Corporate Friends

When I Grow Up

I used to think choosing the wrong course would feel dramatic.

Like a big fight at the dinner table. Like shouting. Like slamming doors and saying, “This is my life.”

But it wasn’t like that.

It was quieter.

It looked like nodding while my parents talked about “stability.” It looked like saying, “Okay po,” even when my chest felt tight. It looked like filling out enrollment forms with steady hands and an unsteady heart.

When I was younger, I had an answer ready whenever someone asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t overthink. I just knew.

Then growing up happened.

Practicality entered the conversation. Job security. Salary. “Think about your future.” “We just want what’s best for you.”

And I know they do.

That’s the hard part.

They’re not villains. They’re parents who struggled. Parents who don’t want their child to suffer the way they did. Parents who measure love in safety.

So I chose the course they wanted.

Not because I hated my dream. Not because I didn’t believe in myself. But because saying no felt heavier than saying yes.

When “When I Grow Up” from Matilda the Musical became a trend on social media, I understood it immediately.

The song sounds playful. Hopeful. Innocent.

Children singing about the freedom of adulthood.

But on social media, the text changes the meaning.

“When I grow up, I will be…”

And instead of showing the dream, you show the reality.

The course you’re taking. The path you didn’t fully choose.

It’s almost ironic.

We sang about growing up so we could finally decide for ourselves.

And yet here we are.

Still trying to be good sons. Good daughters. Good students.

Sometimes I sit in class and imagine an alternate version of me.

The one who picked differently. The one who wakes up excited instead of just responsible. The one who doesn’t feel a quiet “what if” after every major exam.

But I still show up.

I still pass.

I still function.

And that’s what makes it complicated.

Because it’s not a disaster.

It’s just… not mine.

There’s no breakdown. No dramatic escape. Just a small, constant ache.

And sometimes, guilt.

Guilt for wanting something else. Guilt for thinking my dream matters as much as their sacrifices.

But wanting more for yourself is not disrespect.

It is honesty.

Maybe growing up isn’t about instantly choosing your dream.

Maybe it’s about slowly finding the courage to admit it out loud.

I don’t know yet if I’ll shift. I don’t know if I’ll stay. I don’t know how my story ends.

But I know this:

The child who once answered confidently when asked about the future is still inside me.

Still dreaming. Still hoping.

And maybe one day, when I grow up, not just in age, but in bravery,

I’ll choose for myself.

-Vic

“You’re Allowed to Outgrow People”

One of the hardest things to accept is that not everyone is meant to stay in your life forever.

At first, lisod kaayo sabton. Kay how can someone who once meant so much to you slowly become a stranger? Someone you used to talk to every day… mahimong “seen” nalang. Or worse, wala na jud.

But growing up changes you.

Your mindset shifts. Your priorities evolve. The things you used to tolerate, you start to question. The version of you before is not the same person you are becoming now—and that’s not a bad thing.

Sometimes, people can’t grow with you. And sometimes, you can’t grow while staying with them.

Letting go doesn’t always mean there was a fight or something went wrong. Sometimes, it just means you’re choosing peace over familiarity. You’re choosing yourself over what used to be comfortable.

And yes, it hurts.

It will always hurt to lose people who once felt like home. But not all homes are meant to last forever. Some are just places we pass through while we’re still becoming who we are.

So don’t feel guilty if you’re outgrowing certain people. It doesn’t make you a bad person—it means you’re changing, you’re learning, you’re growing.

And that’s something to be proud of.

“Still Figuring It Out”

There’s something weird about growing up that no one really prepares you for. One day, you’re just a kid worrying about assignments and deadlines, and the next, you’re suddenly expected to have your life figured out.

But the truth is—most of us don’t.

We pretend we do. We smile, we post, we laugh with our friends, and we act like everything is under control. Pero deep inside, daghan kaayo tag questions. “Am I on the right path?” “Sakto ba akong mga decisions?” “What if I fail?”

And that’s okay.

Not everything has to be clear right now. Life isn’t a race where the fastest person wins. It’s more like a journey where you learn things along the way—sometimes the hard way, sometimes the beautiful way.

There will be days when you feel lost, and days when you feel like you’re finally getting somewhere. Both are part of the process. Growth doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes, it looks like confusion, mistakes, and starting over again.

What matters is you keep going.

