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.

The Lollipop: A Cautionary Tale of Sweet, Misplaced Hope

Back in 2010, when people still tuned in to FM radio and Bluetooth file-sharing was peak technology, I wrote this story. At the time, I thought it was profound—a tale of love, longing, and unspoken confessions wrapped in a metaphor as sweet as a lollipop. Looking back now? It’s a mix of pure cringe and a flood of memories I didn’t ask for. But hey, nostalgia has a funny way of making even our most awkward moments feel worth revisiting. So, here it is—raw, dramatic, and dripping with the emotional intensity of a guy who thought love was best expressed through candy.

Adam was the kind of guy who believed in grand romantic gestures but had the subtlety of a fireworks display in a library. A small-town boy who had watched one too many 90s rom-coms, he believed that consistency was the key to a woman's heart. And what better way to prove his dedication than through a daily offering of a single lollipop?

Alice, his unsuspecting office mate, was the lucky recipient of this sugar-coated affection. At first, she thought it was just a quirky habit, like someone who always wore mismatched socks or insisted on drinking coffee from a chipped mug. She accepted each lollipop with a polite smile, assuming Adam was just being friendly. Meanwhile, Adam saw that smile as a beacon of something deeper—something meant to be.

As the lollipop ritual continued, they grew close in that casual, coworker way—sharing inside jokes about their boss’s weird obsession with paperclips, exchanging stories about childhood, and occasionally teaming up to survive grueling overtime shifts. Adam, however, was operating under a different reality: he saw these moments as proof that Alice was warming up to him, that the lollipops were working their magic.

Valentine’s Day was approaching, and Adam decided it was the perfect time to unveil the truth—his feelings, his unwavering devotion, and the reason behind the lollipops. But he wasn’t an idiot (or so he thought). He wouldn't blurt it out over a casual lunch break. No, he needed the moment. The right ambiance. The perfect confession. So he did what any hopeful romantic would: he asked Alice out on Valentine’s Day. And she said yes.

In Adam’s mind, this was it. The culmination of weeks of effort. The lollipops had done their job. The universe was on his side. He imagined the grand reveal—Alice gasping in shock, overwhelmed by his heartfelt confession, maybe even shedding a single tear as she realized that she had loved him all along.

Reality, however, had other plans.

On the fateful day, Adam was buzzing with excitement. He had everything ready—maybe even rehearsed a speech in the mirror. But just a few hours before their “date,” Alice casually dropped a bomb on him.

“Hey, Adam, I almost forgot to tell you—I’m actually going out with my friends tonight.”

Boom. Silence. Internal devastation.

Adam blinked. Laughed nervously, as if she were joking. But she wasn’t.

“Oh, and also…” she hesitated for a moment, “I won’t be coming back to the office after today.”

Boom again. Double explosion. The lollipops had failed. The universe had betrayed him.

Alice left, completely unaware of the wreckage she left behind. Adam stood there, lollipop in hand, feeling like the human embodiment of a tragic movie ending—but not the cool, cinematic kind. More like the ones where the hero gets hit by a bus right after delivering a heartfelt monologue.

He never told Alice about the tiny love notes hidden inside each lollipop stick. He never told her that, from the very first one to the very last, he had been saying I love you all along. Maybe she never saw the signs. Maybe she did and ignored them. Maybe she was just being kind, accepting his gestures without thinking too much about them.

Adam would eventually move on, but the sting of that day would linger—because nothing wounds deeper than a love story that never even started.

And so, Adam would carry this lesson with him, hoping that, next time, he’d find a love that didn’t require decoding hidden messages inside candy. But for now, he’d sit there, reflecting on the past, wondering if he’d ever meet someone who would love him back before the world ran out of lollipops.

A Love Meant to Leave

The Goodbye That Held On

The park where we always hung out felt different that midday—quieter, heavier, as if the trees and the wind knew what was about to happen. The usual laughter of kids playing, the distant chatter of vendors, the rustling leaves—all seemed muffled, like the world was bracing itself for the inevitable.

We sat on our favorite bench, the one under the old acacia tree, where the shadows stretched long, swaying gently in the breeze. I could hear the faint chirping of birds, but even their songs carried a note of sorrow. She stared ahead, lost in thought, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the wooden bench between us. I studied her profile—the curve of her jaw, the way the afternoon sun painted golden hues on her skin. She was beautiful, painfully so, and I hated how much I loved her in that moment.

She took a deep breath before speaking.

"Tama na siguro to… Let’s end it here."

Her voice was calm, measured—but I caught the hesitation, the slight tremor she tried to hide.

I clenched my jaw, forcing a steady breath. I knew this was coming, but hearing it still felt like a blade slicing through my chest. “Why now?” My voice barely came out.

She exhaled, like she had been holding in something too heavy for too long.

"Kasi kung hindi natin tatapusin ngayon, lalo lang tayong masasaktan." She looked down at her hands. "Alam mong aalis ako. Alam mong mahirap ang long-distance. Ayokong dumating sa puntong mapagod tayo, masaktan tayo, mawala tayo nang hindi natin namamalayan."

