A Love Meant to Leave 2: The Pandemic Anomaly

They say love used to be tougher back then.
You had to court—like literally show up with flowers and prayers, climb gates like Spider-Man, impress a father sharpening his bolo, and survive the laser eyes of the tita who smells like Vicks and disappointment.

Now?
Just swipe right and pray you’re not talking to someone who cropped their ex out of a 2014 photo but forgot to crop the trauma.

I didn’t ask for a TED Talk, but in the quarantine facility, everything was communal property: the soap, the gossip, the unsolicited life advice.
The guy beside me, older, married, and spiritually possessed by the ghost of a Nokia 3310, started waxing poetic like he was applying for a slot in Maalaala Mo Kaya.

“Wala kaming ganyan noon, yung swipe swipe? Akyat ligaw kami. Pakilala sa pamilya. Kahit umuulan, dadalaw ako…”

I nodded. Politely.
Half-agreeing, half-wishing a butiki would start a full-blown telenovela on the ceiling to distract me.

But let’s be real: I couldn’t argue.
Dating had changed.
And there I was—lying on a folding bed with a busted foam and government-issued hopelessness—swiping not for love, but out of boredom, low serotonin, and chemically unverified hope.

But this isn’t a story about quarantine.
And it’s not just about how lonely it got.

This is a story about how that loneliness cracked something open—
And accidentally let something real crawl through.

Anomaly? Maybe.
Accident? Probably.
But love? Well…

It Almost Didn’t Happen

I matched with her without even meaning to. Just another swipe. Just another name on a screen. I was jaded — worn out by the dating app circus: perform your greatest hits, flex your resume, your abs (if applicable), toss out a few witty lines and hope she laughs enough to overlook the existential dread behind your selfies.

She messaged me. I replied.
Sort of.
Then I vanished. Not maliciously — more like a ghost who forgot it was haunting someone.

She later told me she was this close to giving up on me on Day 1.

“Sayang,” she said.
She liked me already. And I ghosted her for hours. Classic.

But the truth? I wasn’t playing cool. I wasn’t busy. I was just tired.

Tired of pretending to be more impressive than I was.
Tired of showcasing intelligence to girls who couldn’t volley back.
Tired of selling myself like some discounted weekend bundle at Lazada.

So this time, I didn’t try.
And by not trying, maybe I accidentally did the most honest thing I’ve ever done.

When I finally messaged back, it wasn’t anything grand. Not personal. Just... stuff.
Random thoughts. Nonsense, really. A flight of ideas with no landing gear.
But she replied. Every single time.
Fast. Curious. Effortless. Like someone who didn’t just want a distraction — she wanted me in the distraction.

And that’s when the sly little ego inside me — the schemer, the antenna that twitches when someone’s locked in — perked up.

“Oh? We got a real one.”

So I tested it.
Called her on video.
And there she was.

Not a model. Not an influencer. No filters. Just real.

She wasn’t trying to impress me either.
She looked like someone who’d just survived a war — because, in many ways, she had.
She was a frontliner. A pandemic soldier. Bone-tired, eyes heavy, still in scrubs.

But when she smiled?

Man.
It was like someone opened the curtains in a dim hospital ward.
Like sunlight through a cracked window.
Like the trumpet of an angel... or maybe it was just my province Wi-Fi behaving for once.

She lit up.
And suddenly, everything we’d said in those chaotic hours felt real.

That moment — that smile, on that pixelated screen — was when I knew:

This wasn’t just another match.
This was anomaly.

The 9 PM Pact

I felt like I accidentally swiped right on someone the algorithm didn’t intend for me to meet. Like the app glitched… and sent me someone real.
She wasn’t a “type.” She was a presence. First-time in love, barely in her 20s, yet already more grounded than half the emotionally unavailable women I'd matched with before.

Within 12 hours of talking to her, I knew this wasn’t your usual “hey haha wyd” that fizzles out faster than a birthday candle in a storm. Because I knew the pattern.

You match, you click, you fall into the rabbit hole of six-hour calls like there’s a prize for emotional nudity.
Night 1: Childhood trauma.
Night 2: What your mom did to you in third grade.
Night 3: Existential dread and your sad Spotify playlist.
By Day 5, you're already virtual live-in partners, and by the weekend?
Boom. You ghost each other like it was all just a shared fever dream.
Sound familiar? Yeah. It's practically a TikTok trend.

But this time? I wanted to resist that modern madness.

I wanted to preserve the mystery. Sustain the spark.
Not because I was being clever, but because I was finally tired of burning too bright, too fast, and getting ghosted by my own expectations.
So maybe cutting out our convo at 9 PM wasn’t such a bad idea.

She was a hospital frontliner — a radtech pulling pandemic shifts, while I was just out here counting quarantine days and trying not to spiral over whether a lion could beat a tiger.

She needed rest.
I needed pacing.
So we made a deal.

9 PM. No matter what.
Even if the tea was boiling.
Even if she was mid-sentence about her dramatic cousin’s love life or her high school nickname.