Padayon lang—even if you’re unsure, even if you’re scared. Because one day, you’ll look back and realize that all those uncertain moments were actually shaping you into who you’re meant to be.

You don’t have to have it all figured out right now.

You just have to take the next step.

Work Chismis Chronicles

In every workplace, there is always that one moment when someone says, “I have something to tell you.” Suddenly, the whole room becomes quiet and everyone is listening. That is how work chismis usually begins.

Most of the time, it starts from a very small story, but after a few people hear it, the story becomes bigger and funnier. Some employees even know the latest chismis faster than the office announcements. It’s like an unofficial news channel inside the workplace.

Work chismis can make break time more fun, but it’s still important to remember that not everything we hear is true. Sometimes the best thing to do is just smile, enjoy the moment, and go back to work.

"Another Sunset We Share"

The sun lowers itself slowly, like it is in no rush to leave.

Another sunset spills gold across the water, across rooftops, across faces that look nothing alike yet glow the same under that light. Somewhere by the shore, music hums from a passing car. Laughter rises from a corner store. Someone calls out a nickname only their friends understand.

Another sunset we share.

In moments like this, the world feels small in the best way. The air smells like salt and something frying nearby. People gather without invitation. A group forms, then grows. A friend brings a cousin. The cousin brings a neighbor. The neighbor brings a story. And suddenly, it is not about who came from where or who believes in what.

It is about being here.

About breathing in a place that raised you. Or a place that welcomed you. About missing it when you leave and craving it when you are gone too long. About realizing that sometimes home is not a building but a chorus of voices saying your name the way only they can.

There is something sacred in that kind of belonging.

Someone pulls out a phone and says, Come closer. Another sunset like this deserves a photo. We squeeze in, shoulder to shoulder, laughing because someone blinked and someone else made a face. We promise to take another one, a better one, but we know this imperfect one will matter more years from now.

We never think we need more pictures.

Until we do.

We never think we need more hugs.

Until someone moves away. Until someone grows up. Until the nights that used to last forever become stories that begin with, Remember when.

Music starts somewhere behind us. Not polished. Not rehearsed. Just real. A beat you can feel in your chest. Hands clap. Someone finds a rhythm on a table. Someone else sings off-key and nobody cares. The street becomes a stage without asking permission.

Different accents blend together. Different skin tones glow in the fading light. Different religions, different histories, different struggles, all moving to the same beat.

For a few hours, diversity is not a concept.

It is a celebration.

You look around and see a hundred small differences. Curly hair, straight hair. Gold chains, wooden crosses. Sneakers worn thin, sandals dusty from walking. Tattoos, rosaries, braids, buzz cuts.

And none of it feels like a line dividing us.

It feels like color.

Like the way a sunset is not just orange but pink and purple and blue all at once. Like the sky refuses to choose one shade, so it holds them all.

Maybe that is what being human was always meant to be.

Not uniform.

Not identical.

But harmonized.

We talk loudly. We joke. We say things we never said when pride got in the way. We tell the truth between laughs. We admit who we miss. We admit who we love. We promise to stay close even when life pulls us in different directions.

Someone says we should enjoy this. You never know how many sunsets you get with the same people.

And suddenly the music feels heavier in your chest.

Because it is not just a beat. It is memory forming. It is time passing in rhythm. It is a reminder that the people beside you will not always stand there.

So you take the photo.

You pull them closer.

You let yourself feel it fully, without worrying about tomorrow.

In a world that tries to label us first and understand us later, nights like this are rebellion. Nights where no one asks what box you fit into. Nights where no one checks your background before handing you a drink or pulling you into a dance circle.

You are not your passport.

You are not your religion.

You are not the stereotypes someone else memorized.

You are a heartbeat in a crowd. A voice in a chorus. A body moving under the same sky.

The sun finally sinks, but the warmth lingers. The street glows in artificial light now, softer but still alive. Someone shouts for one last picture. One last song. One last round before everyone heads home.

We gather again.

Closer this time.

Not because we have to.

But because we want to remember this version of ourselves. Together. Unfiltered. Unafraid. Unseparated.

Another sunset we share.

Another night where differences did not divide us but defined the beauty of standing side by side.

The sky goes dark.

The music fades.

But the feeling stays, humming quietly in the chest.

A reminder that no matter where we stand or what we believe, we are all just trying to hold on to the same things.

Our people.

Our moments.