I stared at her, searching for something—doubt, regret, anything that would tell me she wasn’t as sure as she sounded. But her eyes were steady, unwavering, even as they glistened with unshed tears.

"Ganun na lang?" I whispered.

She turned to me then, offering the softest, saddest smile. She reached for my hand, gripping it just tight enough for me to feel how hard this was for her, too.

Her words felt like an anchor pulling me down, but they also carried a strange weight of truth. She was always the more rational one between us. Still, reason didn’t make it hurt any less.

For a moment, we just sat there, staring at the cracked pavement beneath our feet, as if looking for answers that weren’t there. Then, impulsively, I reached for her other hand, lacing my fingers through hers. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she squeezed back—a silent acknowledgment of everything we had been, everything we still were, even in this moment of breaking apart.

"Can we fight please? Kahit para sa mga natitirang months na lang…Please." I admitted, my voice raw.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she just stared at me—deep, unwavering, as if searching my soul for something unspoken. Her eyes softened, not with pity, but with something else. Understanding. Maybe even approval.

I took it as a yes. As confirmation that she felt the same way.

A slow smile crept onto my lips, relief washing over me like a tide. If she wasn’t saying goodbye yet, then maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to hold onto.

The wind stirred around us, rustling the leaves above, carrying whispers of something unseen, something just beyond reach. The world continued, indifferent to the weight of this moment, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that fate was pausing—watching, waiting. As if this wasn’t the end. As if something greater was set in motion.

We sat there, hand in hand, letting the silence stretch between us, no longer heavy but charged with unspoken possibilities. My heart ached, but not in the way that signals loss—it was the kind that precedes something profound, something yet to unfold.

Because love, even when tested, has a way of rewriting its own fate.

Borrowed Time

With just five months left, I resolved to make every moment count.

"On one condition," she had said, her eyes locked onto mine, her voice steady yet gentle. "This time, I take charge."

A protest stirred inside me, but I swallowed it down. I had lost her once before because of my need to control everything. This time, I would not make the same mistake. "Alright," I said, voice firm. "You call the shots. I’ll follow. No more second-guessing you. No more trying to mold things into what I want them to be."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Then let’s do this."

And just like that, we found ourselves in a new chapter—one where I let her lead, and I followed willingly.

We went on memorable motorcycle road trips, chasing the sun, pretending that time wasn’t slipping away. She defied the conservative expectations of her family, sneaking out just to be with me. And I loved her for it.

We were reckless, madly in love, running against time. I rode for hours after my night shifts just to see her, despite my exhaustion. The risk never mattered; the only thing that did was reaching her. I would speed through the highways, dodging the early morning traffic, my hands gripping the throttle like my life depended on it. And in a way, it did. Every ride to see her felt like chasing a dream that was slipping through my fingers.

She, my angel, had once been the one manipulated, restrained by my selfish love. Now, she was teaching me what it meant to be free—to love without domination, to surrender without losing myself. And it was liberating.

We found joy in the simplest of moments—late-night drives, getting drenched in the rain, stealing hours in places where no one knew us. The thrill of sneaking her past curfews, of knowing we were defying the rules just to be together, made every second electric. She was willing to break the rules for me, to bend time itself so that we could stretch the days we had left.

I should have felt victorious, knowing she was breaking away from everything she had always obeyed just to be with me. But instead, I felt humbled. I saw what love truly was—not possession, not control, but a force that made someone want to choose you, again and again, despite everything.

For the first time, I despised the man I had been—the one who once sought to control her, who feared losing grip of what he thought was his. And for the first time, I truly admired the woman she had always been.

She was my light. And I? I was finally learning how to let her shine.

It was a honeymoon phase (again) with an expiration date. I cursed fate for being so cruel—why let me love her this deeply, only to take her away?

A Moment Suspended in Time

One particular memory remains etched in my mind.

It was October. She was processing her papers in Pampanga, and I had taken her there on my motorcycle. The moment I took off her helmet, something in her stopped me in my tracks. She glowed—an aura so powerful it knocked the wind out of me. A cruel reminder of what I was about to lose.

As she walked away, time seemed to slow, like one of those dramatic shampoo commercials where every movement is exaggerated. She turned her head and smiled, the kind of smile that haunts a man forever. It was beautiful, magical even—just like the first time we met. But this time, the magic was laced with sorrow.

The moment she disappeared into the building, my tears fell. Silent, heavy. I clenched my jaw, trying to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to consume me, but it was no use. My hands instinctively reached for a cigarette, lighting it with the urgency of a man who needed something to hold on to. The smoke curled around my fingers, masking the scent of impending loss.

A nearby vendor, an old woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that had witnessed too many sad faces, observed me. She sat behind a wooden cart, peeling boiled eggs with methodical precision. Her wrinkled hands barely trembled, as if she had long accepted the stories of heartbreak that will follow next on these emotional scenes. Her gaze lingered on me—not with pity, but with knowing.

I exhaled smoke and let my head drop slightly. This place wasn’t just a government office; it was a threshold to uncertainty. Every person who walked through those glass doors carried a silent question—would they return to the ones they loved, or would distance turn them into a memory?

