibilidad na makita ka niya nang lubos.

At hindi lang ito tungkol sa romantikong konsepto ng pagiging vulnerable. Ang ibig kong sabihin ay ang literal at emosyonal na pagkakalantad sa isang tao. Yung makita ka niya nang walang maayos na damit, walang ayos na buhok, walang makeup, walang composure, at walang kahit anong bersiyon ng sarili mong pinaghandaan mong ipakita sa mundo.

Sa loob ng mahabang panahon, kahit ang simpleng pag-iisip na may ibang taong makakakita sa akin nang walang damit ay sapat na para masuka ako.

At hindi naman ito dahil lang ikinakahiya ko ang katawan ko, kasama na ‘yon, pero

Mas komplikado pa roon.

Siguro natatakot ako sa ideyang may ibang taong magkakaroon ng pagkakataong makita ang isang bersiyon ko na hindi ko kayang kontrolin. Yung mapapansin niya ang maliliit na bagay na karaniwan kong itinatago. Yung mga insecurities, kapintasan, awkwardness, at mga bahaging matagal kong pinaglaanan ng panahon para siguraduhing walang ibang makakakita.

Doon ko naisip na baka hindi naman talaga ako takot maghubad.

Takot lang akong makita.

Magkaiba kasi ang tinitingnan ka at tunay na nakikita ka. Araw-araw naman tayong nakikita ng ibang tao. Nakakasalamuha natin sila, nakikipag-usap, tumatawa, at nakikisalamuha. Pero iba kapag tunay kang nakikita. Ibig sabihin, hinahayaan mong masaksihan ka ng isang tao nang walang proteksiyon ng distansiya, pagpapanggap, at mga imaheng maingat mong binuo tungkol sa sarili mo.

At sa hindi ko maintindihang dahilan, mas nakakatakot iyon kaysa sa inaakala ko.

Matagal kong inisip na isa akong taong marunong magpahayag ng nararamdaman. Kaya kong magkuwento tungkol sa emosyon ko. Kaya kong aminin kapag nasasaktan ako. Kaya kong magsulat tungkol sa mga bagay na hindi ko kayang sabihin nang harapan.

Pero unti-unti kong naintindihan na hindi porke’t mahusay kang magpaliwanag ng nararamdaman mo ay komportable ka nang maranasan ang pagiging vulnerable sa harap ng ibang tao.

Kaya kong magsulat ng isang buong sanaysay tungkol sa mga insecurities ko pero mahihirapan pa rin akong umiyak sa harap ng taong gusto kong pagkatiwalaan.

Kaya kong ikuwento ang mga pinagdaanan ko noong bata ako pero hindi ko pa rin kayang magpakita ng kahinaan kapag may taong gustong yumakap sa akin.

Kaya kong sabihin na gusto kong magkaroon ng intimacy pero kapag may taong unti-unting lumalapit, bigla akong natatakot.

Siguro iyon ang kontradiksiyong matagal ko nang dala.

Gusto kong makilala, pero hindi ko laging gustong masaksihan.

Gusto kong maintindihan, pero nahihirapan akong tanggapin na kailangan munang makita ng isang tao ang mga bahaging matagal kong itinago bago niya ako lubos na maintindihan.

At sa tingin ko, mas nagiging komplikado ito kapag lumaki kang natutong protektahan ang sarili mo.

Kapag nasanay kang maging independent, composed, at sanay na ikaw lang ang umaasikaso sa sarili mo, parang pagkawala ng kontrol ang pagiging vulnerable. Natututo kang ayusin ang emosyon mo nang mag-isa. Natututo kang umiyak nang walang nakakarinig. Natututo kang ayusin ang sarili mo bago pa mapansin ng iba na may problema ka.

Hanggang sa masanay kang ikaw lang ang sarili mong ligtas na lugar, at ang ideyang papasukin mo ang ibang tao ay nagiging halos nakakatakot.

May konsepto sa sikolohiya na tinatawag na intimacy avoidance, o ang tendensiyang umiwas sa emosyonal o pisikal na paglalapit kapag nagsisimula na itong magdulot ng takot o pakiramdam na nanganganib ang sarili. Maaari itong magmula sa mga dating karanasan, takot na mareject, hiya, o kawalan ng karanasan sa pagtanggap ng ibang tao sa ating kahinaan.

At baka iyon ang kailangan kong pag-isipan.

Paano kung hindi naman talaga ako natatakot sa taong makakakita sa akin?

Paano kung mas natatakot ako sa kung ano ang posibleng mangyari pagkatapos niya akong makita?

Magbabago kaya ang tingin niya sa akin? Magugustuhan pa rin kaya niya ako? Mapapansin kaya niya ang mga bagay na sana hindi na lang niya napansin? Ikukumpara kaya niya ako sa ibang tao? Gagamitin kaya niya laban sa akin ang mga bagay na ipinagkatiwala ko sa kanya?

O mas masakit, makikita niya ang lahat ng iyon at magdedesisyon pa rin siyang hindi ako karapat-dapat mahalin?

Sa tingin ko, iyon ang dahilan kung bakit nakakatakot ang pagiging vulnerable. Inilalagay ka nito sa sitwasyong hindi mo na lubos na kontrolado kung paano ka tatanggapin ng ibang tao.

Maaari mong piliin ang mga salitang sasabihin mo. Maaari mong ayusin ang mga litrato mo. Maaari mong piliin kung aling mga kuwento ang ikukuwento at kung aling bahagi ng sarili mo ang mananatiling pribado.

Pero darating ang punto na hihingin sa iyo ng intimacy na bitawan ang ilan sa mga kontrol na iyon.

Hahayaan mong makita ka ng isang tao sa isang ordinaryong umaga, magulo ang buhok, bagong gising, at walang balak magmukhang maganda.

Hahayaan mong mapansin niyang may insecurities ka, may mga nakasanayan kang awkward, may mga araw na hindi ka kaaya-aya, at may mga pagkakataong hindi mo rin alam kung paano aayusin ang sarili mo.

Hahayaan mong maging tao ka sa harap ng isang taong gusto mong mapahanga.

At baka iyon ang pinakamahirap na bahagi, dahil mas madali para sa akin ang hangaan kaysa lubusang makilala.

Kapag hinahangaan ka ng isang tao, may pagkakataon kang panatilihin ang imaheng gusto mong ipakita. Pero kapag nakilala ka na niya, darating ang panahong matutuklasan niyang hindi ka palaging ganoon.

Maaari kang maging nakakatawa, madaldal, confident, at maraming kuwento. Pero kapag naging malapit na siya, malalaman din niyang isa ka ring taong maraming iniisip, madaling ma-insecure, may mga araw na hindi alam ang gagawin, at minsan ay nangangailangan din ng lambing at katiyakan.

At naiisip ko kung iniiwasan ko ba ang intimacy dahil hindi ko alam kung paano pagsasamahin ang dalawang bersiyon ng sarili ko: ang taong ipinapakita ko sa mundo at ang taong ako kapag walang ibang nakatingin.

Siguro ito rin ang dahilan kung bakit nakaka-overwhelm para sa akin ang pisikal na intimacy.

Dahil ang pagiging hubad ay hindi lamang tungkol sa pagtanggal ng damit.

Para sa iba, maaaring simbolo ito ng kalayaan, kasiyahan, o pagmamahal. Pero para sa isang taong nahihirapang maging vulnerable, maaari itong maramdaman na para kang inilalagay sa isang sitwasyong maaari kang husgahan.

At ayokong maramdaman na sinusuri ako ng taong dapat sana ay nagpaparamdam sa akin ng kaligtasan.

Ayokong iniisip kung katanggap-tanggap ba ang katawan ko habang may yumayakap sa akin.