Our shared, fleeting light.

"Names We Never Learned"

The sky does not ask who you pray to.

It opens every morning the same way. Pale light stretching across rooftops, touching every window without hesitation. It does not pause to ask for names. It does not separate one child from another.

It simply shines.

Somewhere beneath that same sky, children are running. Their shoes are untied. Their laughter is uneven and loud in the way laughter always is when it belongs to someone small. They argue about games. They chase each other through dust and sunlight.

For a moment, they are just children.

Not symbols. Not headlines. Not numbers written in careful reports.

Just children.

A little girl with chalk on her fingers draws a crooked house on the ground. A boy kicks a ball too hard and laughs when it rolls away. Someone trips, someone cries, someone helps them stand again.

The world feels ordinary in these small moments.

It always does before something breaks.

Because genocide does not begin with numbers. It begins with forgetting.

Forgetting that the person across the street laughs the same way you do. Forgetting that their mother worries the same way yours does. Forgetting that a child’s voice sounds the same no matter the language it learns first.

Slowly, people stop seeing faces.

They start seeing labels.

Religion.

Borders.

History written like a line that must divide.

But children do not understand lines drawn by adults.

A child does not ask what god another child prays to before sharing a toy. A child does not measure the worth of another life through flags or faith. They only recognize something simple.

Another human being standing there.

Another pair of hands. Another voice. Another heartbeat.

And yet the world has learned how to ignore that simplicity.

The bombs do not ask which prayer was whispered that morning. The smoke does not pause to consider belief. When buildings fall, they do not separate the innocent from the arguments of grown men.

They fall on everyone.

Inside the rubble are things that once felt permanent. A small shoe. A drawing taped to a wall. A stuffed animal waiting for someone who cannot come back.

Things that belonged to children whose names most of us will never learn.

And that might be the most painful part.

Not only that lives were taken.

But that they were ordinary lives. Small, bright, human lives that deserved the chance to grow louder with time. Lives that should have grown into messy handwriting, awkward teenage years, first dreams about the future.

Instead, they became silence.

Genocide tries to turn people into statistics. Rows of numbers easier to process than stories.

But every number was once a child who laughed too loudly. A child who asked too many questions. A child who believed tomorrow would come because it always had.

Every number had a name.

The truth is painfully simple.

Before religion, before borders, before history and politics and everything that divides us, we were something else first.

Human.

Breathing the same air. Standing under the same sky. Carrying the same fragile hope that tomorrow will arrive safely.

The children understand this without being taught.

They play together before anyone explains why they should not.

Perhaps that is why their absence feels so heavy.

Because they remind us of something we keep forgetting.

That no belief should require a child to disappear. That no cause should demand a playground fall silent. That no difference should outweigh the simple truth of a shared heartbeat.

The sky still opens every morning.

The light still reaches the ground without asking questions.

Maybe one day we will learn to do the same.

To see a face before a label.

A child before a border.

A human before anything else.

Until then, the world keeps turning with names we never learned.

And somewhere in the quiet, their laughter still echoes, asking us a question we have not answered yet.

Why did we forget they were just like us?

Never stop talking about the genocide! Be Human! Free Everyone!

"When the World Decides to Sing"

The lights dim before they disappear.

In that fragile second, the world holds its breath.

A man walks on stage. He opens his mouth to speak. You expect dialogue, something simple and reasonable.

And then he sings.

Not softly. Not shyly. He sings as if the only way forward is through melody. The orchestra answers him without hesitation, like this was always the plan.

You blink.

What kind of story pauses its own conversation just to break into song? What kind of universe decides that feelings are too large for plain speech?

It sounds absurd.

It should not work.

And yet, when the music swells, something inside you settles into it.

Because in musicals, emotions refuse to whisper. They do not sit quietly inside neat sentences. They rise. They stretch. They climb scales like ladders toward something brighter.

A character does not simply say, “I am afraid.”

They let violins tremble beneath their confession.

They do not just fall in love.

They turn toward the light, voices blending, harmonies wrapping around them like fate agreeing.

Is it unrealistic?

Completely.

But so is the way our hearts race before a risk. So is the way joy makes us want to move. So is the sudden urge to dance alone in your room when your favorite song plays.

Musicals do not pretend life is subtle.

They let it be large.

The dialogue stops. The plot is carried by song. A chorus line kicks in unison and, for a moment, the world feels organized. Timed. Perfect.