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and straightened my posture, nodding at the old lady in quiet acknowledgment. She had probably seen hundreds like me—men and women left standing outside, watching their futures slip away through an automatic door.

I threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath my shoes. If she was going to leave, if fate had set this course for us, then I would stand here and take it like a man. No begging. No breaking down. Just this—one last, silent moment suspended in time.

The Fear of Letting Go

I loved her with every tick of the clock. But one day, as we sat eating street food at the park, she voiced her doubts again.

She wasn’t sure if we could survive the distance. She suggested we end things on our own terms before she left—as if preparing for fate’s cruel design. Her words shattered me. For months, I had been collecting all the positive energy in the universe, like Goku gathering a Spirit Bomb, believing we could overcome anything.

I tried to hide my disappointment, but something in me cracked. I used every ounce of persuasion I had, begging her to at least try. She looked me in the eyes, then simply said, "Sure." A single word, a single syllable. No reassurance. No promises. Just an uncertain agreement.

I should have seen it—the way she hesitated before taking another bite, how she wiped her fingers more times than necessary, her gaze dropping to the ground too often. She was fighting her own battle, but I was too consumed by my own fears to notice.

That night, I rode home lost in thought—so much so that I nearly got hit by a speeding car. The driver screeched to a halt inches from my motorcycle, his furious curses slicing through the air. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, you idiot?!"

Maybe I was. Maybe I was an idiot. An idiot for clinging to something that was destined to end. An idiot for letting anxiety cloud my judgment. An idiot for not realizing that I wasn’t the only one afraid.

My fingers tightened around the handlebars, my knuckles white with tension. I revved the engine, hard, as if the force of acceleration could drown out my thoughts. The city lights blurred as I sped away, my pulse roaring in my ears.

By the time I reached my apartment, my hands were trembling. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor, my helmet still clutched between my fingers. I had spent the entire ride cursing fate, cursing distance, cursing the cruel joke of falling in love with someone only to have them ripped away.

But in the quiet of my room, reality settled like dust in an abandoned house. This was happening. And all I could do was brace myself.

I exhaled shakily.

If I was going to lose her, I would do it standing tall. No more begging. No more desperate attempts to force destiny’s hand.

Just me, facing what was coming—whether I was ready or not.

Gifts of Time and Memory

December arrived, and my apartment, for the last time, became a haven filled with her laughter, her scent, her presence. It was where we had built memories, where she danced barefoot in my oversized shirts, where we had spent lazy mornings wrapped up in each other.

That morning, the scent of delivered Korean food filled the air—warm bowls of ramyeon, crispy kimbap rolls, and tteokbokki swimming in spicy sauce. She sat cross-legged on the floor, taking tiny bites, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

I handed her a small box. "Open it."

She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, pulling out an analog wristwatch. She blinked, tilting her head like a confused puppy. "You know I can barely read these things, right? What is this, Titanic? Are you about to tell me time is endless?"

I chuckled, shaking my head. "More like Interstellar—time is relative, especially when you’re far away. But this," I pointed to the ticking hands, "this keeps moving, no matter where we are. Just like us. The watch will keep ticking until the battery dies—unless we choose to stop it."

She frowned, clearly making an effort to decipher the watch face. "I swear, this is like trying to read ancient text. I’m a Gen Z, okay? I need numbers."

I laughed, leaning in to adjust the hands for her. "Consider it my final lesson in patience before you leave."

She grinned, slipping it onto her wrist. "So basically, every time I struggle to read this thing, I’ll think of you?"

"Exactly."

Then, she pulled out a bag and handed me something in return. Shirts—plain, different colors. No fancy logos, no cryptic messages. Just her way. Simple, yet thoughtful.

"Color-coded memories?" I mused, running my fingers over the fabric.

She shrugged. "Something like that. Each color is a phase of us. The bright ones for the crazy, stupid times. The dark ones for the tough days. And the in-between ones… well, that’s for whatever comes next."

I swallowed hard. It was more than just fabric—it was a timeline, a reminder of everything we had been, and everything we were about to be.

I pulled her into my arms, inhaling the familiarity of her hair, of this moment that was slipping away too fast. "I’ll wear these until they wear out."

She didn’t say anything. She just hugged me tighter.

That morning, we didn’t talk about the goodbyes waiting for us. Instead, we just existed, two souls wrapped in time, trying to hold onto something that was already fading into the horizon.

A Love That Could Have Been

I barely remembered how we got here—how I grabbed her wrist, pulled her onto my motorcycle, how she fought at first, then clung to me as I sped off into the night. I ignored her protests, ignored the roaring in my head, ignored everything except the desperate need to stop time, to stop her from leaving.

The city blurred behind us, neon lights shrinking into nothingness, swallowed by the storm rolling in from the horizon. My hands trembled against the handlebars. My heart slammed against my ribs, adrenaline and terror twisting inside me like a fever I couldn’t shake.

I wasn’t letting her go.

Not like this.

"Bumalik na tayo!" she shouted over the deafening roar of the wind and rain. "Ano bang ginagawa natin?!"

I gritted my teeth, pushing the throttle harder, faster—like outrunning reality was even an option.