Snip. Curtain call. Fade to black.

Was it romantic? Not sure.
Was it effective? Oh, absolutely.

It wasn't manipulation — it was preservation.
Not a leash, but a lighthouse.
A way to keep us from sprinting into the same emotional walls we both quietly feared.

She appreciated the restraint, the rhythm, the idea of not trying to wrap all the lumpia in one night.

We shared the same logic as in that McDonald’s movie:
“Good things come to those who wait.”
And we did—till the next day, every day.

I wasn’t curbing desire.
I was building value.

Every day had its flavor:

• Mornings were light roast — coffee convos, random quotes, little “how’d you sleep” check-ins.

• Afternoons were trivia, memes, life hacks, and “did you know you can boil eggs in an air fryer?”-level nonsense.

• Evenings were prime time — like that Rosalinda episode where she finally met Fernando Jose (I know, I went too far back on that one… sorry na agad, nostalgia hits weird sometimes).

And then always — 9 PM sharp —even with questions still hanging, fade to black. Done. Bukas ulet.

She passed the test I never told her she was taking.
And that pause — that space — that discipline?

It made the anticipation marinate.
We both became Pavlov’s dog — hungry for the reward that would unravel the next day.

We weren’t clinging.
We were choosing.
Quietly. Consistently.

                                    

The Girl Who Stayed in the Room

She wasn’t the loudest in the chatroom.
Didn’t flood the convo with emojis or weaponized “hehe”s.
No thirst traps. No “hey” every five minutes to stay relevant.

But she stayed.
Like a well-written line that didn’t need to be bold to be remembered.

That’s the kind of girl she was.
Not a fireworks show. More like a lighthouse — constant, understated, quietly saving ships.

She didn’t come in guns blazing. No dazzling monologues.
But when the digital dust settled, she’d still be there.
Soft-spoken. Tuned in. Like the last light still on in a quiet city.

Kung may award for “Best in Replying Without Making It About Herself”, she’d win with a unanimous vote and a standing ovation from every emotionally unavailable man who's ever texted a wall.

And here's the kicker — she never tried to be impressive.

No flexing, no philosophical TED Talk monologues about life.
She didn’t curate her replies. She just... showed up.

Fully. Honestly.
Like she didn’t need to audition for affection.
Like her presence was enough — and damn it, it really was.

I was used to two kinds of people in chats:
The show ponies who tried too hard and burned out by Day 3.
And the passengers, who barely said a thing and let the convo rot.

But her? She had this rare gift of pacing.
She wasn’t rushing toward a climax.
She was walking. Beside me. Matching my tempo, heartbeat for heartbeat.

If I were a song, she didn’t skip to the chorus.
She played the intro.
Listened through the awkward instrumental.
Heard the cough in the background and smiled.
Because she was the kind of person who stayed through the quiet parts — the ones most people pretend don’t exist.

And maybe that’s why the 9 PM rule worked.
It wasn’t a restriction to her — it was a rhythm.
A beat we both somehow agreed to dance to.
No push, no pull. Just a quiet choreography.
And in that soft discipline, something powerful was growing.

We didn’t say it, of course. That would ruin the magic.
But somewhere between the cut-offs and callbacks,
between the silly debates and slow reveals…

We weren’t just chatting anymore.
We were building something.
And she was still in the room.

The Comet That Didn’t Mean to Stay

It was one of those eerie lockdown nights — the kind where even your dog looked like he was processing the global crisis. No karaoke. No tricycles. Just curfew sirens in the distance and the hum of anxiety through the walls.

Around 7 PM — prime time for nonsense — she mentioned her birth year: 1998.

I flinched. Not because of the age gap (we were already past that existential minefield). But because... 1998 meant something.

“That was the year after Hale-Bopp,” I said.

“Hale what?” she asked, head tilted in curiosity.

Game on. I leaned into full nerd mode.

Told her about the comet — this beautiful, massive celestial beast that streaked across our skies in ’97. I was ten. Standing in my grandparents’ yard, arms itching from mosquito bites but eyes glued to the heavens. It wasn’t just a ball of space ice — it was a presence. Something cosmic, vast, older than everything I knew, flying past my sleepy little town like it had somewhere better to be.

She was quiet, then. Not distracted — locked in. The kind of silence where you know someone’s traveling with you in their head.

So I said, half-teasing:
“You were born the year it left. Maybe that’s why you showed up like one, too.”

She laughed. Called me dramatic. I said no — I was being mathematically accurate.

We weren’t just chatting. We were crafting metaphors in a collapsing world. While others were counting COVID deaths and watching Netflix, we were talking comets, myth, and whatever fantasy could keep the shadows at bay.

I told her Haley’s Comet was coming back in 2061.
“I’ll be 74,” I said. “You’ll still be younger, but old enough to guilt-trip me about forgetting our vitamins.”

She laughed again. But she didn’t move on.

And in that moment, I wasn’t trying to “lock her down.”
I was offering a strange, poetic version of the future — one where we were still weird, still curious, still us, long after the world stopped burning.