You tell yourself it is just glitter. Just tap shoes and bright lights. Just choreography that does not technically advance the plot.

But then your foot taps.

Your hands clap.

You wait for the key change like it might change you too.

There is bravery in a musical. To sing when speaking would be safer. To dance when standing still would be easier. To believe that your ordinary story deserves an entire orchestra behind it.

Even the shy character eventually steps forward.

Even the villain gets a solo.

Even the background voices swell into something impossible to ignore.

No one is truly invisible when the spotlight exists.

And maybe that is the beauty of it.

Musicals are not just performances. They are permission.

Permission to feel loudly.

Permission to imagine boldly.

Permission to believe that your quiet Tuesday might be hiding an overture.

Some musicals sparkle and grin, drowning in sequins and smiles. Some ache with sustained notes that stretch so long you wonder why they are not speaking. Some barely talk at all, choosing to sing every breath in dramatic devotion.

You might sit there thinking, Why are they not just talking?

But when the harmony locks into place, when dancers move as one, when a single voice becomes many, you stop questioning.

For some unexplainable reason, the crowd goes wild every time the line kicks together.

Because unity looks powerful. Because timing feels magical. Because in that synchronized step, chaos becomes choreography.

When the final note lingers and the curtain falls, you applaud as if thanking them.

But perhaps you are also thanking yourself.

For remembering that life can be sung. That sorrow can rhyme. That joy can echo louder than doubt. That somewhere inside you is a stage waiting for courage to step onto it.

The lights rise again.

The spell loosens.

You walk out quieter than the orchestra you just heard, yet somehow brighter.

As if a small piece of that music followed you home.

As if, at any second, the world might decide to sing again.

(YES, NOW WATCH "SOMETHING ROTTEN!")

Under the willow tree, we stare into the vast space of existence. There, splashing with endless possibilities is a river. In its reflection was us. A duo basking with joy and hope. As the wind breeze brushed into your hair, a faint glow emanates from your skin. What an immaculate sight. Such an experience-too good to be true.

As the wind grew colder, our clasped hands started losing its weight. You were letting go and it was impossible unnoticed seeing someone slowly slipping away. Your glow kept shining even brighter that before-like the light was taking you.

It looked like it was.

Then and there-taking you away from me. Probably not because you were going away. But because-

The light reminded me how you were never even there.

The light blinded me to the point where when I opened my eyes, you weren’t sitting with me anymore.

Did the light take you away?

Why?

Or was it because you never existed?

Under the willow tree, sitting alone in a space that felt emptier by the second, I felt you. You weren’t a ghost. You weren’t haunting me, were you? Because it’s not real and, “You don’t exist.”

I was simply daydreaming. A dream so pure, so true, that it felt real every second an hourglass loses a grain of sand.

I should probably wake up-

Right…?

But how can I? My imagination grows wilder the moment an empty space reminds me of my reality. The reality of a slow motion moment never existing in my imaginary movie with an inevitably sappy happy ending.

I should wake up. No matter how many times I daydream, an imagination will remain a dream until I step out of the willow tree.

-KOY🥂

Parallel Universe

“I’d cross the parallel universe, just to collapse into your probability.”

I don’t think people realize how desperate that sounds.

Not desperate in a loud way.

But in the quiet, aching way — the kind where you would bend reality itself just to make something work.

I used to believe that if two people cared enough, that would be enough.

That timing didn’t matter. That distance didn’t matter. That circumstances were just obstacles waiting to be overcome.

But sometimes, it’s not about effort.

Sometimes, it’s about alignment.

And alignment feels like luck.

The idea of parallel universes comforts me more than it should.

Because maybe somewhere — in another version of this world — things went differently.

Maybe in that universe, we met at the right time. Maybe in that one, neither of us was afraid. Maybe in that one, we didn’t hesitate. Maybe in that one, we chose each other fully.

The thought is both comforting and cruel.

Because here, in this universe, we didn’t.

There’s something painful about knowing that love alone doesn’t guarantee compatibility.

You can care deeply for someone and still miss each other.

You can want the same things and still not be ready at the same time.

You can feel something intense and still watch it slip away quietly.

That’s the part no one prepares you for.

Not dramatic endings.

Not betrayal.

Just… almost.

“I’d cross the parallel universe.”