Lightning split the sky above us, illuminating the empty road ahead. The first drops of rain kissed my skin, gentle, fleeting—before the heavens cracked open and drowned the world.

Her grip around my waist tightened, fingers digging into me—not out of fear, but out of surrender.

I swerved off the highway, pulling into a waiting shed by the roadside. The motorcycle skidded to a stop, tires slicing through the rain-soaked pavement. I killed the engine, chest heaving, pulse erratic.

The tin roof above us rattled violently under the downpour, each drop hammering down like the ticking of a clock I wanted to silence. Beside us, a lone streetlight flickered, casting a dim, uneven glow on her soaked figure.

She stood there, drenched and breathless, her wet hair clinging to her skin, her lips slightly parted—as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Thunder growled in the distance. My breathing was ragged.

Her eyes locked onto mine, dark pools of emotion I couldn’t quite read. Anger? Fear? Love?

"Sabihin mong mahal mo talaga ako!" I demanded, stepping closer. "Sabihin mong hindi mo ko iiwan…"

Her lower lip trembled. She whispered my name.

I grabbed her hands, pressing them against my chest, forcing her to feel the chaos beneath my skin.

"Tang i**..." My voice broke. "We can run. We can leave everything behind. Just say yes!"

She swallowed hard, her breath coming in short, shaky gasps. I saw it—the war inside her. Duty or love. The life she had built or the life I was offering her.

Her hands, still trapped in mine, trembled.

Then, she shook her head.

"Mahal kita, pero…"

No.

I gripped her tighter. "Walang pero. Just you and me. We can make this work. We can—"

And then—

She kissed me.

Hard.

The kind of kiss that steals the air from your lungs, that makes the world tilt, that says everything words never could.

The storm howled around us, rain soaking through every layer of clothing, but she was warm against me—so warm that I almost believed this could be real. That love alone could rewrite fate.

Her hands slid up to my face, her touch feverish, desperate, clinging—like she wanted to believe it too.

For a second, I thought I won.

For a second, I thought love was enough.

The rain pounded around us, lightning flashing across the night sky, illuminating the way she looked at me—like I was her entire world.

And then—

Darkness.

I gasped awake, my chest heaving, my fingers clutching at the sheets like I had just lost my grip on everything.

The room was silent. Empty.

No rain. No motorcycle. No her.

Just the slow, suffocating realization that it was never real.

I let out a shaky exhale, dragging a hand down my damp face.

It was just a dream.

But the desire to stop her? That part was real.

For one reckless, selfish moment, I had really considered it.

I had really thought about ruining her future—about taking away everything she had worked for—just so I wouldn’t have to lose her.

And that was the worst part of all.

Because even though I would never do it…

A part of me still wanted to.

A Christmas Apart

A week before Christmas, something inside me began to crack. Doubt seeped in like poison. She hadn’t given me the level of reassurance I craved—not in words, not in touch, not in the way I needed. She wasn’t distant, not exactly, but something about her felt quieter, lighter—like she was already learning to exist without me.

The way she checked her phone less. The way she no longer asked where I was or what I was doing. She was preparing. Softly. Silently. She was detaching.

And if she could, then so could I.

I convinced myself that I had to beat her to it, that I had to build my own walls before hers were fully in place.

So I made a decision.

I chose to spend Christmas with my mother. It was the logical choice, wasn’t it? The woman who had always been there for me. The one who might not have many Christmases left. The only woman who would never leave me.

She didn’t protest, as expected. She didn’t question it. Maybe she understood. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she thought I was simply being a good son. Maybe she saw what I was trying to do—the way I was silently rebelling against my own promises, breaking under the weight of losing control.

I didn’t know. I didn’t ask.

I just got on my motorcycle and rode to our province, a few hundred kilometers away, trying to outrun the feeling that I was making a mistake.

And while I drowned in my own self-inflicted torment, she sat alone on their porch, staring at the watch I had given her.

Checking the time.

Waiting.

Wondering if I’d at least send a message.

But she wasn’t the type to cause trouble. She wouldn’t demand answers. She wouldn’t lash out.

Instead, she endured the silence.

She endured me.

The ache of waiting for something that never came.

Then, at 11:27 PM, just before Christmas Eve, she sent me a message:

“What happened to you?”

I saw it. I read it. And then—I seen-zoned it.

I could’ve typed a reply.

I could’ve said, "I miss you."
I could’ve said, "I love you."
I could’ve said, "I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t know how to let you go."

But I didn’t.

I just stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking my phone and setting it down beside the half-empty bottle of redhorse.

The coming days were filled with half-hearted conversations, forced exchanges that barely felt like us. My replies were short, empty—just enough to acknowledge her messages, but never enough to make her stay.

"Kumain ka na?" she’d ask.
"Oo."

"Anong ginagawa mo?"
"Wala."

I wasn’t ignoring her. Not completely. But I wasn’t holding on, either.

I was answering, but I wasn’t talking.

I was present, but I wasn’t there.

By New Year’s Eve, I was fully drowning.

Alcohol numbed the sharp edges of my thoughts, but nothing could erase the truth.

I had done this to myself.

I told myself I was doing the right thing—detaching before she could detach from me.