What she didn’t know — or maybe she did — was that the comet wasn’t just astronomy trivia.

It was my anxiety, disguised.
My fear of losing something I didn’t want to grip too tightly.
My attempt to say:
“I won’t hold you captive, but I’ll be here. Still watching the sky.”

And here’s the sick irony:
I made that promise without realizing how prophetic it would become.

Years later, I’d write about her again.
And yes — she’d be gone by then.
And yes — I’d still be waiting.

When the Exit Is Already Planned

You ever feel the punchline land wrong?

Like, you're mid-laugh and then suddenly you realize… the joke was on you?

That's how it started — a slow ache disguised as banter.
She’d throw a jab. Something light, even flirty. “You’re too good at this. Baka madami ka nang ka-chat dati.”
And I’d laugh, of course. That’s what I do. I’m good at turning daggers into confetti.
But that laugh would die in my throat later, when I was alone.

Because beneath the tease... was a test.
Beneath the test... was a truth neither of us wanted to unpack.

We were building something. Or at least, I was.
And when I say building, I don’t mean flirting or wasting time.
I’m talking architecture — late-night scaffolding made of vulnerability and restraint.
That 9 PM rule? The patience? The pacing?
That wasn’t randomness.
That was me, trying not to fumble something sacred.

And then she dropped it — Dubai.
The word hit like a fire alarm in a museum.

She said it casually at first, like she was mentioning a grocery run.
“Baka by next year, Dubai na ako.”
Smile emoji. No fanfare.

My brain paused.
Dubai?
As in not here?
As in a different country where time zones stretch and connections fray and people like me get reduced to messages “seen 4 hours ago”?

I wanted to ask — When did you decide this?
Was it before you called me your safe space? Before we made Hale-Bopp jokes and built rituals like our own little religion?
But I didn’t.
Because I’m not a beggar.
And she wasn’t being cruel.

She was just doing what she’d always planned to do.
And that’s what made it worse.

Because I thought — stupidly, maybe — that love, or whatever this fragile, glowing thing was between us, might rewire the trajectory.
But nah.
I was never the plan.
I was...the pause.

The unexpected pit stop before the great escape.

And it stung harder because I knew her heart.
I knew about her father — the cancer, the quiet grief in her voice when she talked about him like he was already fading.
I knew how she carried her family on her back like she was twice her age.
I knew her joy was rationed, like electricity during brownouts.
So I understood why Dubai made sense.

But understanding it didn’t make me bleed less.

That night, something cracked.
She made another joke — something about me getting too attached.
I replied with a wink emoji and silence.
Because if I spoke, I might say something real.

I was already spiraling.
Not yet drunk — but I felt it: that sharp thirst not just for alcohol, but for numbness.
That urge to find something that hurts less than this slow-burn heartbreak.

Because how do you mourn a future that was never promised?
How do you cry over someone who hasn’t left yet — but already packed?

So I stayed quiet.

She changed the topic.
Laughed a little too hard.
And in the tiny gap between her sentences… I heard everything I needed to.

Not a goodbye.
But the preparation for one.

The 9 PM rule just started to be a countdown.

A Love Meant to Leave (But Fought to Stay)

I wasn’t stupid. I knew what I was walking into.
This wasn’t a forever kind of setup.
We weren’t soulmates — we were a phenomenon,
a rare alignment of two pandemic strangers
who probably weren’t meant to orbit each other this long.

We were a guava tree growing in a forgotten lot —
accidentally planted by a bird,
nurtured by storms,
never meant to be permanent.
But still, it grew.
Gave shade. Bore fruit.

And then there was her:
The comet I never expected to witness.
Blazing. Beautiful.
Gone before the world could deserve her.

She never promised forever —
but she never stopped showing up.
Even when the days started blurring,
even when our conversations lost their novelty
and became ritual —
the 9 PM curtain call still held.

We kept showing up for it.
For each other.

And somewhere along that tired calendar,
where the days all looked the same
and the silence outside our windows screamed of the world falling apart —
I fell in love with her.

No fireworks. No big confession.
Just… a slow decision, made daily.
Every time the clock refreshed,
and the date changed,
I chose her again.
No matter how far,
no matter how doomed it all felt,
I chose her.

And maybe, deep down, I still hoped —
That before Dubai,
before her flight and her farewell,
we could meet.
Even just once.
Even just enough to prove to the universe
that we really did exist.

She had every reason to fade —
a future she didn’t choose but had to follow,
a life her family mapped out
long before I ever logged into that app.

But she didn’t fade.
She lingered.

And I?
I didn’t resist the pain.
I welcomed it.
Because loving her, even from a distance,
was better than forgetting her at all.

So yeah, maybe we were both just rebels.
Fools who saw the fire exit
but stayed for the burning house anyway.

And when it ends —
because it will,
like all rare things —
I won’t call it wasted.

I’ll call it sacred.

