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I’ve known you since we were children — first grade classrooms, ordinary days that quietly turned into years. Somewhere between elementary noise and high school memories, you became familiar in the way only a few people ever do. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just constant.

We grew up into a friendship that felt easy. Close. The kind where nothing needs explaining. You became one of those people I never questioned having in my life — you were just there, steady, familiar, safe.

And quietly, somewhere along the way, I liked you. Not in a big, reckless way. More like something that faded, returned, faded again — a feeling that knew its place and never crossed the line.

I never told anyone. Not even you. Because there was nothing to confess, really. There were no mixed signals. You didn’t lead me on. We were friends. We just existed the way we always did — comfortable, normal, familiar. And maybe that’s exactly why I chose silence every time. The friendship mattered more than the risk.

Last October 2025, when we hung out, everything felt the same. I remember thinking you were still single, like you had been for years. It felt like we were still in that open space where life hadn’t decided things yet. People still assumed there was something between us, the way they always did, and we laughed it off because there wasn’t. There never was.

Not in the real world, anyway.

What existed was quiet. Internal. Mine.

That’s why finding out you’re getting married like this — suddenly, from someone else — felt strange and heavier than I expected. Not because I thought you were mine. You never were. But because I didn’t realize I had already lost a possibility.

You’re a really good friend. You always have been. That’s what makes this harder to process. Nothing bad happened. You didn’t hurt me on purpose. This isn’t blame. This is just the truth I never said out loud.

I keep replaying things that meant nothing to you and something to me. That’s the hardest part of one-sided feelings — they exist in memories only one person carries.

And May. You’re getting married in May. My birth month. There’s something surreal about that, like time is moving forward for you in a way that makes me stop and look at everything I never said.

I am happy for you. I really am. You deserve love, stability, a life that feels right. And at the same time, there’s this quiet grief for the version of life where maybe, at some point, it could have been us. Not a big dramatic love story. Just… us trying.

I think what hurts most is not that you chose someone else. It’s realizing there was never a moment where choosing me was even a question. That’s not your fault. But it’s something I have to accept now.

You were never a “what if” that consumed me every day. You were more subtle than that — a quiet possibility living in the background while life kept moving. Easy to carry. Easy to ignore. Until now.

Growing up with someone means they exist in so many versions of your life that letting go isn’t dramatic. It’s gentle. It’s subtle. It’s the slow acceptance that some people are meant to be constants, not destinations.

I don’t regret being your friend. I don’t regret caring about you. If anything, I’m grateful I got to grow up with someone who felt safe and familiar for so many years.

Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet because a part of me still sees us as kids who had more time. More conversations. More chances. More clarity. But life doesn’t always announce its turning points.

So this is me finally saying the truth somewhere, even if you’ll never hear it.

This isn’t heartbreak in the usual sense. It’s the quiet closing of a door I never opened.

I’m letting go — not of you as a person, not of our history — but of the version of you that lived in my what-ifs.

“Pahina Mo”

Dear S,

Do you think people outgrow each other?

I used to wonder that. Especially with us— how two people could be so close for so long, then slowly, quietly drift into the spaces life carves out. But now I think… maybe we don’t outgrow. Maybe we just bend. You in your direction, me in mine— like rivers that once ran side by side, now winding through different maps.

But even with all the distance, some part of me still bends toward you.

You’ve been with me longer than most, since 8th grade. It’s wild, isn’t it? How someone who started out as just a friend could become such a constant presence, not just in my life, but in who I am. We’ve shared a quiet lot— conversations that stretched into the night, laughter that came from nowhere, silences that somehow never felt empty.

There are moments that still come back to me— suddenly, gently— like the universe pressing a soft reminder to my heart: You knew something good. You felt something real.

And maybe we never said the words out loud. Maybe we didn’t know how, or weren’t ready, or thought it was safer not to. But the truth is: I loved you in the way quiet things are loved— without announcement, but with a depth that stays long after the noise fades.

Even now, with time between us, I still find you in small corners of my days. In memories. In music. In the way I still look for your name without meaning to.

And even if we bend away, even if we never meet in quite the same way again, I hope you know: I never stopped looking for where we meet again.

Always, A

Remember when you made me feel like I was insane for wanting to be loved? Like it was this ridiculous thing I was asking for, even though you once promised to give it to me? I lost count of all the sleepless nights I spent reliving our memories, trying to make sense of the chaos. I tried to rewrite our story, to convince myself that I was the problem, that I didn't deserve love. But love was never owed− just given, then taken away without warning, lost in the space between promises and silence. I felt like I was drowning in that silence, suffocating under the weight of your broken promises. And the hardest part? Convincing myself that I wasn't crazy for wanting to be loved, that my desire for connection and affection wasn't somehow flawed.

But the truth is, I see now that you never really loved me fully. Your love was a patchwork quilt of partial devotion, stitched together with threads of ‘almost,’ ‘maybe,’ and ‘not quite.’ You gave me fragments, not the whole heart. And I, on the other hand, yearned for something real, something unshakeable, something that would love me without condition or reservation. But that’s not what I got, and that’s what hurts the most− the realization that I was willing to give you my whole heart, but you were never willing to give me yours.