I told myself this was better. Safer.

But as the countdown to midnight echoed through the house, as the fireworks exploded in the sky, as laughter and celebration filled the air, I felt nothing.

Nothing but the crushing weight of absence.

Nothing but the deafening silence where her voice should have been.

I made it through the night in a haze, stumbling between consciousness and regret, until finally, the first morning of the new year crept in.

I woke up to the stench of alcohol, the dull throbbing in my skull, the heavy ache in my bones.

And before I could stop myself, before I could even think—

I whispered her name.

Not my mother’s.

Not a prayer.

Hers.

And just like that, regret hit me like a truck.

I had wasted precious time. Time I would never get back. Time that was slipping away faster than I wanted to admit.

I could see it now—how I had clung so tightly to my pride, pretending to be indifferent when I was anything but. How I had let my need to prove a point overshadow the truth.

I had spent holidays trying to unlove her.

And just like in the movies, where the protagonist realizes his mistake at the last minute—

I grabbed my keys, threw on a jacket, and ran.

There were still days left before she would leave.

But time was still of the essence.

And I wasn’t going to waste another second.

A Love That Refused to Fade

I packed my bags and rode back to the city. Exhausting travel but I was really eager to make up with her. When I finally saw her, I half-expected her to be distant, to continue preparing for detachment. Instead, she stood before me, looking like she had already made up her mind.

And then, before I could say a word, she spoke:

“Let’s survive this my love. Let’s hold on.”

For a second, I thought I was still dreaming.

She wasn’t asking. She wasn’t uncertain. She was sure.

I stared at her, trying to process what she had just said. Just days ago, I was convincing myself that I had already lost. That she had already started to let go. That I had no choice but to accept it.

But now… this?

I wanted to ask her why. What changed? Had my absence over the holidays shaken her? Had she realized something in the silence? Or was this something she had known all along, something she just needed to say out loud?

None of that mattered now.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Okay,” I said. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across my lips.

She smiled back, and just like that, the weight on my chest lifted.

The war wasn’t over.

And this time, I wasn’t fighting alone.

I pulled her into my arms, feeling the warmth of her body against mine, her heartbeat steady beneath my fingertips. She smelled like home, like every moment we had ever shared.

"You know this isn’t just my dream, right?" she whispered against my chest, her voice trembling. "It’s theirs too. I worked so hard for this—not just for myself, but for them." She pulled back slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet. "But that doesn’t mean you’re not part of them… because you are. You’re my strength. You’re the reason I know I can do this."

I nodded, even as my mind betrayed me with images of pulling her away, of taking her hand and never looking back, of running to a place where time couldn’t touch us, where no one could ever take her from me.

But that wasn’t love—that was fear.

And I loved her too much to chain her to me when she was meant to fly.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to steady. "I know," I said, though my heart was crumbling with every word. "And I’m so damn proud of you."

She searched my face, as if memorizing me, as if she knew this moment would replay in our minds long after she was gone. Then, she whispered, "Then stay with me. Until I have to go."

I exhaled, grounding myself in the weight of her words, in the fleeting time we had left. “I will.”

I reached for her hand, tightening my grip—not to hold her back, but to hold on.

"We will survive this. We’ll hold on."

I brushed a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering at her jaw. "I love you."

That night, we laughed, we talked, we existed in a bubble where nothing else mattered. And in those fleeting moments, I allowed myself to pretend. To imagine a world where she didn’t have to leave, where we weren’t bound by flights and time zones. Where I could hold her forever.

But love, real love, wasn’t about possession. It was about letting someone soar, even if it meant watching them fly away. And as much as it hurt, I knew one thing for certain—whatever happened next, she would always be mine in the moments that mattered most

The Last Goodbye

On our final night, we sat at our favorite pares stall, a place that had unknowingly become a witness to our love story—where we shared memorable meals, traded laughter, and found solace in steaming bowls of broth. The scent of garlic and beef filled the air, the clinking of utensils blending with the murmurs of other late-night diners. It was just another night for them. But for us, it was the...last.

She was radiant, glowing in a way I hadn’t seen before. Her braces were gone. The moment I noticed, I let out an exasperated chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Wheww… bakit ngayon mo lang yan pinatanggal?" I groaned, half-laughing, half-devastated. "Ang unfair."

"Why?"

"You look so much better without those braces. Why just now?"

She grinned, flashing that perfect, newly freed smile. "Para may dahilan kang hintayin akong bumalik," she teased, sipping her mami noodles playfully.

But the joke stung. Because there were no guarantees. No promises of return. Only the silence between us and the ticking of time slipping away too fast.

I took countless pictures of her, capturing every angle, every expression. As if freezing these moments in my phone would somehow keep her with me longer. Every giggle, every flick of her hair, every glance—it was all too much and yet, not enough.

Then, as if sensing the storm within me, she leaned forward slightly, her lips forming the words “I love you.”

No sound. Just the delicate motion, a secret between us, something meant only for me.

My breath hitched. She had no idea what she had just done.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she knew exactly what effect it would have on me—that it would be the last thing etched in my mind before everything changed.

I wanted to stop time. To hold her in that moment forever. But I couldn’t.