Ayokong abala ang isip ko sa pagtatago ng ilang bahagi ng sarili ko, pag-aalala sa itsura ko, o pag-iisip kung ano ang maaaring maging tingin niya sa akin, gayong dapat ay ninanamnam ko lang ang pagkakataong maging malapit sa isang taong pinagkakatiwalaan ko.

Gusto kong maranasan ang intimacy nang hindi pakiramdam na sinusuri ako.

Gusto kong makahinga.

At siguro iyon talaga ang hinahanap ko sa pagmamahal.

Hindi isang taong kailangang paulit-ulit sabihin na maganda ako, kahit masarap din naman makarinig ng ganoon. Hindi rin isang taong laging magsasabing wala akong dapat ikainsecure dahil alam kong hindi basta nawawala ang insecurities dahil lamang may ibang taong hindi sumasang-ayon sa mga ito.

Gusto ko ng taong hindi ako kailangang magpanggap kapag kasama.

Isang taong maiintindihan na minsan, hindi pagtanggi ang pag-aatubili ko.

Na minsan, kailangan ko lang ng kaunting panahon.

Na hindi porke’t komportable na ako sa isang tao ay komportable na rin ako sa lahat ng uri ng pagkilala.

Dahil ayokong ang kagustuhan kong protektahan ang sarili ko ang siya ring maging dahilan kung bakit hindi ko maranasan ang pagmamahal.

Ayokong gugulin ang buong buhay ko na hanggang malayo lang kayang makilala ng ibang tao. Ayokong patuloy na magtayo ng pader dahil natatakot ako sa mga posibleng matuklasan nila kapag nakapasok na sila.

Gusto kong matutunang maaari akong makita nang hindi hinuhusgahan, mahawakan nang hindi sinusuri, at mahalin nang hindi kailangang paghirapan ang pagiging perpekto.

Siguro kailangan ko munang maging mapagpasensya sa sarili ko.

Walang masama sa pagkakaroon ng hangganan. Walang takdang panahon kung kailan dapat maging komportable, at lalong walang obligasyong ilantad ang mga bahagi ng sarili mo bago ka maging handa.

Pero sana, dumating ako roon.

Hindi dahil may utang akong access sa katawan ko sa ibang tao, kundi dahil may utang ako sa sarili ko na bigyan ang sarili ng pagkakataong maranasan ang pagkilala nang hindi laging may kasamang takot.

Gusto kong malaman kung ano ang pakiramdam ng lubusang makita ng isang tao at, sa unang pagkakataon, hindi na gustuhing magtago.

Siguro iyon ang pinakabulnerable na bagay na matagal ko nang hinahangad.

Ang maging hubad sa harap ng isang tao, sa literal at emosyonal na paraan, at manatiling komportable dahil alam kong ligtas akong manatili.

I think one of the loneliest realizations you can have while growing up is discovering that you can have so many friends and still wonder if you’ve ever really had your person.

I have friends.

Good ones, actually.

People I’ve laughed with until our stomachs hurt. People I’ve trusted with stories I don’t tell everyone. People who have seen different versions of me—stressed, annoying, dramatic, vulnerable, happy, completely unhinged—and somehow decided to stay.

I’ve had trios.

I’ve been part of groups.

I’ve had people I could call when something happened.

I’ve had people to eat with, travel with, celebrate with, complain to, and send stupid videos to.

So this isn’t me saying I don’t have friends.

I do. And I love them.

I really, really do.

But sometimes I wonder what it feels like to have that one person.

Not necessarily a romantic partner or someone you marry, just someone who feels like your home person. The person whose name comes to mind first. The person who somehow knows you’re not okay from the way you typed “HAHAHAHA”. The person you don’t have to schedule a friendship with. The person you can call at midnight and say, “I don’t know why I’m calling, I just wanted to talk to you.” The person who knows the entire lore.

And I think what makes it harder is that I’ve seen it. I’ve seen my friends have that with someone else. Sometimes I’m literally sitting beside them while they’re talking about their person.

“Alam niya kasi ako.”

“Siya talaga unang tinatawagan ko.”

“Kahit hindi ko sabihin, alam na niya.”

And I smile because I’m happy for them.

I genuinely am.

There’s something beautiful about watching someone have a person who understands them that deeply.But sometimes, after the conversation ends, there’s this tiny thought that I hate admitting:

“When will I have that?”

Not why don’t they choose me?

Not why am I not enough?

Just...

When will someone choose me like that, too?

Because I’ve spent so much of my life being part of people’s circles without necessarily being someone’s center, and maybe that’s a strange thing to admit. Because friendship isn’t supposed to be a competition. There shouldn’t be rankings, I know that.

I don’t want friendship to become transactional, I don’t want someone to choose me simply because they feel obligated to, I don’t want to force intimacy, I don’t want to demand a closeness that isn’t naturally there.

But I still yearn for it, and I think that’s the part I’ve been afraid to say.

I am yearning for a soulmate friendship.

The kind where two people somehow find each other and think,

“Oh. It’s you.”

Where years can pass, circumstances can change, cities can separate you, and somehow the connection doesn’t feel like it needs constant maintenance to remain alive. The kind where you don’t have to wonder whether you’re bothering them. Where you don’t have to rehearse how to tell them something. Where you can show up exactly as you are because they’ve already seen every version of you anyway. Maybe I’m romanticizing it.

Actually, I’m sure I am.

I’ve read too many stories and watched too many movies where two people find each other and become inseparable. But I don’t think the desire itself is unreasonable.

Humans have always looked for belonging.

Psychologists talk about the need to belong—that deep, almost instinctive desire to have meaningful and lasting relationships where we feel known, accepted, and significant to another person. And maybe that’s what I’m actually asking for.

Because sometimes I feel like I’m everyone’s friend but nobody’s person, and that sentence hurts more than I expected it to.

And maybe this is where I need to be careful, because longing can make you overlook what you already have. I don’t want to become so obsessed with finding my person that I make the people who already love me feel like they’re not enough.

They are enough.

My friendships are real.

My friends matter to me.

Their presence has carried me through parts of my life they probably don’t even realize. I’m not dissatisfied with them. I’m just curious about a kind of connection I haven’t experienced yet.

There’s a difference.

It’s like loving the house you live in while still wondering what it would feel like to have a room that feels completely yours. And maybe someday I’ll find it.

Maybe it will be another friend. Maybe someone I haven’t met yet. Maybe someone I already know but haven’t gotten close enough to yet. Maybe it will happen naturally, without either of us realizing that something special is being built, or maybe I’ll grow older and realize that the idea of a single “soulmate” was never the point.

Maybe we’ll have different people for different parts of our lives.

One friend who knows your childhood.

Another who knows your adult life.

Someone who knows your ambitions.

Someone who knows your sadness.

Someone who knows every embarrassing detail.

Someone who can sit beside you in silence.

And maybe together, they become the kind of home I thought I had to find in one person.

I don’t know.

For now, though, I think I’ll allow myself to admit that I want it. I want that kind of friendship. I want to know what it’s like to be someone’s first call. I want someone who knows my stories before I finish telling them. Someone who can look at me and say, “I know you.” and actually mean it.

Until then, I’ll keep loving the people I already have. I’ll keep showing up, I’ll keep being grateful, and I’ll try not to confuse not having found my person yet with not being worthy of being someone’s person.

Because maybe that’s the part I need to remember most. Just because I haven’t found that connection yet doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist for me. Maybe I’m not late. Maybe my person is simply somewhere out there, living their own life, having no idea that someone is quietly hoping to meet them.

And perhaps one day, we’ll find each other without either of us announcing it, I’ll realize:

“Oh.”

“You’re my person.”

And maybe, finally, I’ll understand what everyone else was talking about.

- Jae

I've been told that life is supposed to be difficult. That everyone carries something. That comparison is the thief of joy.