I’ve let go of the bitterness, the what-ifs, and the maybes. I’ve stopped wasting my time wishing for a different ending. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I find myself wondering… did you ever realize that love itself was never the problem, but the way you chose to hold it? It was how you handled it, how you chose to give it, take it, and let it slip away. You made love feel like a weight, a burden that was too heavy for you to carry. You held it with hesitant hands, always keeping it at arm’s length. And I was left to pick up the pieces, to wonder why love wasn’t enough for you, why I wasn’t enough for you.

the connection was something—it was real.

but you just broke my heart.

you hurt me so bad this time.

you were different so it hurts differently.

it hurts like a mf.

what else do i need to tell you?

are you happy?

i knew this would happen.

but not in this way, not with this girl who i know a great deal about.

did you almost expect this to happen?

i be remembering that there’s always another girl.

I've come to terms with the fact that in the past, I would purposefully cut off people from my life or seemed to do so to elicit an emotional response from them. Since it was the only way I knew to elicit a response when I was hurt or afraid, I would do it. Them expressing their fear of losing me was how I would know whether my tactics were working. I thought that this would give me inner peace, but it did not.

Back then, I didn't know how to be upfront about my feelings, so instead of being open about how I felt, I would act like I didn't care and threaten to cut someone off when all I wanted was for them to care. This was something I saw so frequently reflected in my surroundings that it forced me to face it head-on and work through it.

I believe this is a universal issue that so many individuals experience– becoming closed off and autonomous out of fear of being open. That’s fucked up and no one should live that way.

I know sharing this would cost me my inner peace, but whatever. Has it only cost me everything at this moment? I think not.

My final year of college has been a tremendous hardship for me in many ways, despite what I had always heard. I can most accurately sum it up as burnt out and freaked out. Burnt out from school, freaked out for my future. Why wasn't I having the best year of my life like everybody else? I felt like there was something wrong with me. What was I afraid of? I won't go into all of the answers to this question because there are many (in a nutshell: problems with anxiety, internship, job applications, looming graduation, blurry future). But I've just come to the conclusion that none of these things are the hardest part of senior year for me. It's difficult to define, but at its core, I would describe it as the process of reverting away from the person I had in my mind as the person I wanted to become and into my actual self - a person with a lot of remaining uncertainties.

I’m going to be raw, and I’d like to express what I feel using my mother tongue.

YAWA, GIKAPOY NAJUD KAAYO KO SA AKONG LIFE AS AN ADULT. 

Feel kaayo nako karun nga wala koy pulos. Not worthy of anything in general.

I feel neglected and rejected with everything I deserve. Ka yawa ba.

I thought this was just part of the pms kay I’m almost on my menstrual period, but I guess it was all pent-up emotions nga ready na kaayo mo buto. Kani kay tanan nga akong gina ignore ug gina taguan lang sauna– like everything seems to be just beneath the surface, waiting for moments like this to happen. And then, “BAM!"

There is a competition for who can remain calmest in the face of adversity, ug murag diha ko napildi karun. From my previous blogpost, “To wherever God will settle me.,” niana ko nga gi offer na nako sa Iyaha ang tanan, but sometimes frustrations really wins the race, ba? Hmm, there isn't a single thing that can make me feel better jud karun.

Naa sad ning famous phrase nga “Slow and steady wins the race.,” but they didn’t know nga maski inganha naa jud always kaguol, and that makes it NOT always steady.

I’ve read this somewhere, “Do not put your faith in yourself; put your faith in God. You can't do it alone, but you can and will do it with God.” and it just made me realize that I was once again lying to myself and my faith. As I read that, it had a significant impact on me.

Over the past few days, I've been so exhausted and anxious, wondering and contemplating about my future because I have so many doubts in this field, that I've lost hope and even my positive outlook.

I was attached by negativity and insecurities, as if they were my daily thoughts. I've lately realized that dreams, like my family and friends, may put you under a huge amount of pressure. I mean, I'm under pressure from them because I know they have a lot of faith in me to eventually become whatever I want to be, and I don't want to let them down, so I always push myself to get things done as fast as possible. Worrying about those things, on the other hand, brought to light how exhausted and sick I was.

I'm keeping my eyes peeled for a sign. There is a glimmer of recognition in sleepy eyes that there's more here.

Do you see a flaming spark burning my ribcage hunting in the dark for another lost soul when you look at me in all my curves and folded flesh, or do you only feel warming skin wrapping around your trembling body, lifeless hanging in my soothing embrace?

Do you see me for all that I am or do you only see me for all that you desire?

can see through my white lies,

and hear the sound of my cries

but every single night

as I watch the stars light,

how come nothing ever comes right?

give me all your pain,

and I’ll also take all the shame.

we don’t need to be great, but insane

because bit by aching bit,

leaving our hearts sealed together by one stitch,