I clenched my jaw, swallowing hard as I fought against the tears welling in my eyes. But it was useless. She saw right through me.

My vision blurred, the weight of everything crashing down at once. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold it all in, but my chest tightened, my throat burned. I was losing her, and there was nothing I could do.

She didn’t speak. She just stared at me—her eyes deep, unreadable, yet knowing. As if memorizing me, just as I was memorizing her.

My breath hitched, and I let out a weak, trembling chuckle. “Shet… napadami yung chili oil ko, my love.”

And then, just like that—the dam broke. My tears finally fell. Heavy, unstoppable.

She exhaled shakily before reaching out, taking my hands into hers, gripping them tightly.

“I’ll be back in three years, my love. You wait for me.”

Her voice was soft, but resolute. A promise. A plea. A prayer.

I nodded, quickly grabbing a tissue before my emotions spilled out in ways I wasn’t prepared for. I nodded again, forcing a small, fragile smile as if that could stop the ache in my chest from spreading.

My fingers trembled as they reached for her wrist, encircling the glass of the watch I had given her. A reminder. A tether. A piece of me she would carry across the world.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

But she knew.

She had to know.

The nods. The way I looked into her eyes. The silent promise lingering between us.

I will wait for her.
I will wait for her.
I will wait for her.

Ang Sulat na Natengga sa Draft Items

January 2024 was the last time we spoke, and it felt like the universe whispering the final lines of a story I wasn’t ready to close.

I was drained—physically, mentally, emotionally. After almost 400 km on the road with no sleep, I rang her phone with nothing but the weight of everything unsaid. Despite her busy schedule, she was gracious enough to answer my call, though I sensed it wasn’t out of warmth—but ultimate closure.

When I heard her voice, it was like stepping into a familiar storm, one I had already been swept away by too many times. I knew this was it—the last time our worlds would ever collide. She sounded tired, not just from work but from everything that had led us to this point. And though she had already warned me that she had nothing left to say, she still agreed to listen.

So I spoke. I poured out everything that had been choking me for months, knowing full well that words wouldn’t save what was already lost.

But before I get into that last conversation—the moment where everything I feared became real—let me take you back to where it all truly began. 

The Last Goodbye

In January 2023, at a coffee shop we often visited, we said our final physical goodbye. After five months of what felt like the calm before the storm—the most stable, peaceful stretch of our relationship—the moment I had dreaded finally arrived. She had to leave the country, to chase a future that had no room for me.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a betrayal. It was something we had both known would happen. It was inevitable. A reality I had agreed to long before, back when I thought I was strong enough to handle it. But as she stood there, ready to walk away, every ounce of that strength crumbled.

I had already decided that she was the woman I wanted to spend my life with. And yet, in the cruelest twist of fate, that same love—the love I had taken for granted for so long—was now the reason I was about to lose her.

I wanted to fight. I wanted to throw away every agreement, every logical reasoning, and just beg her to stay. I wanted to tell her that her dreams didn’t have to take her away from me, that we could build something here—something worth staying for. That I’d take on her burdens, that I’d work myself to the bone just to keep her close.

But I knew the truth.

I couldn’t compete with what was waiting for her. The life she had spent years working for, the opportunities that would finally give her everything she deserved—I was nothing against all of that. I was just a man in love, armed with nothing but desperate words and an empty promise to fight a battle I had already lost.

So, I did the only thing I could. I swallowed the lump in my throat, took her hand, kissed her for the last time, and looked into her eyes as I whispered the final “I love you” I would ever say in person.

She didn’t cry. She never did. She had always been the stronger one between us. But I saw it. The weight in her eyes. The silent acknowledgment of everything we had been, and everything we would never be again.

And me? I broke. I shattered right in front of her. I wept like a man being stripped of his soul. Because in that moment, I knew—I wasn’t just losing the woman I loved.

I was losing the only version of myself that had ever felt whole.

I rode my motorcycle home, but I wasn’t sure if I’d ever really make it back. Not to who I used to be. Not to the life I thought I had.

Somewhere on that endless road, through every stopover where I had to wipe my eyes just to see, something inside me stayed behind.

And she took it with her.

The Rock Bottom That Followed

After she left in early 2023, I spiraled into the worst state of alcoholism I had ever known. My health, especially my mental state, collapsed. I hit rock bottom. She endured so much of my mental decline, carrying the weight of my self-destruction until she finally broke.

She ended our long-distance relationship.

At first, I acted as if I was okay with it. I even agreed, pretending I understood. But after a few weeks, reality hit me—we were really done. This wasn’t just another fight. There was no “fixing it later.” No grand comeback.

That’s when things got even worse.

My alcoholism was at its peak, and every bit of weakness I had tried to hide was laid bare. I had no discipline, no self-control, no dignity left. And the worst part? She saw all of it. She saw me drowning, but she had already given me a thousand lifelines before. This time, she let go.

And that’s when the real desperation began.

I tried to manipulate her. I played mind games, twisted words, and clung to any ounce of hope I could fabricate. And when none of that worked, I did the worst thing imaginable—I threatened her.