Coffee, Mountains, and Other Versions of Goodbye

That morning, we both had coffee in hand.
Mine was strong and bitter.
Hers? Probably sweet, with too much creamer—the way she liked it.

The sky behind me was unusually clear—one of those rare, cinematic blues that seemed to apologize for all the gray we'd endured.
I showed her the jagged line of Bicol’s mountains, their peaks still wrapped in soft morning mist.
It was beautiful.

But what I remember... was her smile.
Not because of the view, but because I shared it with her.

God, I fell in love with her again.
Just like I did yesterday.
Just like I knew I would tomorrow.

She smiled — that kind of unfiltered, quiet joy that made the call feel less like a screen and more like a window.
But then... she turned her camera briefly.
When she came back, the smile was still there—but worn differently. Like a coat that didn’t fit anymore, but you wear anyway because someone expects you to.

That’s when I saw it.

Just a flicker. A quiet fade.
The kind of shadow you only notice when you're already in love with the light.
She didn’t want me to see the weight she carried.
The exhaustion. The anticipation of the life she was heading into.
The version of tomorrow that didn’t include this call, this view, this us.

Still, she stayed on the line a little longer than usual.
She stared at the mountains with me, then whispered,
“I wish I’m with you right now.”

She didn’t even look at me when she said it.

And I didn’t panic.
Didn’t beg.
Didn’t cling.

I just took a slow sip and said,
“In time, my dear. In time.”

Then she waved. Said something soft like “Ingat.”
And the screen went black—the kind of black that feels heavier than silence.

I stared at my reflection in the monitor, still lit by the glow of her absence.
Still holding my mug.
Still hearing the echo of her laugh lingering somewhere in the corners of the room.

And that’s when the thought slipped in—
uninvited, quiet, and devastating,
like guilt in a quiet church.

Maybe one day, someone will build on that guava lot.
Maybe they’ll never know something once bloomed there—by accident, by magic, by survival instinct.

And maybe in 2061, Halley’s Comet will streak across the sky again,
and if I’m still here, I’ll look up and whisper her name like a prayer.

Was she the tree that bloomed where no one looked?
Or the comet that stayed longer than it should?

Maybe she was both.
Maybe I was too.

And maybe—despite the clock, the silence, the looming departure—
we were still choosing each other, in quiet ways, every single day.

To be continued.

The Ghost of the Past and the Recurring Facebook Deactivation

I’m doing good—no questions about that. Over a year sober. Physically fit. Mentally stable. But something still doesn’t feel right. It’s the ghost of the past that continues to haunt me.

A few years ago, I went through a breakup so devastating it almost ended me—literally. I was lost, confused, and ashamed. And what made it worse? It all happened in my 30s. People assume you’ve got life figured out by then. I didn’t. Not even close.

I had been overstimulated for years—constantly distracted by everything the modern world throws at us: social media, mindless content, digital noise. None of it helped. They didn’t solve my problems; they just numbed me to the storm building inside. That was when I realized how vulnerable and mentally weak I had become.

The first step in rebuilding myself was obvious: quit alcohol. It had been the main culprit behind most of my missteps. But the deeper I went, the more I saw how the internet—and social media in particular—was quietly eating away at my focus, patience, and peace.

I took action. I slowed down and eventually shut down my accounts for prolonged periods. And here’s what I discovered:

---

Realizations from Logging Off

• Instant gratification is a dangerous drug. It makes you crave validation, convinces you that your worth is measured by reactions and comments. You chase that high, but it crashes—hard. And when it does, you feel empty, without even knowing why.

• The addiction is subtle. Scrolling endlessly becomes a reflex. You feel “busy” but go nowhere. Each post gives you a dopamine hit that lasts a second, then you’re back to the void again. It weakens the mind, erodes patience, and warps attention. I realized this loop needed to stop.

---

Just today, after keeping Facebook active for a little over two weeks, I deactivated it again. My sleep, which had been solid for months, started to slip. My focus at work dipped a bit too. Sure, my social life got a boost—but nothing deep. Just exchanges of surface-level validation, traded like currency.

To be clear, I’ve built a solid foundation of discipline. I don’t spiral like before. But the triggers are still familiar. So I asked myself: why put my hard-earned peace in jeopardy for something so unnecessary?

So here I am again—back in late-2000s mode. Offline. Unreachable. Free.

---

The Deeper Ghost: Love and Loss

But it’s not just the overstimulation that made me deactivate. There’s something deeper—something older.

Facebook was the medium that gave me the greatest love of my life. And staying active on it is like lingering at a tombstone, constantly visiting a graveyard of something beautiful that’s now gone. That’s exactly how it feels.

Though my desire to reconnect with her has faded over time, it still pokes at me. Each reactivation is like turning a doorknob I’ve promised myself to leave alone. At first, there’s excitement. But then the memories rise—uninvited, unstoppable—and I spiral again.

Apparently, I still love her.

---

Choosing the Hard Path

There’s no rule that says, “Just go with the flow. Everyone’s online. Why resist?” No. When I quit alcohol and committed to fitness, I had one clear goal: to reclaim my mental health. And I’m applying the same mindset to my digital life.

