Hello Beauty

Sketching dreams on paper's breeze.

A line would form, a shape would grow,

And colors bloomed from heart's own flow.

But now, my fingers hesitate,

The pencil's tip is heavy, late.

I search the page with weary eyes,

Where once there lived a thousand skies.

The strokes are stiff, the shadows fall,

No longer do they rise or call.

Each curve I draw is thin and dry,

A ghost of what once soared on high.

The skill that once felt pure, alive,

Is now a memory I strive

To grasp and hold, but slips away—

Like daylight fading into gray.

Oh, how I miss the silent cheer,

The joy of drawing without fear.

Now, the paper's blank, so still,

A silent echo of my will.

Yet in this loss, I still remain,

A heart that aches, but won't complain.

For though my hands have lost their art,

I've been thinking about why Filing for Love stayed with me long after finishing it.

It wasn't because of the grand romantic moments. It wasn't because the male lead was rich, powerful, or impossibly perfect.

It was because of Ki-jun.

For years, people have argued about what women want in relationships. Some say women want dominance. Others say they want a provider. Some think romance is about winning someone over.

But what struck me about Ki-jun is that he never treated love as something to conquer.

He listened.

He adjusted.

He understood.

When In-ah's past resurfaced, he didn't immediately turn possessive. When she wasn't the picture of a traditional wife, he didn't try to reshape her into one. When she struggled, he didn't make her carry the burden alone.

He simply met her where she was.

And somehow, that felt more romantic than a hundred dramatic declarations.

What I appreciate most is that the story seems to understand women from the inside. In-ah is allowed to be flawed, ambitious, guarded, confused, and independent. She isn't rewarded only when she becomes softer or more convenient. She remains herself.

And Ki-jun loves her as herself.

Not as a project.

Not as an ideal.

Not as a future version he hopes to create.

Just her.

Maybe that's why the relationship feels refreshing. It isn't built on control. It isn't built on ego. It's built on understanding.

Women are often accused of asking for too much, but dramas like Filing for Love remind me that many women aren't asking for perfection.

They're asking for partnership.

For someone who listens without judgment.

For someone who respects their freedom.

For someone emotionally mature enough to love without needing to possess.

The older I get, the more I realize that the greenest flag isn't a man who leads every room.

It's a man who makes the person he loves feel safe enough to be fully herself.

And that's what Ki-jun gave In-ah.

Maybe that's why this drama felt so different.

it unfolds

in the quiet work of your own searching.

But without clarity,

it fractures,

If you are a beautiful nightmare,

don’t wake me up yet.

Let me wander through the ruins

of a dream that still says your name

like a prayer whispered too late.

If my delusion rewinds itself,

don’t press the ending.

Some hearts survive

by replaying the almost,

the almost-touch,

the almost-love,

the almost-us.

It is a cruel cinema—

every glance becomes prophecy,

every silence becomes meaning,

and every memory wears a halo

it never truly owned.

Still, I stay.

Not because it is real,

but because the feeling burns

like a city refusing darkness.

So if you are a beautiful nightmare,

let me sleep a little longer.

There are fantasies

more comforting than truth,

and some people

only know how to love

Alon ng pagsisisi,

Gawa-gawa ng isip,

Hindi napagmamasdan

Ngunit ramdam na ramdam.

Nakakalungkot—

Emosyong nilikha ng isip.

Patuloy kang naniniwala,

Patuloy ang pagsisisi,

Patuloy ang lungkot.

Patuloy kang nalulunod

I loved you. I truly did.

My kindness was real,

my presence—honest,

every moment we shared, I meant.

Until you lied.

And I stayed.

I played along…

until I, too, began to lie.

You lied,

and I became someone else—

someone shaped just to fit your world.

Lie after lie,

we slowly disappeared.

Until the end of us,

my only thought was—

I’m glad it’s over.

But still…

I loved you.

I needed you to know that.

At least we didn’t destroy each other completely.

At least… we tried.

But in the end,

you chose dishonesty.

So don’t be surprised

by my silence,

my distance,

my sudden indifference.

You started it.

You rewrote our future

with every lie you told.

And I…

I was the one

There I was.

Early 30s. Gender-fluid. Emotionally aware. Slightly traumatized. Fully hungry.

Inside Jollibee.

Because apparently, both job hunting and dating require two things:

patience… and fried chicken.

I opened my dating app like it was LinkedIn.

Same energy.

Different lies.

That’s when I matched with him.

He sat across me, holding his Chickenjoy like it was a personality trait.

“Bakit nasa dating app ka?” I asked.

He blinked. “Obvious ba?”

(Thoughts: Sarcastic agad. Red flag. Ayoko na. Turn off. But sige, gutom ako.)

I took a deep breath. This wasn’t just a date.

This was an interview.

“Okay,” I said, wiping gravy off my spoon like I was about to negotiate a salary.

“Let’s get straight to the point.”

He nodded. Nervous. Good.

“I don’t care about your past. Malalaman ko rin ‘yan if we last.”

Pause. Eye contact. Establish dominance.