But the truth is, we can’t.

We only get this one.

This one timeline. This one set of choices. This one version of ourselves.

And sometimes, the person you would rewrite physics for is simply not written into your future.

That realization hurts more than rejection.

Because it wasn’t lack of feeling.

It was lack of possibility.

I think longing makes us imagine impossible solutions.

If I tried harder. If I was different. If I waited. If I changed.

As if love is a math equation you can solve if you adjust the variables.

But some things are not about calculation.

Some things are about acceptance.

Maybe maturity is realizing you cannot force fate.

You cannot collapse into someone’s probability just because you want to.

You cannot enter a universe where you are chosen if this one says otherwise.

And maybe love is not proven by how far you’re willing to chase it.

Maybe it’s proven by knowing when to let it exist only as memory.

There are days when I still imagine that other universe.

The one where everything aligned.

Where there was no hesitation. No miscommunication. No wrong timing.

Just certainty.

But I am here.

In this version of reality.

And here, I am learning something quieter.

Not all love is meant to be lived.

Some love is meant to be felt, understood, and released.

And maybe that doesn’t make it less meaningful.

Maybe it just makes it human.

Burnout Doesn’t Always Look Dramatic

I used to think burnout meant breaking down.

Crying in public. Missing deadlines. Completely shutting down.

But burnout, at least for me, was quieter than that.

It looked like staring at a task for thirty minutes and doing nothing. It looked like rereading the same sentence five times. It looked like finishing requirements but feeling nothing after.

No pride. No relief. Just emptiness.

There was a time when I loved being productive.

Crossing things off my to-do list felt satisfying. Submitting early felt powerful. Being called “reliable” felt like an achievement in itself.

But somewhere along the way, productivity stopped feeling rewarding.

It started feeling required.

If I rested, I felt guilty. If I slowed down, I felt lazy. If I said no, I felt irresponsible.

So I kept going.

And going.

And going.

Until everything felt heavy.

Burnout doesn’t always scream.

Sometimes it whispers:

“What’s the point?”

You still function. You still show up. You still pass.

But the spark is gone.

You wake up tired even after sleeping. You feel drained even after doing “normal” things. You scroll endlessly because starting feels impossible.

And the worst part?

You blame yourself.

You say you’re unmotivated. You say you’re weak. You say you’re dramatic.

But exhaustion is not weakness.

It is a signal.

I realized I was burned out when something I used to enjoy started feeling like a burden.

Writing used to feel freeing.

Then it started feeling like another requirement.

That scared me.

Because if even the things I loved felt heavy, what did that say about me?

It took time to understand that burnout doesn’t mean you hate what you’re doing.

It means you’ve been carrying too much for too long.

Rest is not laziness.

It is maintenance.

You cannot expect a machine to run endlessly without overheating. Why do we expect that from ourselves?

I am learning to rest before I collapse.

To pause before I resent everything.

To forgive myself for not being productive every hour of every day.

Burnout doesn’t always look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like a quiet person trying their best.

And that deserves compassion, not criticism.

"A Dragged Path"

They say to look beyond the present. But some insist to embrace your current reality.

“What happens next?”

“How are you right now?”

Always the “What if?” and never the “What happened?”. We live the present and look forward to the future. We never really see the past. We try remembering, yet moving on was the better choice because-

we have so many things to look forward to.

Because this is our reality.

Because you can never come back to the past and-

It hurts.

It always does. Not because it happened but because you can never relive a life that was once bright. Brighter than the future, and even more colorful than the gift that is your present.

If the future is scary, then nostalgia is ruthless.

As you stare at the old belongings threatening to move into some else’s hands, you see a stain. The stain served as a dragged path. A remembrance of a moment. A gift from your past self. And as the memory brings you back, you smile.

We try to forget the past. But we can’t. Because, there is evidence. Proof-that it happened, and that it stayed alive. The precious moments, the sad parts, and the melodramatic times. It was all there, and we see that it all Happened.

We can never forget the past.

We try to, but-

It never leaves.

We forever relive our pasts. Though, not literally.

Because we carry the past in the present and in the future. In our minds, and most definitely in our hearts.

💫

This post was inspired by the song “Drag Path” by Twenty-One Pilots. It shows that the past is as important as what we look forward to and what we are today. The song reminds us that there is evidence that something did happen. And that it’s okay to know, embrace, and remember the before.