Not because I ever wanted to hurt her, but because I wanted her to feel what I was feeling. I wanted her to see the damage, to see the wreckage she had left behind, as if that would make her stay. But she didn’t. She finally chose herself.

All because I couldn't accept that she was tired. That she just wanted peace.

And so, in January 2024, when I was at my lowest—after months of begging, after every attempt to pull her back into my misery—she finally agreed to hear me out one last time.

I still remember everything about that call.

I was exhausted. I had just come from an almost 400 km motorcycle ride, still running on no sleep. My body was breaking, but it was nothing compared to the weight in my chest.

She answered.

Her voice was calm, but distant. She sounded drained, the way a person does when they’ve been carrying something too heavy for too long.

I started with an apology—one she had probably heard a hundred times before. I admitted everything. That I was an alcoholic. That I was out of control. That I had been selfish, manipulative, and blind to her needs. That I had made her life a living hell instead of being the man she deserved.

She listened.

For the first time in a long time, she really listened.

And I let everything out. I told her I was going to change. That I was going to fight my demons, rebuild myself, and become someone worthy of her love again.

Then I asked her the question I was afraid to hear the answer to.

“Do you still have feelings for me?”

She sighed. And after a long pause, she said it.

“No. Wala na.”

That was it. No sugarcoating, no hesitation. Just the plain, brutal truth.

And at that moment, my world shattered.

I had been holding onto the idea that somehow, deep down, she still felt something. That maybe, just maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could reignite whatever was left. But she had already closed the book. I was the only one still flipping through the pages, searching for an ending that didn’t exist.

She said she had nothing more to say.

So I said my last words to her. A goodbye that I knew, this time, was final.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The Cycle of Relapse & Redemption

After that final conversation, I swore to myself—I would change. This time, for real.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

But the truth was, I had no idea how to start. I was still the same wreck, except now, I had nothing left to hold onto. The very person I was trying to change for had already walked away. And so, I did what I always did when things got unbearable—I numbed the pain.

I told myself I could handle it. That I was strong enough to fix myself. That I didn’t need help. But the cycle was relentless. I'd manage a few days of sobriety, convince myself that I was getting better, and then fall back into the same pit at the slightest trigger. Streak, relapse, streak, relapse. Every time I clawed my way out, I’d slip back down, deeper than before.

Then came March 2024.

The month I finally stopped fighting.

Alcohol had sunk too deep into my system. The battle was over. I had lost. So I gave in.

I let go of my goal. I had no support system, no real motivation left—so why the hell was I still trying? The first two weeks of March were the ugliest, most destructive drinking sessions I had ever put myself through. I didn’t need a reason. I didn’t need company. I drank in the morning. I drank before sleeping. I drank just because I was awake.

I lost my job. My life was in absolute ruins.

And then came the worst relapse of all.

It was late at night. The alcohol had burned through whatever self-restraint I had left. My mind, already drowning in self-loathing, convinced me of one last, desperate move.

I grabbed my phone.

I typed out every hateful, violent thought my broken heart had kept bottled up. Every resentment, every blame, every ounce of self-pity disguised as anger. And then, I hit send.

I wanted her to feel my suffering. To see the wreckage she left behind.

But she didn’t even give me the satisfaction of a reaction.

She blocked me. On everything.

She erased me from her world for good.

And that’s when it hit me—the final, devastating realization.

It wasn’t the drinking. It wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the breakup.

It was me.

I was the problem.

It took losing the last shred of respect she had for me to finally see it. I wasn’t some tragic hero in a sad love story. I was pathetic. A weak, entitled mess who thought that just because I was hurting, I had the right to drag her down with me.

And for the first time, I didn't feel anger.

I felt disgust.

Not at her. Not at the situation.

At myself.

And that was the moment something shifted.

For the first time, I wasn't drinking to forget. I was drinking because I had nothing left to believe in—not even myself.

And when you hit that level of rock bottom, there are only two ways out.

You either stay there. Or you claw your way up.

I chose to fight.

But it wasn’t some dramatic, overnight transformation. There was no grand redemption arc, no sudden burst of motivation that made me throw away the bottle and start over.

It was slow. It was painful. It was dragging myself through hell, one agonizing step at a time.

I didn’t know where it would lead.

But I knew I couldn’t stay here.

The Final Realization

Now, in 2025, after staying consistent with my alcohol-cessation goal since March 2024, I found myself revisiting our last conversation. And with that, I toyed with the idea of reconnecting with her.

Because why not?

After all, I had done exactly what I said I would. I had changed. I was alcohol-free, mentally stable, and even physically stronger. The wreckage I once was? Gone. Replaced by a version of myself I could actually be proud of.

Wasn’t that the whole point?

Didn’t I promise her that one day, I’d come back as a different man?

And if that day was here… didn’t I at least owe it to myself to let her know?

So, I wrote a long letter.

I poured everything into it—every milestone, every hard-fought victory, every ounce of self-discipline that got me here. How I had let go of my pride, my ego, and my selfish ways. How I now understood exactly what went wrong, how I could finally say with certainty: I am not the same man you walked away from.

It was my testament. My proof.

And if I was being completely honest?

It was my plea.