I’m not rejecting connection or trying to live in complete solitude. I just believe in taking vacations from overstimulation. I believe in facing boredom. Facing internal struggles. We don’t need to always distract ourselves from what hurts.

Sometimes, the best way to heal is to look straight into the pain—without filters, without scrolling past it, without numbing it down.

Alcohol-Free Day 400: Ekis si RED

Eksena sa Tindahan

Me: Te, pagbilhan nga!

Red: Uy tol, kamusta ka na? Runner na 'yarn? Haha! Fresh talaga pag tatakbo pa lang e, 'no? Mamaya haggard ka na naman. Bonding na lang tayo—di ka pa mapapagod. Tagal na natin walang bonding eh. Di na kita kilala, tol. Seryoso na ba talaga 'yan?

Me: Sa nakaraang apat na raang araw, wala kang tinanong sa’kin kundi ‘y
an. 'Wag mo akong gaguhin sa linyang “di mo na ko kilala.” Halos araw-araw tayong nagkikita—di mo lang matanggap na di kita pinapansin.

Red: Tsss... Ang talim mo na magsalita ngayon, boi. Napaka-walang utang na loob mo. Sino ang sumama sa’yo nung down na down ka? Sino ang dumamay sa’yo nung lahat tinalikuran ka na? Sino ang nanatili sa tabi mo nung kailangan mong makalimot?!! Yumabang ka na nang husto, pare! Ganyan ka ba sa kaibigan?

Me: Hindi tayo magkaibigan, at alam mo 'yan. Lahat ng naibigay mo sa’kin, binayaran ko rin—at may interes pa. Nung one time na sinasabi mong sinamahan mo ko, asan ka nung muntik na kong mabangga ng sasakyan? Asan ka nung nagbabadya na ang gout sa mga binti ko? Asan ka nung nagrerebelde na atay ko? Asan ka nung mukha na kong butete at palaging masakit ang tiyan? Asan ka nung dugo na ang iniihi ko?

Higit sa lahat—ASAN KA NUNG BUMIBIGAY NA ANG MENTAL HEALTH KO?!!! Andito ka pa rin sa tindahan at tuloy pa rin sa pagyaya sa’kin sa letseng “bonding” na 'yan! Langya ka. Buti sana kung maisasama kita sa hukay. Pero tulad ng ginawa mo sa mga mahal ko sa buhay, sila lang ang sinundo ni kamatayan habang chill na chill ka at pinapanood ang pagpanaw nila. Tang-ina ka. Hindi tayo magkaibigan.

Red: O, bakit ako sinisisi mo? Di ako nagkulang ng paalala sa’yo—“moderately,” nga 'di ba? Nag-aral ka pa mandin, pero ang obob mo sa part na 'yan? Pare, ginawa ako hindi para demonyohin ka kundi samahan ka, at tulungan kang makalimot paminsan-minsan. Nao-offend ba ako tuwing sinasabi n'yong “naabuso ako?” Ako lang ang inaabuso na hindi nagrereklamo. HAHAHA!

Bakit ako ang mananagot sa mga naging isyu sa katawan at isip mo? Kasalanan ko ba na wala kang disiplina? Mga tropa mo, tropa pa rin kami hanggang ngayon kasi di tulad mo—hindi nila ako inaabuso.

Me: Correction—“HINDI KA PA NAAABUSO.” Nung tropa pa tayo, kabilang ako sa sinasabi mong “matino pa, kaya pa, may disiplina pa.” At alam mo na kahit unti-unti na kong napupunta sa adiksyon at pagkalulong sa’yo, sinasabi mong “moderated” pa rin ako.

Wag mo akong gaguhin. Karamihan ng tropa mo ay in denial lang! Mga nagsasabing OK pa sila kahit lulong na sa’yo. Ilang dekada mong sinabi sa’kin na OK pa ako. Nung bata pa ko at malusog, sinabi mo rin sa’kin ‘yan—na “moderate lang.”

Sinabi mo ba sa’kin na isang araw, maaaring ma-depress ako, mangailangan ako ng instrumento para makalimot, at maaaring “maabuso” kita? HINDI! Kasi naka-tadhana kang abusuhin—at alam mo 'yan! Bakit ka mao-offend sa bagay na kasama na sa paglikha sa’yo?

Red: Aba! Hindi ko hawak ang mga isip n’yo! Ako ay isa lamang instrumento na magbibigay sa inyo ng kaginhawahan ng pakiramdam, at dadalhin kayo sa lugar na wala na ang mga alalahanin n’yo sa buhay. Bakit ako ang sisisihin mo? Pare-pareho kayong may sariling utak, so bakit parang kasalanan ko?

Me: See? E di inamin mo rin. Dahil diyan, totoong ako ang may hawak ng sarili kong pag-iisip—at HINDING-HINDI na tayo magba-bonding ulit. Itaga mo 'yan sa bato. Hindi ko iko-kumpromiso ang ika-400 na araw na wala na ako sa kontrol mo.