“But I need to know—wala kang sakit? Namamana or hindi.”

He choked on his chicken.

“Wait—”

“Relax,” I said. “Hindi ako against sa may AIDS. I’m just saying—I also want to live long. Preferably with WiFi.”

Silence.

I continued. No mercy.

“Don’t twist my words. Don’t overthink. Gusto ko same page tayo.”

He slowly put his drink down.

“Financially literate ka dapat. Kasi ako, oo.”

“May emotional intelligence.”

“Healthy relationship.”

“May space ka. May space ako.”

“No control issues. Hindi tayo CCTV ng isa’t isa.”

At this point, the crew at Jollibee was probably listening.

I didn’t stop.

“Give and take. Mabuti kang tao—makikita ko ‘yan sa pamilya mo.”

“And most importantly…”

I leaned forward.

“May sense of humor ka.”

He stared at me like he just unlocked a new level of fear.

“Now,” I said calmly, “kung sasabihin mong meron ka lahat niyan… okay. We can be together.”

Beat.

“But marriage? After na. Kapag wala nang pagpapanggap.”

I smiled.

“Kasi sayang ang oras kung puro kasinungalingan lang.”

I sat back.

“I want to learn from you. At matututo ka rin sakin.”

Pause.

“Bakit ako ganito?”

I shrugged.

“Panget ang realidad. Wag ka nang dumagdag.”

Long silence.

Even the gravy felt uncomfortable.

Finally, he spoke.

“Uh…”

Deep breath.

“I’m gay.”

I nodded.

Filed under things that were never meant to be found.

She had missed libraries in a way that surprised her. Not just the books, but the rituals—the soft authority of a library card sliding across a desk, the patience required to consult an index before surrendering to the ease of a search bar. She missed how wanting a book once meant effort, intention, and a little faith.

On a late afternoon thick with dust and sunlight, she finally visited one again. The building was vast and hushed, as if it had learned the art of listening better than speaking. Her footsteps felt intrusive at first, so she slowed them, letting the silence forgive her presence.

She searched the old way. Fingers traced letters on a wooden drawer. A name. A number. A promise of location. The thrill rose quietly—more satisfying than certainty, more intimate than convenience. When she found the shelf, her heart lifted, absurdly proud, as though she had earned the book rather than merely borrowed it.

Pride and Prejudice.

The copy was worn, its spine softened by decades of hands that had held it without knowing each other. When she opened it, something slipped free and landed between her palms.

A letter.

The paper was thin, yellowed at the edges, folded carefully as if it had been practiced many times. She glanced around, suddenly aware of the cleaners who came after closing, of librarians who dusted and shelved and repaired. Surely someone would have found this. Surely no letter survived thirty years unnoticed.

And yet, there it was.

The date was written neatly at the top: 1995.

It was a love letter. Not dramatic, not poetic in the way novels promise, but earnest—achingly so. The writer spoke of restraint, of words left unsaid, of loving someone quietly because the world had made it inconvenient to do otherwise. They mentioned lending this very book, trusting it to hold what they could not say aloud.

She read it slowly, reverently, like one reads a confession never meant for them. When she finished, she folded it back into its place, exactly where it had been, as if returning a heartbeat to a body.

She left the library that day with nothing checked out, yet carrying more than she expected. Somewhere between the shelves and the silence, she realized why she missed libraries so much.

They were proof that some things wait patiently to be found.

Pagkalipas ng limang minuto,

Yumayanig ang mundo.

Huminto ako—

Naisip kita.

Sumasagi pa ba ako sayo?

Pagkalipas ng isang buwan,

Umahon ang tubig,

Naglaho ang ingay.

Naisip kita—

Nagalala ka kaya?

Kahit saan ako magtungo,

Isang dasal lang ang dala:

Sana makita kita.

Sana makita mo ako.

Sa pagsabog, may paghimlay.

Bumagsak sa gulat ng pagyanig.

Paulit-ulit ang direksyon—

malabong mapuna ang sakit.

Huminto ang lahat sa dulo ng ingay,

dahan-dahang lumitaw ang mga basag.

Sumirit ang pulang daloy sa balat,

hikbi sa lupang nakadapo.

Matalim ang tunog,

kumalat ang alikabok.

Sinakop ng maliliit na hangin,

hinabol ng kawalan.

Malalaking bulong ang umaligid,

nilamon ng pagod at pagsuko.

Isang haplos ang gumising—

paparating ang tulong.

from the unwritten book “Monsters”

My eyes awaken—pain blooms on the left,

A bruise, perhaps, or something deeper still.

The air is thick, the scent of rust and breath,

A room submerged in silence, cold and still.

What thought should come first?

What motion should I trust?

The space is wide yet blurred with dust—

I wander through confusion’s crust.

I search for answers.

Where is the light?

Is this the womb of night

Or the grave of day’s remains?

Where is the light?

I am enclosed in something sealed,

Vast, damp, and heavy with despair.

My trembling hands begin to feel

The edges of a world laid bare.