For another chance.

For days, I obsessed over it. I reread the words. I edited, reworded, second-guessed. It was perfect. It had to be. Because if there was even a slight chance she still had something left for me, this—this letter—was the key.

Or so I thought.

Then, the moment of truth.

I hovered over the send button. And I stopped.

I hesitated.

Then I hesitated again.

And then the questions hit me.

What do I really want?

Is this truly about love, or do I just want to be validated?

Have I really changed… or am I just playing a more refined version of my old self—someone who still thinks he can control the outcome?

And then, the hardest question of all—

Who the fuck am I to her anymore?

I had been so busy constructing the perfect version of her in my head, keeping alive the goddess-like figure I had worshipped for years. She had even started appearing in my dreams.

But in reality? She had moved on. She had built the life she always dreamed of, and she was still rising.

Meanwhile, just because I had managed to put my life together, I was suddenly claiming the right to step back into hers?

Was I justified in sending this letter?

Would it be a wasted chance if I didn’t?

Or was this just another desperate attempt to rewrite the past?

I stared at the screen.

The cursor blinked.

The answer was right there, wasn’t it?

And yet, I still wasn’t sure.

The Final Test

One day, on my day off, I hopped on my motorcycle with no clear destination. The weight of my own thoughts had been paralyzing me for weeks, and I needed to do something—anything—to break free from this cycle.

So I let my instincts take control.

I let the wheels carry me to the places we once called ours.

The first stop shattered me.

I parked outside, staring at the entrance like it was some haunted relic from my past. A year ago, I sat at that farthest corner table, drowning in heartbreak, burying my face in my hands so no one would see the mess I had become. I had lost her. That was where it hit me the hardest.

Now, I was back.

I forced myself inside, ordered the same coffee, and sat at the exact same spot. I thought I had built enough armor, convinced myself that I was unbreakable now.

I was wrong.

The moment I looked at that empty chair across from me, it all came flooding in.

The way she stirred her drink absentmindedly. The way she rested her chin on her palm, half-listening to my ramblings. The way her presence alone made the whole world feel still.

She wasn’t here anymore.

And yet, she was everywhere.

I clenched my fists under the table. My jaw tightened. I fought it—I really tried. But the tears came anyway.

I still love her.

All this time, I thought I had rebuilt myself. That I had turned my pain into fuel, sharpened myself into someone who could look back without breaking.

But here I was. Still breaking.

Still her fool.

I needed one last test.

So I made one final stop—her family’s house.

Her mom greeted me like nothing had changed, like I was still welcome. And in her eyes, I saw something I didn’t expect. Not judgment. Not resentment. But pride.

She looked at me—not as the wreck I once was—but as the man I had become.

"The changes you've made," she said, smiling, "I'm so proud of you."

A mix of emotions hit me. Gratitude. Sadness. A desperate need for validation.

And then, she said it.

"You should message her. Just check in. See how she’s doing."

The invitation was there. An open door.

This was it. The moment I had been waiting for. The chance to prove to her that I had truly changed.

I felt my heart race. My hands trembled slightly.

I could do it.

I should do it.

And yet—

I took a deep breath and forced a smile.

"It's all good now. I don't want to disrupt the good things happening in her life."

And just like that, I let go.

Or at least, I told myself I did.

I rode away from her house that day with a strange mix of emotions—pride, regret, relief, and a sadness so deep it settled into my bones.

I had the opportunity. I had the right to reach out.

So why did it feel like walking away was the real victory?

Why did it feel like—after everything—I had finally passed the test?

Or had I just wasted my last chance?

I don’t know.

I still don’t know.

Moving Forward

I’ve made up my mind.

She deserves her peace.

And I deserve mine.

I could spend a lifetime wondering what could’ve been if only I had been stronger when it mattered most. If only I hadn’t drowned myself in vices. If only I had fought for us the way I should have—when I still had the chance.

But I can’t rewrite the past.

What I can do is let her go, wish her well—genuinely—and keep rebuilding myself, not for her, not for anyone else, but for me.

The letter? It remains unsent. Not because I lack the courage to send it, but because I no longer need to. It will stay with me—not as a burden, but as a testament to how far I’ve come. A symbol of my vulnerability. My failures. My redemption.

It reminds me that if I could overcome the worst version of myself, then I can push even further. That this is only the beginning.

One year of change does not erase decades of mistakes. I still have my lapses, my triggers, my moments of weakness. But whatever good comes from this new life, it’s mine to reap. And nothing feels better than knowing I am finally free from my own worst enemy—myself.

I love her. Maybe I always will. But love isn’t about possession. It isn’t about winning.

It’s about gratitude.

For the time she gave me. For the lessons I had to learn the hard way.

For the happiness she allowed me to experience, even if it wasn’t meant to last.

And if this is the price of true love—wishing the best for the one who left, not to control them, not to drag them back, but to genuinely want them to be happy—then I will pay it in full.

So, I walk away.

Not because I’m giving up, but because I no longer need to hold on.

She was never an opponent to defeat, nor a prize to reclaim. She was a chapter—a beautiful, painful, unforgettable one. But the story moves forward, and so do I.