But sometimes, I can't help but look around. At my friends, at people my age, at people who seem to move through life with a kind of ease I have never known. I wonder what it must feel like to not have to think so hard about surviving.

I've spent so much of my life learning how to be independent, how to figure things out, how to make do, how to keep going even when I was already tired, and sometimes, I'm just tired.

Not because I don't want to live, not because I don't appreciate what I have, but because I know exactly how much harder I have had to work for things that seem so ordinary for other people.

I've watched people receive things I had to fight for.

Opportunities.

Security.

Rest.

Money.

Support.

A little room to fail without everything collapsing.

And I hate that sometimes, when I see them living their lives, I don't feel jealous of them. I feel jealous of the life they were given.

I wonder what kind of person I would have become if I didn't have to grow up carrying so much. If I had been born into a softer circumstance, if I didn't have to learn independence so early, if I didn't have to constantly calculate what I could afford, what I could risk, what I could dream about, if I could simply want something without immediately asking myself whether I deserved to want it.

Maybe I would be less tired, maybe I would be softer, maybe I wouldn't feel like I'm always running late to a life everyone else seems to have started years before me, and perhaps that's the cruelest part of knowing you're less privileged. You become painfully aware of how much of your exhaustion isn't a personal failure.

Sometimes I look at my friends and think, “How lucky you are." And then I hate myself a little for thinking it because they didn't do anything wrong. They simply had different starting lines and I don't resent them for that.

I just wish mine had been closer to theirs. I've been told that change is the only constant thing in life. If that's true, then I hope something changes soon because I don't know how much longer I can keep convincing myself that carrying this much is normal.

I don't want a perfect life, I don't even want an easy one, I just want one that doesn't feel so heavy all the time.

One where resting doesn't feel irresponsible, one where I don't have to constantly prove that I deserve to be here, one where being tired doesn't immediately become another problem I have to solve.

Maybe that's selfish.

Maybe it is.

But, I'm so tired.

And sometimes I catch myself wondering—

if I had simply been born differently, into a different family, a different circumstance, a little closer to the privileges other people seem to inherit so effortlessly—

would life have hurt this much?

I don't know.

And perhaps I'll never know, I can only live the life I was given.

But tonight, just for a moment, I want to admit something I don't usually say:

I wish I had been given a lighter one.

- Jae

Matagal kong sinabi sa sarili ko na ayokong maging katulad ng tatay ko.

Hindi lang dahil sa mga bagay na ginawa niya, kundi dahil sa kung paano siya naging tao sa loob ng bahay namin. Mahirap siyang mahalin, at mas mahirap aminin na, sa kabila ng lahat ng galit ko sa kanya, may mga bahagi pala niya na unti-unting tumubo sa loob ko.

Namatay siya noong 17 years old ako, dahil sa cancer. Hindi na niya ako naabutan sa pagtatapos ko sa college. Pero higit pa roon, hindi ko na rin narinig mula sa kanya ang isang salitang matagal kong hinintay—"Sorry."

Siguro iyon ang isa sa mga bagay na hindi ko na kailanman mababago. Wala nang pagkakataong marinig ang paliwanag niya. Wala nang pagkakataong sabihin ko kung gaano niya ako nasaktan. Wala nang pagkakataong malaman kung pinagsisihan ba niya ang kahit ano.

Pero, ang tatay ko ay isang taong hindi ko gustong maging. Hindi ko kailangang pagandahin ang salita para maging mas maganda ang kuwento. May mga taong minamahal natin na kailangan din nating amining nakasakit sa atin. Hindi porke't ama siya, kailangan kong gawing banal ang mga pagkukulang niya.

Galit ako sa paraan ng pakikitungo niya sa amin. Galit ako sa kung paano niya iparamdam na ang pagiging mahina ay isang kasalanan, lalo na sa akin. Hindi niya nagustuhan na malambot ako. Na feminine ako. Na hindi ako naging batang lalaki na gusto niyang makita. Na mas komportable akong maging vulnerable kaysa maging matigas, at higit sa lahat, galit siya sa pagiging bakla ko.

Siguro iyon ang isa sa mga unang bagay na nagturo sa akin kung gaano kasakit ang pakiramdam na kailangan mong ipagtanggol ang sarili mo sa loob mismo ng bahay na dapat sana ay ligtas. Kaya lumaki akong may dalawang magkasalungat na nararamdaman para sa kanya—Mahal ko siya dahil tatay ko siya at galit ako sa kanya dahil naging tatay siya sa paraang hindi ko kailangan—at hindi ko alam kung alin sa dalawang iyon ang mas mabigat.

May mga linggo na maririnig ko na naman ang mga paborito niyang kanta. Siakol, Asin, etc. Mga kantang parang may sariling bahay sa lumang malalaking speakers niya. Bubuksan niya nang malakas, parang kailangan malaman ng buong barangay kung anong kanta ang pinapakinggan niya, at kahit na minsan naiirita ako sa ingay, nakakatawa dahil ngayon, may mga kanta na kapag narinig ko, siya agad ang naaalala ko.

Ganito pala ang memorya, hindi nito hinihiwalay ang maganda sa masama. Pinagdudugtong-dugtong nito lahat, ang kanta, ang linggo, ang speaker, ang bahay, ang amoy ng alak, ang boses niya na limot ko na, ang mga bagay na gusto kong kalimutan, at ang mga bagay na hindi ko naman gustong mawala.

Mahilig din siyang uminom. Minsan araw-araw pero mas madalas, linggo-linggo. Parang may ritwal ang pag-inom sa bahay—isang bagay na naging ordinaryo dahil paulit-ulit naming nakita, kasunod niyan ang pagiging bayolente niya sa kalasingan, at siguro iyon ang isa sa mga pinakanakakatakot na bagay sa paglaki. Kapag paulit-ulit mong nakikita ang isang bagay, nasasanay kang tawagin itong normal, hanggang sa isang araw, mapapansin mong may ginagawa ka ring bagay na dati mong kinamumuhian. Hindi ko namalayan, pero may mga ugali pala akong nakuha sa kanya.

Mahilig akong magtago ng mga bagay, mga lumang gamit, mga bagay na may sentimental value, mga bagay na wala namang silbi pero hindi ko kayang itapon dahil may alaala, minsan naiisip ko, baka ganito rin siya. Baka kaya hindi siya makapagtapon ng ilang bagay dahil may bahagi ng sarili niya na nakatira sa mga lumang gamit, at nakakainis isipin na may ganitong pagkakapareho kami.

Dahil paano mo mamahalin ang isang bagay sa sarili mo kapag alam mong galing ito sa taong pilit mong tinatakasan?

Workaholic din siya, halos hindi niya kayang gumastos para sa sarili niya, bihira siyang bumili ng bagong damit, bihira siyang mag-treat sa sarili, kahit may kailangan siya, parang laging may mas mahalagang paggagamitan ng pera. Noong bata ako, akala ko iyon ang ibig sabihin ng pagiging mabuting ama, na kailangan mong ubusin ang sarili mo para sa pamilya, na ang pagmamahal ay dapat may kapalit na pagod, na hindi ka dapat bumili para sa sarili mo dahil may ibang taong mas nangangailangan, at ngayon, minsan nahuhuli ko ang sarili kong ganoon din.

Hindi ako bumibili ng gusto ko, iniisip ko muna kung kailangan ko ba talaga, minsan kahit kaya ko naman, hindi ko ginagawa, at bigla kong naiisip: Ganito rin kaya si Papa? Mas nakakatakot pa roon ang realization na baka hindi lang genes ang dahilan, baka environment, baka dahil iyon ang nakita ko, baka natutunan ko, baka may mga ugaling hindi naman talaga "namana" kundi naipasa sa pamamagitan ng pagmamasid.