With trembling will, I rise—

The weight of life draped on my spine.

The chill embraces, recognizes,

The body that refused to die.

Once more, I see the sun,

And tears return with reason’s sting.

Why are you still alive?

Why must you still remain?

Why does the story cling

When all you wished was its ending?

List of my Undying Life (Am I Vampire or a Cat reincarnated to human form - at least not a cockroach hated by humans?)

1. Nakainom ng gas ng motor na nakalagay sa coke bottle, my tatay let me eat sugar and i throw up, IM ALIVE (consciousness? 10%, my thought was everyone is drinking something from that coke bottle, age? May be abou 6 or 5) sa bahay ni lolo casio (barangay bagong silang)

2. Nakalunok ng carabao coin piso, first by cousin kuya jack, we were isabela, nasa dagat? Not sure where (consciousness? 10% my thoughts were just swallow the coin, age 6 or 5)

3. Nalunod at age 10, i was mesmerized by a big rock in a pool, i gave my salbabida to my couzin ate zel because i was confident na maabot ko yung magandang bato sa ilalim (sino bang kampon ng kadiliman naglagay ng batong yun), i forgot the resort in bataan. This was 1998. "Basta lumutang lang ako," my thought underwater while slowly losing my breath

4. This was 2013 or 2014, my 2nd sister were going to manila, yung bus palabas ng bataan is is umikot dahilsa dulas ng daan and the driver was knowleagable enough na dahan dahan niyang binangga sa puno. I was laughing im not sure why, may gasgas yung noo ko.

5. Between 2014 and 2015, i was thin, i was angry, i have suicidal thoughts for 1 year, my gift is drawing so to remove those thought i draw for 1 year until i decided to live again.

6. June 30 2021 i was covid positive, my mind was like i have 15 days or less to live, i was crying for 3 days and yung mga nurse sabi mild lang, the facility where i was transferred was surrounded covid positive so my thoughts were if im gonna live how about them?

7. Sep 30 2025 it was 9:59pm, a magnitude 6.9 earthquake hit cebu, my 2nd sister was with me, we arrived at the hotel 9:55pm (im not a hyper observer but i can notice things specially time), i said to my sister stop ka lang, we waited tapos nung tapos i told her tara dalhin mo lang ng importanteng gamit labas tayo. Everyone were in panic and crying. My sister and decided to go to #jollibee kasi gutom na kami, tumatawa kaming dalawa (i know its not normal but i think i need a therapy)

The water was calm that day. Too calm.

I thought maybe if I slipped beneath it, no one would notice. The lake would keep my secret, hold me better than anyone ever had.

I was ready. Ready to let the silence swallow me whole.

Then she came. Her hands, her voice, the chaos of her fighting the current just to drag me back. I hated her for it in that moment—hated the breath she forced back into me, hated the way her eyes demanded I stay.

I lay there on the grass, shivering, staring at the sky. She kept asking why. I had no answer worth giving.

So I said the only thing I could.

“You will regret this day.”

And the sky carried my words away.

Lately, I’ve been thinking maybe I need to talk more. Not in a deep, intellectual way—just... yap. Say things. Even the nonsense. Especially the nonsense.

I used to think staying quiet made me better at observing people—and honestly, it does. When you're quiet, you notice things: the way people talk, how they laugh when they're uncomfortable, or how their eyes shift when they lie. But the thing is, being quiet also keeps me distant. Like I’m watching life instead of participating in it.

So now, I’m leaning into talking. Small talk. Random convos. Sharing weird thoughts just because they popped into my head. I don’t want to take myself too seriously anymore. There’s no prize for being the most mysterious person in the room.

And when I talk to people—whether they tell me the truth or spin a story—I learn something. Always. I get a glimpse of how they see the world. It’s fascinating. Even the lies are interesting. I'm not after accuracy. I'm after understanding.

I still love my silence. I still recharge in quiet spaces. But I’ve learned that talking, even just to connect with someone for a moment, is just as powerful.

🖋️ Title: I Love Sam

> "Some people leave, and somehow, they still stay."

Stephen hadn't moved the books.

Five years, and her books still sat on the same dusty shelf, untouched, like she’d just left for groceries and would be back any second.

He sat by the window, drinking black tea with too much sugar. The mug had a crack down the handle, but he never threw it away. It was hers. Everything in the flat was still hers.

She was everywhere.

In the quiet hum of the fridge, in the way the rain hit the glass, in the ghost of her laughter echoing down the hallway. But Sam was gone—half a world away, in New York now. Successful. Cold. Brilliant. Beautiful. And very, very far from this version of Stephen that barely existed.

They used to call each other “soulmates who got the timing wrong.” Then one day, timing wasn’t the problem anymore. Stephen was.

He stopped talking to people. Stopped smiling. Started hearing her voice even when he was alone.

Tonight, it was worse. He swore he saw her. Young Sam, standing in the doorway with paint on her cheek and a cigarette tucked behind her ear, like she’d stepped out of a dream they forgot to finish.

“Stephen,” she said softly.

He blinked.

And she was gone.