At hayaan mong klaruhin ko sa’yo: Tapos na akong tumakbo. At itong “freshness” na sinasabi mo, kahit pagod ako—ay dahil matagal na kong NAG-QUIT sa’yo!

Red: Ok. Ang akin lang naman e... miss na kita, pare. Isa ka sa mga madaming masasayang memories na nakasama ko. Mga wacky moments mo na ako lang ang nakakaalam. Pero kung ayaw mo talaga—well, good luck.

As you can see, wala na akong laman ngayon. Meaning, may mga tropa pa rin ako na tumatangkilik sa’kin. Di ka kabawasan. HAHAHAHA!

Ate: Hoy! Kanina ka pa nakatitig d’yan sa bote ng Red Horse. Bibili ka ba? Haha!

Me: Ay, sorry te. Pagbilhan lang ako ng katol. Pwede akin na lang ‘tong basyo ng Red Horse mo? Gagawin kong stand ng katol.

Ate: Sa dami ng deposito ng bote na hindi mo na kinuha sa’kin noon, ‘yong iyo na 'yan. Haha!

Red: Stand ng katol, ampotah...

Me: Oo, pre. Magkaroon ka naman ng silbi.

Where Echoes Learn to Kneel

 

He walks beneath the hush of stars,

a ghost of vows the wind still keeps.

Each step, a psalm in battle scars.

Each silence—where the sorrow sleeps.

They said “Move on, the past has died,”

but how to mourn what’s still alive?

A phantom curled up deep inside—

no grave for that which did survive.

She lives in him, like ancient ink

etched on the marrow, not the skin.

No prayer can scrub it out, no drink

undo the war still fought within.

Two years have passed—or maybe less,

for time plays tricks on souls that ache.

He counts his days by tenderness

he fakes by laughing wide awake.

He did not beg. He did not plead.

He simply bore the weight of grace.

Not out of lack, nor selfish need,

but just to never lose her face.

He’s changed—by storms, by fire, by steel.

He’s not the man who lost her then.

He’s built of something raw and real,

but still too soft to speak again.

Some nights, his pride climbs high enough—

his chest swells with a lion’s heart.

He swears, “One message should be tough…

just one could tear the night apart.”

But no—his tongue becomes a stone.

His hands, they freeze above the screen.

For peace is earned, not merely known,

and words, once spent, can’t stay unseen.

It’s not that he has lost his fire.

It’s not that he’s too shy to call.

He walks with poise, with pure desire,

and power sculpted from the fall.

He’s learned to tame his brightest flare,

not out of fear—but discipline.

He’d rather rot in silent prayer

than trespass where she once had been.

His poems—his pathetic reach.

His rhymes—the cries behind the mask.

This verse? A graveyard he can’t breach.

His courage? In the strength not to ask.

She does not call. He does not write.

And still, she echoes every night.

In words unsaid and songs unheard,

in memories blurred but still upright.

He honors peace the way monks vow

to drink the storm and feed the flame.

He walks alone beneath that plow

of “I still love, but won’t reclaim.”

And though the world may never hear

the ache behind his silent art,

he writes her name in every tear

he hides beneath a sculpted heart.

A man who chose the sacred pain

of loving loud without a sound—

to never speak, to not explain,

yet worship all she left unfound.

He could return. He has the means.

But in his silence, there's a creed:

“Disturb her peace? By no machines.

I’d rather bleed than plant that seed.”

A man in love with silence still—

a myth, a whisper, half a plea.

He walks beneath the weight and will

to let her go…

and never be.

Black Saturday and the Death of My Main Character Syndrome

It was 4:00 a.m. on Black Saturday. Everyone woke up early to pack for a picnic at the nearby beach. I was in Batangas with my relatives, along with my brother. The previous night had been rough—I was once again put in the spotlight for not drinking alcohol. I had to explain myself, as my uncle wasn’t used to seeing me just sitting in a corner, engaging in the conversation with only a glass of water in hand. I've been sober for over a year now.

“So, today’s probably going to be another round of convincing these people why I chose not to drink,” I told myself the moment I opened my eyes that morning. Still, I got out of bed feeling carefree, choosing not to overthink it. If people insist on their opinions, I’ll let them—but they won’t make me relapse. That’s my conviction.

The beautiful landscapes of Batangas offered me a chance to reflect even more deeply. It was a gorgeous morning, and the sun was rising as we made our way to the nearby beach. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before—something I expected, since I rarely sleep well anywhere other than my own bed at home. But the lack of sleep didn’t prevent me from arriving at some meaningful realizations. While staring at the mountain ranges, three thoughts came to me:

1. Be Present – Back in the ’90s and early 2000s, we didn’t have smartphones constantly distracting us from the moment. All we had were each other—real-time conversations that fostered meaningful exchanges. I realized that whenever a chance for conversation arises, it’s an opportunity to sharpen the slowly dying art of communication. Genuinely respond with a mind unsaturated by the hundreds of random internet images and videos. Put away your phone—or whatever your distraction of choice is—and embrace the present moment, whether it’s connecting with people or simply admiring the scenery around you.