Sabi nga ng social learning theory ni Albert Bandura, natututo tayo hindi lamang sa direktang pagtuturo, kundi sa pagmamasid sa mga taong nakapaligid sa atin, at paano kung ang isa sa pinakamalaking guro sa buhay ko ay isang taong ayokong tularan?

Nakakatawa, at masakit. Dahil habang lumalaki akong sinasabihan sa sarili kong "Hindi ako magiging katulad niya," may mga bagay pala akong natututunan mula sa kanya nang hindi ko namamalayan. Minsan iniisip ko rin kung bakit ganito siya, hindi para bigyang-katwiran siya, hindi para sabihin na okay lang ang ginawa niya, pero baka may kuwento rin siya bago siya naging ganito. Baka bata pa lang siya, kailangan na niyang matutong mabuhay nang mag-isa, baka maaga niyang natutunan na ang mundo ay hindi nagbibigay ng pahinga sa mahihina, baka kailangan niyang magtrabaho nang maaga para suportahan ang pamilya niya, baka walang nagturo sa kanya kung paano maging malambot, baka walang yumakap sa kanya kapag natatakot siya, baka hindi niya natutunan kung paano magsabi ng "mahal kita" nang hindi kailangang magtrabaho hanggang maubos ang sarili, at baka iyon ang dahilan kung bakit hindi niya alam kung paano kami mahalin nang hindi kami nasasaktan.

Pero hindi ko iyon gagamitin para patawarin siya nang basta-basta. Ang trauma ay maaaring magpaliwanag, hindi ito automatic na nag-e-excuse, hindi dahil nasaktan siya noon ay may karapatan na siyang manakit ngayon, hindi dahil mahirap ang buhay niya ay kailangan kong tanggapin ang lahat ng ginawa niya, hindi dahil tatay ko siya ay kailangan kong tiisin siya habambuhay.

Mahal ko siya, pero hindi sapat ang pagmamahal para maging bulag ako.

At marahil iyon ang pinaka-mahirap na klase ng pagmamahal—ang pagmamahal na may hangganan. Mahal kita, pero hindi kita hahayaan na sirain ako, mahal kita, pero hindi ko tatawaging pagmamahal ang pananakit, mahal kita, pero hindi ko kailangang maging katulad mo para mapatunayan na anak mo ako, at higit sa lahat: Mahal kita, pero ayokong ipasa sa susunod na henerasyon ang mga bagay na ipinasa mo sa akin.

Siguro iyon ang laban ko ngayon, hindi ang maging kabaligtaran niya sa lahat ng bagay. Dahil kahit gusto ko, hindi ko naman kayang burahin ang pinanggalingan ko, may bahagi niya sa akin. Sa paraan ko ng pag-iingat ng mga bagay, sa pagiging masipag ko, sa pagmamahal ko sa musika, sa paraan ko minsang kalimutan ang sarili ko para sa ibang tao, sa pagiging sentimental, sa pagnanais na maging independent, sa mga bagay na gusto ko at sa mga bagay na kinamumuhian ko. At minsan, kinamumuhian ko ang katotohanang may mga ugali akong dala-dala na galing sa kanya.

Pero baka hindi naman ang pagkakaroon ng bahagi niya sa akin ang problema, ang problema ay kung hahayaan kong siya ang magdesisyon kung ano ang gagawin ko sa bahaging iyon. Pwede kong piliing maging masipag nang hindi inuubos ang sarili ko, pwede kong mahalin ang pamilya ko nang hindi kinakailangang mawala ako sa sarili ko, pwede kong maging sentimental nang hindi kumakapit sa mga bagay na dapat nang bitawan, pwede kong mahalin ang musika nang hindi kailangan ang alak para makaramdam, pwede akong maging lalaki nang hindi kailangang maging matigas, at pwede akong maging bakla, malambot, feminine, vulnerable—at hindi iyon kailanman magiging dahilan para ikahiya ko ang sarili ko.

Siguro ito ang pinakamalaking bagay na gusto kong matutunan mula sa kanya, kung ano ang hindi ko dapat ipasa. Dahil baka ganoon talaga tayo minsan, hindi natin pinipili kung ano ang unang itinanim sa atin, pero may karapatan tayong pumili kung ano ang didiligan. Hindi ko alam kung gaano karaming bahagi ng pagkatao ko ang genes, hindi ko alam kung gaano karami ang environment, hindi ko alam kung alin ang natural at alin ang natutunan. Baka halo-halo.

Baka ganoon talaga ang pagiging anak, may mga bagay kang minamana sa dugo, may mga bagay kang minamana sa bahay, at may mga bagay kang ginugugol ang buong buhay para hindi maipasa.

Kaya oo, mahal ko ang tatay ko, pero hindi sapat ang pagmamahal ko para tiisin siya, at hindi rin sapat ang galit ko para burahin siya sa sarili ko.

Nandito siya. Sa ilang ugali. Sa ilang alaala. Sa mga kantang paulit ulit kong pinakikinggan. Sa ilang bagay na ayaw kong itapon. Sa ilang bahagi ng sarili kong kinailangan kong unawain bago ko tuluyang mapatawad—hindi siya, kundi ang sarili ko. Dahil ang tunay na paglayo sa isang taong nakasakit sa'yo ay hindi palaging pagtalikod.

Minsan, ito ay ang tahimik na desisyon na sabihin:

"Dito nagtatapos sa akin."

Hindi ko kayang baguhin kung paano siya naging ama, hindi ko kayang baguhin ang batang lalaking kinailangan niyang maging, pero kaya kong piliin kung anong klaseng bading ang gusto kong maging, at kung may isang bagay akong gustong ipamana balang araw, hindi iyon ang pagiging matigas. Hindi ang pagiging workaholic, hindi ang pagtitiis, hindi ang pagiging emotionally unavailable.

Gusto kong ipamana ang kabaligtaran, ang kakayahang magsabi ng mahal kita, ang tapang na humingi ng tawad, ang kalayaan na maging malambot, at ang lakas na hindi kailangang manakit para maramdaman mong ikaw ang pinakamalakas.

At sa pagkakataong ito, pipiliin kong mahalin silang pareho— nang hindi kailangang maging katulad niya.

- Jae

Kapag nakasakay ako ng bus, ewan ko ba, parang mas ramdam kong buhay ako, siguro dahil walang nakakakilala o nakakaalam sa isa't isa. Tahimik lang naman kami, magkakatabi, paminsan minsan may makakatinginan ka lalo na kapag biglaang preno pero after that ay balik na sa kanya kanyang mundo.

Pero minsan, mapapatingin ako sa paligid ko at maiisip na grabe, ang daming buhay sa loob ng bus ride na ‘to. Lahat ay may kanya kanyang mga kwento. May mga taong pauwi na galing trabaho, may mga estudyanteng naka-earphones sa window seat, mga mga dadayo, may mga lalayo, may mga papasok, may nag-aaway, may mga umiiyak, may mga nagkwekwentuhan, may mga natutulog- actually marami pa at hindi ko na iisa isahin, basta lahat kami ay nandoon.

Magkakaibang buhay pero pansamantalang nasa iisang sasakyan. Ang weird lang isipin na siguro habang nakatingin ako sa kanila at iniisip kung anong buhay ang meron sila ay may kahit iisang tao rin ba doon ang iniisip kung anong buhay ang meron ako?

Pero siguro ganoon talaga ang buhay, we walk past a hundreds of people everyday without realizing how much life is happening inside of them. May mga taong pauwi na galing sa pinakamagandang araw sa buhay nila, may mga taong magsisimula pa lang ang araw, may mga taong kagagaling lang sa masamang araw, may mga taong may bagong pag ibig at mayroon rin kaaalis lang mula roon, may mga taong may pangarap, at may mga tao ring pagod na mangarap. Somehow, nagkataon na pare-pareho kami ng bus na nasakyan.

Hindi ko alam kung sino sila at kung saan sila bababa, hindi ko rin alam kung ano ang pinagdadaanan nila bago sumakay. Pero sa iilang oras at minuto, naging magkakasabay ang buhay namin.

Kaya siguro bus ang pinakapaborito kong sakyan, hindi dahil kumportable—let’s be serious, hindi kailanman naging kumportable ang bus. Pero siguro dahil doon ko napagtatanto na buhay ako, buhay tayo. Lahat tayo ay may kanya kanyang dahilan sa pagsakay, and at some point in the same space and universe, nagkakasabay ang mga kwento natin.

Ngunit sa lahat nang pagsakay ay mayroon rin namang pagbaba, at tuloy pa rin ang buhay na parang walang nangyari. Pero sa totoo, may nangyari. For a few stops, we existed in that small space and in the same timeline. At sa mundong sobrang daling isipin na bakit parang mag-isa lang ako sa problema, ang sarap isipin na marami pala tayong sabay sabay na nabubuhay—pinipiling mabuhay.

Kaya madalas kapag nakasay ako ng bus at saglit na mapapatingin sa kanila, hindi ko maiwasan maisip, anong buhay kaya ang dala dala nila at anong panibagong kwento kaya ang madadatnan nila sa pagbaba?

- Jae

Okay, I think I like someone. Honestly, I don't even know how that happened, I've been single for almost a year and a half now. And when I say single, I mean actually single. I haven't been entertaining anyone, talking to anyone, or even seriously considering letting someone into my life. It wasn't some dramatic decision either, I just didn't feel like it.

I was perfectly okay being on my own. I wasn't looking for a man, well, sometimes I'm deprived of the feeling but I’m sure I wasn't waiting for someone to come along, because I know I'm still not ready. I was just living.

Then somehow, out of nowhere, I started liking this certain guy. The funniest part? I barely know him. Well, we met once through a common friend way back 2023 and if you had asked me right after that meeting what I thought about him, I probably would've said, "He's charming." I remember thinking he was attractive, obviously. I'm not going to lie and pretend physical attraction wasn't there but it wasn't enough for me to actually care.

I went home, forgot about it, and continued with my life. I even entertained several people after that because I really don't care that much before. And then years later, somehow, I found myself watching his Instagram stories. Then, I realize I was actually waiting for him to post, which is embarrassing, by the way lol.

Because what exactly was I doing? I don't know. I wasn't obsessed with him, at least, I don't think I was. It wasn't that intense kind of crush I used to have—the kind where I start imagining my entire future with someone after they liked one of my stories.

This felt different, it's much quieter. I'd just see his stories and think, Oh, that's cute. He's having coffee, he's working, he's somewhere new, he's with his family, he's doing something adventurous, and then I'd go on with my day. Except somehow, he kept becoming part of my day. I eventually realized that I wasn't really attracted to him because of how he looked. I mean, yes, he's handsome but there are plenty of handsome men I don't care about.

What got me was the person I thought I was seeing behind all those little things. He seemed independent, he seemed like someone who had his own life and wasn't waiting around for someone to come and give him one, he's business-minded, he's adventurous, he loves coffee, he seems really close to his family, and, for some reason, this one really got me—he seems loved.

You know when you can just tell that someone has people? People who care about them, people they care about, a life that exists outside of romance. I don't know why I find that so attractive, maybe because I don't want to be someone's entire world. I'd rather be part of a world they already built, and maybe that's what started getting me. Not the idea of having him.

The idea of knowing him, there's a difference. I started wondering what he's actually like when the camera isn't on. What does he talk about when he's comfortable? What's he like when he's annoyed? What makes him laugh so hard that he can't stop? What does he do when he's having a terrible day? What kind of person is he when nobody needs him to be impressive? Those are the things I wanted to know.

And then something happened that made me realize this wasn't just some random attraction. He went through a really difficult family problem before. I don't want to talk about his personal situation because it's his story, not mine but I knew enough to know that he was hurting. He was devastated, he was mourning, and I remember seeing his stories during that time and thinking, “Fuck. I wish I could be there.”

And that confused me because I didn't even like him that deeply yet. At least, I didn't think I did. But I wanted to comfort him, I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to be okay, I wanted to sit beside him, I wanted to buy him coffee, I wanted to somehow make the day a little less terrible, and I didn't want anything in return. I wasn't thinking, maybe if I'm there for him, he'll like me. Nothing like that, I just wanted him to have someone.

That's when I knew something had changed because attraction usually makes you think about what you want from someone, but when you genuinely care about someone, even from a distance, you start thinking about what you want for them. I wanted him to be okay, that was it, and I still can't completely explain why.

Maybe it was empathy, maybe it was because seeing someone you admire hurting makes them feel suddenly more human, or maybe, somewhere along the way, I had started caring more than I realized. I don't know.

What I do know is that after that, I started seeing him differently, and here's where I have to be honest with myself. I don't actually know him, I know the version of him I've seen, I know his stories, his coffee, his adventures, his work, his family, the things he chooses to share, and my brain has probably filled in some of the blanks.

That's the dangerous thing about liking someone from afar. You have just enough information to become interested and not enough information to become disappointed, you can build an entire personality around someone's Instagram stories if you're not careful, and I know that.

Maybe I'm not really in love with him, maybe I'm in love with the possibility of him, maybe I'm simply fascinated, maybe it's just a happy crush, maybe I'm romanticizing someone I've only met once. All of those things could be true, but whatever it is, it's real enough that I've noticed how much space he's started taking up in my head, and then, recently, he stopped viewing my stories.

Which is such a stupid thing to care about, I know. It's Instagram, people stop watching stories, people get busy, people mute things, people disappear from each other's algorithms. It's not a declaration of war lol, we're still mutuals, nothing happened between us, bold of me to assume things when we don't even really interact.

But of course I noticed, and the funny thing is, you'd think that would make me lose interest. Instead, I somehow started liking him more, which is probably the most annoying part of this entire story because now there is even less happening between us, yet somehow I feel more.

Maybe that's what distance does. It gives feelings room to grow because there's nothing real enough to interrupt them, there's no awkward conversation, no bad habit, no disagreement, no moment where you realize, Oh, never mind. He's actually annoying, just this person existing somewhere out there, living his life, while I occasionally catch glimpses of it.

And I'm here, quietly thinking, I really like this guy, it's almost funny, I haven't entertained anyone in nearly a year and then I develop feelings for someone I barely know not through dates, not through long conversations, not through late-night calls, but through Instagram stories.

How ridiculous is that? But maybe that's also what makes it kind of sweet because I don't feel like I need anything from him. I don't need him to like me back, I don't need him to notice me, I don't need this to become some great romantic story. Obviously, if he suddenly messaged me and asked me to get coffee, I would probably need several business days to emotionally recover, but that's beside the point.

For now, I'm okay with simply liking him, quietly. From wherever I am, I like seeing him happy, I like seeing him build his life, I like seeing him with his family, I like seeing him do things he's passionate about, and, strangely enough, I even like knowing that there are parts of him I'll probably never know.

Because maybe that's the point, maybe liking someone doesn't always have to mean getting closer. Sometimes it just means recognizing something beautiful in another person, sometimes it means thinking, I hope life is good to you. Even if you're not the person who's going to make it good, and maybe, if I'm being completely honest, that's what I feel right now.

I don't know this man well enough to love him but I know enough to admire him, and somewhere between admiration and curiosity, something happened, something I wasn't expecting, something I can't quite name. I just know that the guy I met once and didn't think much about somehow became the guy whose stories I look for.

The guy whose coffee posts make me smile, the guy whose happiness I quietly root for, the guy I wanted to comfort when he was hurting, even though I had no right to be there, and the guy who, for reasons I still don't understand, managed to make me interested in someone again after almost a year of not wanting anyone at all.