2. You Are Not the Center of the Universe – Stop the Main Character Syndrome (MCS) – The world doesn’t revolve around you. Stop perceiving others as mere background characters in the story of your life. That mindset leads to thoughts of superiority, which, in turn, trigger an ongoing need for validation. Narcissism grows in silence, until eventually, you operate on a covert mission to gain praise just to feel better about yourself. How messed up is that? And it all starts from thinking others don’t compare to your supposed level of “self-improvement.” You’ll end up becoming manipulative and controlling just to bend everything to your liking—turning into a full-blown asshole. The worst part? You might not even notice it at first. But eventually, everyone else will—and that’s how you become a certified "Karen."

3. Listen More. Acknowledge More – To overcome MCS, you need to genuinely listen to people. Acknowledge their thoughts and respond in the moment. Really process what they’re saying. Come up with responses that satisfy their input enough to move the conversation forward naturally. If you always steer the discussion toward your own preferred topic—just because you think it’s more interesting—you’re acting like an MCS brat who believes others’ ideas are dull and that your input will magically “save” the vibe. Not only are you robbing yourself of the chance to learn something new from others, but you’re also hijacking the flow of the conversation for your own ego.

These three realizations hit me hard—because they reflect my own struggles. Sometimes, when conversations feel boring—when I’m not getting the validation I crave or don’t feel heard enough—I grab my phone. I scroll a little just to distract myself, then rejoin the talk, barely hearing what’s been said. I pick up a few lines, rephrase them in my own words, and pretend I was listening the whole time. That’s messed up. Some might say it's normal in today’s age of constant distraction, but it wouldn't hurt to put our devices aside and truly be present.

Whenever I sense the connection is getting dull or pointless, I try to rescue the moment by tossing in some “intriguing” topic—usually something about myself. Classic MCS behavior. I end up sidelining others just because I get bored easily and assume I have better ideas than they do. It weakens my ability to truly listen and build genuine relationships. All because of this unconscious hunger for validation—at the expense of the very lessons I claim to reflect on.

Moments later, we arrived at the beach. I noticed how serious my reflections had become—I wasn’t my usual self. I was quiet and filled with a strong desire to act on those realizations. We settled into a simple cottage by the shore, but I didn’t initiate or join any conversation. No one talked to me or attempted to engage. That hit me. Turns out, most of my social interactions happen because I start them. I’m often the talkative one.

But it was okay.

The silence brought peace. It gave me more time to reflect—this time, with the tranquil beach right in front of me. As I sat, hypnotized by the calm sea, my uncle eventually broke the silence by offering me a drink. I politely declined. Usually, whenever I refuse alcohol, I feel compelled to explain. But this time, I didn’t. I acknowledged the offer with a smile and simply said, “I don’t drink anymore.” That was it.

I stayed in the circle, listening to their stories without interrupting—unless asked. When I did respond, I kept it minimal. I didn’t hijack the discussion. At one point, I felt the urge to grab my phone. The conversation wasn’t about me, so it didn’t spark my interest. I thought about playing a video just to subtly show my disinterest—like, “Go on with your booze talk, I’ll entertain myself.” But there was no signal. I couldn’t load anything.

That brief moment of frustration exposed how quickly I was ready to abandon my own reflections. I felt like a hypocrite. So, I put my phone away and turned back to the conversation. This time, without distractions, I really listened. I absorbed what they said, processed their words, connected them to my own experiences, and formulated thoughts I was ready to share—if given the chance. And at that moment, all three of my realizations finally bore fruit.

The most rewarding outcome? I learned things about my uncle—my late father’s sibling—that I never knew before. By actively listening, I was able to ask questions that came naturally and were relevant to his story. That led to even deeper insights about our family. If I had stayed in MCS mode, I never would’ve learned these things.

The highlight of the conversation was discovering that my uncle is going through a relationship crisis within the family. He has wounds that remain unhealed—wounds he might not even know how to address. Or maybe he’s simply numb. That, right there, is why listening matters.

So I kept listening. I asked questions—not about myself, but about him and our family. He opened up freely. I could sense his relief, like a weight being lifted. I never once stole the spotlight. The conversation flowed naturally, like water—uninterrupted. It was a beautiful moment.

By the end, I felt an immense sense of satisfaction for successfully putting my realizations into action. There wasn’t a trace of MCS in that exchange. It felt good to strengthen my bond with my relatives simply by acknowledging them—and not by trying to explain why I don't drink. In the past, I would’ve gone into defensive mode—explaining the science and philosophy behind my choice, trying to look smart and rational while subtly making them seem like drunken idiots. That kind of toxic superiority complex that people sometimes develop when they’re “bettering themselves.” I used to be that guy. But not anymore.