Maybe nothing will ever happen, maybe we'll meet again and I'll realize that the person I imagined was much more interesting than the actual person, or maybe we'll meet again and I'll think, Oh, so that's why.

I don't know. For now, he's just someone I admire from afar and honestly? I'm okay with that because sometimes a person doesn't have to become yours to become meaningful. Sometimes they just remind you that your heart isn't as closed as you thought it was, and maybe that's enough, at least for now.

- Jae

Mahal bilang presyo.

Mahal bilang pag-ibig.

Pareho silang may halaga. Pareho silang may hinihinging kapalit. At sa panahong halos lahat ay tumataas maliban sa sahod, parang pareho na rin silang naging luho.

Hindi lang naman gasolina ang mahal.

Hindi lang bigas.

Hindi lang renta.

Hindi lang pamasahe.

Mahal na ring umibig.

Hindi dahil may presyo ang pagmamahal, kundi dahil napakamahal nang maging tao sa mundong ito.

Mahal ang maglaan ng oras sa taong gusto mong makasama kapag dalawa o tatlong trabaho ang kailangan para mabuhay. Mahal ang pagiging present kung ang isip mo ay araw-araw abala sa tanong na, "Paano ako makakabayad sa susunod na buwan?" Mahal ang emotional availability kung ubos na ubos ka na sa trabaho, sa rejection emails, sa pressure ng pamilya, at sa pakiramdam na kahit anong sipag mo, hindi pa rin sapat.

Hindi ka naman naging malamig. Napagod ka lang.

Unti-unti, naging luxury ang lambing. Naging privilege ang oras. Naging investment ang commitment.

At doon ko napansin ang isang bagay na matagal ko nang tinatakasan. Kung talagang mahal ang magmahal, bakit hindi ako nagtitipid sa mga bisyo ko?

Hindi ako nanghihinayang gumastos para sa kape na alam kong panandaliang ginhawa lang ang ibibigay. Hindi ako nagdadalawang-isip bumili ng isa pang yosi, isa pang bote, isa pang bagay na alam kong hindi ko naman talaga kailangan. Kaya kong magpuyat nang ilang oras para sa walang katapusang pag-scroll, pero hirap akong maglaan ng kahit ilang minuto para kumilala at kumausap ng tao.

Kapag bisyo, parang laging may budget. Kapag pagmamahal, biglang wala.

Matagal kong inisip na baka dahil adik lang talaga tayo sa dopamine. Sa mabilis na gantimpala. Sa instant na pahinga. Mas madaling bumili kaysa maghilom. Mas madaling uminom kaysa umamin. Mas madaling magpakalunod sa pansamantalang aliw kaysa harapin ang mga sugat na matagal nang naghihintay mapansin.

Pero habang tumatagal, naisip kong baka hindi lang ito personal na kahinaan. Baka sistematikong disenyo ito.

Anong klaseng lipunan ang nabuo natin kung mas madaling bumili ng kaha ng yosi kaysa makakuha ng disenteng trabaho? Kung mas mura ang isang gabing pagkalimot kaysa isang sesyon ng therapy? Kung mas madali pang magpakalasing kaysa magbakasyon? Kung ang pahinga ay kailangan mo pang pag-ipunan, pero ang pagkapagod ay libre at walang limitasyon?

Hindi aksidente na lumalago ang industriya ng mga bagay na pansamantalang nagpapagaan ng loob habang parami nang parami ang mga taong wala nang lakas para mabuhay.

Kapag araw-araw kang ginagawang makina ng sistemang hindi naman kayang ibalik ang dignidad ng pinaghihirapan mo, natural na hahanap ang katawan ng paraan para mabuhay.

Minsan, ang bisyo ay hindi lang bisyo. Isa itong protesta ng katawang matagal nang inaabuso.

Isang sigaw na walang nakakarinig. Isang paraan para sabihin sa sarili mong, "Kahit sandali lang, gusto ko munang makalimot." At hindi kita masisisi. Hindi kita huhusgahan.

Dahil alam kong may mga gabi ring pinili kong gumastos para sa panandaliang saya, kahit alam kong kinabukasan, pareho pa rin ang problema. Pareho pa rin ang bills. Pareho pa rin ang mababang sweldo. Pareho pa rin ang email na nagsasabing, "We regret to inform you..."

Pero may isa pang tanong na mas masakit.

Paano kung ang perang ginagastos natin sa bisyo ay hindi talaga patunay na marami tayong sobra? Paano kung patunay lang iyon kung gaano tayo kagutom?

Hindi sa alak.

Hindi sa sigarilyo.

Hindi sa kape.

Kundi sa pahinga. Sa pagkalinga. Sa pakiramdam na may kontrol pa tayo sa sarili nating buhay.

Siguro kaya hindi tayo nagtitipid sa bisyo, dahil iyon na lang ang iilang bagay na kaya pa nating piliin sa mundong halos lahat ay ipinagkakait sa atin.

Pero nakakalungkot pa rin. Dahil habang handa tayong gumastos para makalimot, unti-unti naman tayong nagiging kuripot sa mga bagay na tunay na nagpapabuhay sa atin. Sa oras. Sa paghingi ng tawad. Sa yakap. Sa pakikinig. Sa pagmamahal.

Nakakatawa, 'no? Ang salitang mahal ay parehong nangangahulugang may mataas na presyo at may malalim na pag-ibig.

Marahil dahil ang mga bagay na tunay na mahalaga ay talagang may kapalit. Pero kung may isang bagay akong gustong maging maluho ulit, sana hindi na iyon ang mga bisyong unti-unting umuubos sa akin.

Sana ang maging luho ko ay ang magmahal.

Hindi dahil mura ito.

Kundi dahil sa mundong lahat ay may presyo, baka ang tanging bagay na hindi dapat natin ipinagkakait ay ang kakayahan nating maging tao sa isa't isa.

- Jae

When I was younger, I thought every birthday would feel like arriving and becoming.

I imagined that one day I'd wake up knowing exactly who I was, what I wanted, and where I was going. I believed that growing older meant becoming more certain. More complete.

No one told me that growing up isn't a destination.

It's a series of losses, unexpected beginnings, impossible choices, and ordinary moments that slowly reshape the person staring back at you in the mirror.

When I look back now, I don't remember my life by the years themselves. I remember them by what each one have taught me.

11 is for the last time I truly felt like a kid.
The world still felt impossibly big, yet somehow safe. Home was a place instead of a feeling I would spend years trying to find again. My biggest worries disappeared after a good night's sleep, and tomorrow always seemed kind enough to wait for me.

12 is for losing the child within me.
Not because I wanted to, but because life has a way of asking children to understand things they're never meant to carry. Somewhere between expectations, disappointments, and silence, I stopped seeing the world with innocent eyes.

13 is for wanting to grow up too fast.
I couldn't wait to become older. I thought adulthood meant freedom. I mistook independence for happiness, never realizing I was rushing away from the only years that asked nothing of me except to simply exist.

14 is for the tears only I knew about.
The kind that fell long after everyone had gone to sleep. The kind that never made it into conversations because I didn't have the words for what I was feeling. My loudest battles are fought in complete silence.

15 is for learning to love someone more than myself.
For discovering how beautiful it feels to care so deeply, and how dangerous it becomes when another person's presence starts determining your own worth. Love taught me that giving everything away doesn't always mean you'll receive the same in return.

16 is for learning to stand on my own.
Not because I felt ready, but because life quietly stopped asking if I was. I learned that strength isn't always confidence. Sometimes strength is simply doing what needs to be done while secretly wishing someone would tell you that you don't have to carry everything alone.

17 is for finding myself again.
After years of becoming who I thought everyone else wanted me to be, I finally started asking myself what I wanted and who I really was. It wasn't a dramatic transformation. It happened slowly, in the books I read, the people I outgrew, the boundaries I learned to set, and the peace I finally chose over approval.

18 is for saying yes to things that scared me.
New places. New dreams. New people. New versions of myself. I realized growth never announces itself. It simply waits on the other side of fear, hoping you'll be brave enough to take one step forward.

19 is for realizing that not everyone is meant to stay.
Some people were never supposed to become permanent. They were lessons disguised as companions. I spent so much time trying to understand why they left that I almost forgot to appreciate why they came into my life in the first place.

20 is for becoming someone I never thought I'd be.
Life rarely follows the plans we make at sixteen. Some dreams quietly disappeared. Others found me when I stopped looking. I became someone younger me probably wouldn't recognize, not because I lost myself, but because life demanded that I grow in ways I never expected.

21 is for learning that growing up can be incredibly lonely.
Friendships become schedules. Conversations become shorter. Everyone is fighting battles they rarely talk about. You begin realizing that adulthood isn't about having everything together, it's about learning how to comfort yourself on days when no one else knows you're falling apart.

22 is for opening my heart again.
For choosing hope after disappointment. For believing that rejection isn't the end of my story. For saying yes to opportunities, even when my past gave me every reason to be afraid. Because healing isn't forgetting what happened. It's refusing to let it decide what happens next.

Looking back, I no longer wish I had stayed younger.

I only wish someone had told me that growing up isn't about becoming perfect.

It's about becoming softer after life hardens you. It's about learning to forgive the younger versions of yourself for not knowing what only time could teach. It's about realizing that every version of you, even the broken, confused, lonely, and frightened ones, was simply doing their best with the life they understood at the time.

So if you're somewhere between who you used to be and who you're still becoming, know this:

You are not behind.

You are not late.

You are simply living through the chapter that your future self will one day look back on and whisper,

"Thank you for not giving up on us."

- Jae

There is a version of ourselves that every heartbreak leaves behind.

Not the version that cried.

Not the version that begged for explanations or relapsed for conversations until dawn.

I'm talking about the quieter one, the one who made silent promises in the aftermath.

"I'll never be this vulnerable again."

"I'll never love this much again."

“Next time, I'll know better."

I think that's how heartbreak survives us, not through memories, but through the rules we create because of it. Somewhere between healing and moving on, we mistake self-protection for wisdom.

We become fluent in distancing.

We learn to reply a little later than we used to.

We stop saying "I miss you" first.

We convince ourselves that whoever cares less always wins. Eventually, we become so good at avoiding pain that we accidentally avoid love, too.

People often say, "Love again."

I disagree.

The next time you love again, love like you haven't.

Not because the last person deserved another chance. Not because your wounds weren't real. But because the person standing in front of you did not write the ending of your previous story.

There is something profoundly unfair about asking someone new to carry the weight of someone they have never met.

Yet we do it all the time.

We hesitate because someone else lied. We withhold affection because someone else disappeared. We struggle to trust because someone else broke their promises.

Our hearts become museums of old catastrophes, and every new visitor is treated like a suspect.

I wonder how many beautiful beginnings have died because they arrived too late, after fear had already moved in.

Perhaps healing isn't measured by how quickly you stop hurting. Perhaps it's measured by whether you can still believe someone deserves the version of you that heartbreak tried to erase.

The version that laughs without calculating consequences. The version that says "I adore you" without rehearsing an exit plan. The version that believes love is something to experience, not merely survive.

I've realized that love asks for a peculiar kind of courage. Not the courage to stay. Not even the courage to leave.

But the courage to remain soft after life has given you every reason to become hard. Anyone can love before they've been hurt. There is innocence in that.

But to love after disappointment, to choose tenderness when cynicism would be easier, that is a different kind of bravery.

The world often celebrates people who never fall apart. I admire the ones who put themselves back together without becoming unrecognizable. Who still smile without suspicion. Who still believe in sincerity. Who still reach for another hand despite remembering what it felt like to lose the last one.

Because love was never meant to become smaller each time it fails. It was meant to become wiser without becoming colder. There is a difference.

Wisdom teaches you to recognize what is healthy. Fear teaches you to assume nothing ever will be. One protects your peace. The other imprisons it.

So if love finds you again, and I hope it does, I hope you don't greet it with a résumé of your grief.

I hope you don't spend the entire relationship waiting for history to repeat itself.

I hope you don't apologize for being hopeful.

I hope you don't ration your affection as though kindness is something you'll run out of.

Love fully.

Ask the difficult questions.

Speak honestly.

Be intentional.

Protect your boundaries.

But don't punish tomorrow for what happened yesterday.

The next time you love again, love like you haven't. Not because you've forgotten every heartbreak. But because you've finally understood that love is not an exam where you earn extra points for expecting the worst.

It is an act of faith. A quiet decision to believe that not every goodbye is inevitable. That not every promise is temporary. That not every person arrives carrying the same intentions.

And if, despite everything, your heart breaks again?

At least let it break while it was alive. Not while it was hiding. Because the greatest tragedy has never been loving the wrong person. It has always been becoming someone incapable of loving the right one.

- Jae

It writes long letters. It memorizes anniversaries. It crosses oceans. It speaks in promises so large they almost become performances. We have been taught to recognize love by how loudly it announces itself.

But I have been wondering if the deepest forms of love are almost invisible. Not because they are small, but because they are consistent.

Perhaps one of the truest forms of love is returning without being asked.

Not returning because guilt demanded it, not because loneliness became unbearable, not because convenience made the distance shorter than before.

Simply because, somewhere in the ordinary rhythm of living, you still found your way back.

I don't mean this only in the romantic sense, I mean every kind of love.

The friend who checks in months later without needing a reason. The child who calls their parents after a difficult day, not because they need money or advice, but because home still exists in a voice. The teacher who remembers a former student years after graduation. The sibling who saves the last piece of fruit because they know you'll come home late. The person who continues choosing you after there is nothing left to gain from doing so.

There is something profoundly human about voluntary return. Because returning is expensive.

It costs time.

Attention.

Pride.

Sometimes, it costs the comfort of pretending you no longer care.

We often think commitment is measured by staying, but staying is not always a choice.

Sometimes people stay because they have nowhere else to go. Sometimes obligation disguises itself as devotion. Sometimes fear wears the face of loyalty.

Returning is different. Returning means there were other roads. Other people. Other possibilities.

And yet, after all the detours life offered, something in you still recognized where your affection belonged.

That kind of love cannot be negotiated, it can only be given.

Modern life has become strangely efficient at replacing things.

Objects become disposable.

Conversations become temporary

Relationships become seasonal.

Entire people become notifications we eventually swipe away.

The culture of abundance has convinced us that permanence is naïve. Why repair what can be replaced? Why revisit what can be forgotten? Why return when there is always someone new to discover?

Perhaps this is why genuine love feels increasingly radical, because love insists that people are not commodities.

They are places. And places worth loving are worth revisiting.

There is another reason I think return matters.

Anyone can arrive.

Arrival is exciting.

It carries possibility.

It is easy to love what is still mysterious, but returning requires memory. It asks us to love what we already know.

The flaws.

The repetitions.

The ordinary days.

The conversations we've had a hundred times before. Arrival falls in love with potential. Return falls in love with reality. That distinction changes everything.

Maybe that is why I no longer trust declarations as much as I trust patterns. Not because words are meaningless. But because words can exist independently of intention.

Returning cannot.

You either come back or you don't. You either remember or you forget. You either choose the relationship again or you quietly allow it to disappear.

Love, I think, is less about intensity than it is about orientation.

Where does your heart naturally go when no one is watching?

Whose happiness crosses your mind without obligation?