This time, I took the mockery—even the emasculating jokes from my uncle about how a “real man” drinks—and simply smiled. I offered a short apology that I couldn’t drink and left it at that. And because of that humility, I gained something far more valuable: insight into his pain, his struggles, and his humanity.

That, to me, is what being a real man looks like—not whether you drink or not.

I wasn’t required to stay in the drinking circle—and for the first time, I didn’t feel compelled to. The usual urge to linger, to earn laughs or nods, to soak in that unspoken validation... it just wasn’t there anymore. It was strange, but freeing. I began to sense that maybe I wasn’t needed in that space—and instead of feeling excluded, I felt light. For someone who once fed so heavily on approval, this quiet detachment felt like growth.

More importantly, I was starting to appreciate others—not just through the lens of how they saw me, but for who they genuinely were. That alone felt like a turning point. But I suppose my social battery had drained quicker than usual, so I quietly exited the conversation and wandered off to the sea.

I waded into the water, waist-deep, and paused.

Reflection found me again. The silence of the open sea cradled my thoughts. This is liberating, I remember thinking. I had never appreciated the ocean quite like I did in that moment. There, with no distractions, freedom poured its full meaning into me.

I took a deep breath, filled my lungs with the salt-tinged air, and dove in.

What followed was one of the best days of my life. I swam, unbothered, unhurried, unchained. Lap after lap within the allowed area, until exhaustion crept in—but even that felt welcome. I wasn’t swimming to prove anything. I wasn’t swimming away from anything. I had simply fallen in love with the water again.

No alcohol in my system—just the occasional sips of fresh water when I felt thirsty, then right back to swimming. I didn’t even bother with sunblock. The moment had momentum, and I didn’t want to interrupt it. That kind of immersion—body, mind, and soul—felt sacred.

As I swam continuously, a memory from long ago came rushing back: summer of 1998. I was just a boy when a fishing boat, left unanchored, began drifting away. I remember people shouting from the shore, but no one acted. I dove into the sea, fear coursing through me, and swam—hard. The boat kept slipping farther and farther. My muscles screamed. I truly believed I wouldn’t make it. But I kept going—pushed by something more than strength. Willpower. Youthful defiance. Maybe a deep sense of duty.

And somehow, I reached it. Somehow, I pulled that boat back to shore.

That same willpower, buried beneath years of distraction, came alive again that Black Saturday. As I swam with nothing but rhythm and breath, I felt like that boy again—untouched by performance, uncorrupted by ego. Just pure movement. Pure presence.

It was Holy Week, after all—and without planning it, I had found my own kind of spiritual retreat. A return not just to silence, but to self. A sacred pause from the noise I used to chase.

I’ll treasure that moment, and I’ll try to replicate it whenever I can.

No more MCS.
No more narcissistic hunger.
Just presence, peace, and genuine connection with the people I love.

820 Days

You showed me meaning, gave my soul its spark,

Lit up my world when it was cold and dark.

You were — and still are — the breath that I take,

The calm in the storm, the dawn when I break.

Though I don’t see you like I used to do,

You linger near, like the sky holds the blue.

In dreams, we walk with fingers entwined,

Two hearts once lost, now perfectly aligned.

Your smile — it haunts me, soft and coy,

A fleeting trace of joy I miss.

The mary calm before the storm,

A love that burned with quiet bliss.

I hear your voice in the wind’s low hum,

Like the beat of a song I wish would come.

The touch of your hands still lives in my skin,

A warmth I long for again and again.

We laughed like children, wild and free,

And in those laughs, I found all of me.

Your mood swings danced with mine like fire,

Yet somehow, love kept lifting us higher.

Even the flaws — they shine in gold,

Our tangled hearts, the stories told.

The jokes we cracked, the looks we shared,

Those fleeting glances that said we cared.

You were the merry in my madness,
The joy that eased my morning sadness.
And though you’ve gone, and time won’t stay,
Those traces linger, come what may.

It’s been a while since you walked away,

But my love still blooms in quiet display.

Like a star that won’t give up its light,

Still burning strong in endless night.

You’re a comet — rare, heartbreakingly bright,

A streak through the soul, too fierce for flight.

I may never again see you face to face,

But you've carved in my soul your sacred place.

Some days I forget, then a scent, a sound,

Pulls me to where you're still around.

Not all love survives, some remains in pain,

A whisper, a wound — a beautiful stain.

Sayonara, my only true love — my muse,

May fate be kind if we ever get to choose.

And should we meet again in another life,

I swear to love you without the strife.

I’ll treat you right if time rewinds,

And hold you close till life resigns.

That vow I make beneath the sky,

To you — the only truth I can’t deny.

Wherever you are, if you look above,

Know there’s a man still drunk in your love.

He cannot lie — there’s no disguise,

You're the one he’ll never revise.

You are sacred history in his book,

An untouchable place no one else can look.

Even if the story reached its end,

You remain the chapter he’ll never amend.

Some stories end, but leave a hue—
Of joy that time can’t quite undo.
You were my storm, my peace, my song—
A merry ache that keeps me strong.