What spaces do you revisit even after life has given you permission not to?

Those questions reveal more than any confession ever could. And perhaps we misunderstand what "coming back" really means. It is not always physical.

Sometimes returning is answering the message you've been meaning to answer. Sometimes it is apologizing before pride hardens into silence. Sometimes it is remembering a birthday without a reminder. Sometimes it is reading someone's favorite book because they once said it changed their life. Sometimes it is choosing tenderness after an argument, when ego would be easier.

Love returns in ways so quiet that history rarely records them. Yet entire lives are held together by these almost invisible decisions.

Maybe that is why we ache when someone stops returning. Not because they left.

People leave all the time. We ache because, somewhere deep within us, we know that love is not proven by arrival.

It is proven by the willingness to find the road back. To return without being summoned.

Without applause.

Without certainty that anyone is still waiting.

Just because the heart remembered the way.

Perhaps that is the truest miracle love performs. Not that it makes us stay forever. But that, in a world constantly teaching us to move on, it gives us a reason to come back.

- Jae

Not because it was trending. Not because the algorithm decided it was my personality for the week. But because of a girl on TikTok named Jed.

There's something about the way she moves through life that is difficult to explain. She has this visible spark, not the loud, performative kind that asks to be admired, but the quiet kind that reminds you that joy can be intentional. Watching her made me realize how contagious it is when someone genuinely loves life. You don't just consume their content; you inherit a little of their light.

Then came the song.

"Til they take my heart away."

It stayed.

It followed me while I was sipping a coffee, while I was walking home, while I was pretending not to replay the same lyrics all over and over again.

Most people hear it as a love song.

I did too.

Until I didn't.

Because somewhere between the verses, I realized I wasn't thinking about another person.

I was thinking about myself.

I've spent so much of my life believing love was something that arrived from elsewhere. That one day, someone would look at me long enough to convince me I was worthy of staying.

Maybe that's why so many of us mistake being chosen for being complete.

But what if the longest love story we'll ever live is the one we have with ourselves?

What if every version of us we've abandoned is still waiting to be loved back?

The older I get, the less interested I become in promises that sound like forever. People leave. Circumstances change. Affection evolves. Even the people who swear they'll never let go are still human enough to loosen their grip.

So I've been trying something different.

I've been trying to become the one person who doesn't leave.

Not in the grand, cinematic way.

In the ordinary ways.

Speaking to myself with more patience.

Celebrating my own victories before waiting for applause.

Forgiving myself for becoming someone I never planned to be.

Remaining on my own side, especially on the days I'm hardest to love.

There's a line in the song that speaks of "Even if I lost you, I would feel the same." For a long time, I thought love meant pouring every good thing I had into another person.

Now I wonder if I've been unfair to myself.

How many dreams have I postponed because I was too busy making room for someone else's?

How many times have I apologized for taking up space?

How many pieces of myself have I handed away in hopes they'd return as love?

Maybe loving yourself isn't refusing to let other people in.

Maybe it's making sure they don't become your landlord.

You're allowed to fall in love.

You're allowed to let someone change your life.

You're allowed to make room for another heartbeat beside yours.

Just don't evict yourself to make space.

I hope, if someone ever enters my heart, they find me already living there.

I hope they don't become the reason I smile but another reason to.

I hope they discover someone whose happiness wasn't waiting to be rescued.

Because if they leave, and people sometimes do, I want to recognize the person looking back at me in the mirror.

That's the kind of permanence I'm after.

Not a love that promises forever.

A self that stays.

So yes, maybe the song is still about devotion.

Just not in the way I first understood it.

When I hear "till they take my heart away," I don't imagine clinging to someone who might someday leave.

I imagine holding on to the version of myself that I've spent years trying to find.

And if someone chooses to love me along the way, I hope they never mistake my love for myself as competition.

It's the reason I'll know how to love them well.

Because hearts are meant to be shared.

Not surrendered.

- Jae

There is a strange kind of silence that follows graduation.

Not the silence after applause. Not the silence after your name is called, after the photos are taken, after your sablay rests on your shoulders one last time.

A different kind.

The silence that comes when everyone stops asking about your thesis, your deadlines, your exams, and starts asking, "So, what's next?"

For the longest time, I thought graduation would feel like arrival.

Four years in the University of the Philippines Los Baños taught me how to survive impossible semesters, deadlines that arrived all at once, sleepless nights, protests, meetings, papers, friendships, heartbreaks, and the kind of hope you only develop when you've spent enough time believing that things can still be better.

I thought if I could survive UP, the rest would finally make sense.

Instead, I graduated and somehow became a freshman all over again.

Not because I was back inside a classroom.

Because I was lost.

It is almost funny how life folds in on itself.

I remember walking into campus as an eighteen-year-old who had no idea where anything was. I didn't know which roads led where, what kind of person I wanted to become, or whether I even deserved to be there.

Slowly, I learned.

I found classrooms. Organizations. Friends who became family. Causes worth fighting for. Versions of myself I never imagined I could become.

Somewhere along the way, I thought uncertainty was something you eventually outgrow.

Apparently, it just changes clothes.

Now, instead of wondering which building my next class is in, I wonder where my life is supposed to begin.

Every morning starts the same.

Open another job portal.

Revise another résumé.

Write another cover letter.

Convince another company that I am worth interviewing.

Refresh my inbox.

Receive another rejection.

Or worse,

Nothing.

No one really prepares you for how personal rejection feels when it arrives in bulk.

You begin questioning everything.

Was your degree enough?

Were your internships enough?

Were your leadership roles enough?

Were you enough?

People often tell graduates not to pressure themselves.

"Take your time."

"Rest first."

"Enjoy the freedom."

And I understand why they say it. It's kind advice. But advice assumes everyone has the privilege to follow it.

No one is pressuring me to find work immediately.

Life is.

Bills are.

The economy is.

The quiet understanding that your family has carried enough for long enough is. Rest sounds beautiful until you remember that resting does not pay for groceries.

There is a particular guilt that comes from waking up unemployed while everyone tells you that you've earned a break. Maybe I have. But breaks cost money too.

I've also learned something uncomfortable. Idealism becomes more complicated after graduation.

There are jobs that don't pay enough.

Jobs that ask too much.

Jobs that promise "experience" instead of compensation.

I told myself I would never settle. That after everything I endured, I would wait for something worthy of my time and labor.

Lately, though, I've caught myself reconsidering. Not because my standards have changed. Because surviving has become expensive. No one warned me that conviction would someday have to negotiate with necessity.

Maybe this is what adulthood really is.

Not having all the answers.

Just choosing which uncertainty you can afford.

And maybe that's the hardest part.

In college, every problem came with a syllabus.

Every semester had an ending.

Every failure had another enrollment period waiting for you.

Life after graduation offers no curriculum.

No office hours.

No rubric telling you whether you're doing enough.

Just days that blur together until one opportunity finally says yes.

If it ever does.

Still,

When I think about that freshman version of myself, I remember something important.

He was lost too.

He just didn't know that getting lost was part of finding his way.

Perhaps this version of me deserves the same grace. Maybe I don't need to have everything figured out. Maybe I only need to keep showing up.

To keep sending applications.

To keep believing that one rejection is not a prophecy.

To trust that the person I became in UP wasn't built in a single semester, but through years of uncertainty that eventually looked like confidence in hindsight.

Maybe this chapter will look like that too.

I don't know where I'll be six months from now.

I don't know which company will finally take a chance on me.

I don't know whether I'll look back at this essay and laugh because everything eventually worked out.

I hope I do.

For now, all I know is this:

I survived being a confused freshman once. Perhaps I can survive being a confused graduate too.

No one warned me that life after college would feel like starting over.

Then again, Maybe that's exactly what graduation has always been.

Not the finish line.

Just another first day.

- Jae