Elle

It began on a quiet Monday morning. One notification changed everything — he came in like sunlight I didn’t know I needed. The one who shines.

His words felt like magic. He called me beautiful, teased me playfully, and made me blush even through a screen. I knew it was too fast, too sweet, but I let myself drown in it anyway. Unauthorized calls at midnight, long voice notes, random compliments, and him sharing stories about his life like I was someone special. For a while, he made our small online world feel like the safest place on earth.

Every morning, his “good morning” was already waiting. He asked how I was. He listened. He laughed with me. In his voice, I felt seen. In his faith and kindness, I thought I had finally found something real. I fell in love with his smile in photos, his chuckles, the way he said my name, and the future I stupidly started imagining with him.

I loved him.

God, I loved him so much it embarrassed me.

But just as quickly as he came, he started disappearing.

When I needed him most, he wasn’t there anymore. The good morning messages stopped. The calls turned into silence. The person who once couldn’t get enough of talking to me suddenly had no time. Wars, military duties, and a life thousands of miles away became more important than whatever we had.

I was left waiting. Refreshing chats that never came. Staring at our old conversations like a fool, rereading messages from someone who probably doesn’t even remember them now.

I keep asking myself what I did wrong. Was I too much? Not enough? Did I imagine everything? Because how can someone who made me feel so special suddenly treat me like I never existed?

Some nights, the line from Hotel Del Luna plays in my head like a cruel reminder:

“It’s easier to let go than to hold on.”

But letting go isn’t easy.

Not when I still check if he viewed my story. Not when his name still feels like a wound in my chest. Not when I gave him a part of my heart through a screen, and he left it there to bleed.

He was the one who shone.

But his light didn’t stay. It only passed through my life long enough to make the darkness feel colder once it was gone.

"And now, I’m left here — trying to heal from someone who was never really mine… yet somehow broke me the most."

It's been months since I last wrote here.

Lately, I've been carrying a quiet grief—the kind that doesn't come from losing a person, but from losing a version of yourself you thought you would become.

I think I'm finally accepting that I have to let go of a program that was never truly mine from the beginning. Maybe I chose it because it seemed practical. Maybe I chose it because I wanted to prove something. Maybe I chose it because I thought I could eventually grow into it. But no matter how hard I tried, it never felt like home.

The hardest part isn't changing directions. The hardest part is admitting that some dreams don't fail because you didn't try hard enough. Sometimes they simply weren't meant for you.

Life has been loud lately. Family issues. Financial struggles. Scarcity in ways I don't always know how to explain. There are days when I feel guilty for wanting more when everyone around me is already carrying so much. That's why I rarely tell my parents how lost I feel. They have enough worries of their own. So, I keep my fears folded neatly inside myself and pretend I'm doing okay.

I wanted to become a psychiatrist once. I wanted to understand people and help heal minds. Then there was a time when I wanted to become an accountant because I thought it would make my aunt proud. Somewhere along the way, I realized I was building my future around expectations—mine, theirs, everyone's except my own.

And now I'm standing at this strange crossroads where I don't know exactly where I'm going, but for the first time, I think I'm choosing the road myself.

Maybe I'm lazy sometimes. Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I spend too much time worrying about money, about wants and needs, about whether I'll ever become the person I imagine in my head. But despite everything, I still find myself wanting to live. To laugh. To enjoy small moments. To keep going even when the world feels chaotic.

I don't have a perfect plan.

I don't have a dramatic success story.

What I do have is a decision.

For the first time, I'm choosing my academic journey based on what I'm actually good at—my skills, my strengths, the things that come naturally to me. Not guilt. Not pressure. Not expectations.

Maybe that's what growing up really is.

Not becoming who everyone thought you'd be.

But became someone you can finally recognize when you look in the mirror.

Huna-hunaa lang gud. You had a long day, naglisod kag project, gipangkapoy na ka sa tanan, unya instead of asking “ngano di ka ganahan makigstorya?”, he gives you space first, then checks on you later. Not to argue, but to understand. Or that one night you argued, and instead of sleeping with pride, he messages, “Let’s fix this, di ko ganahan matulog nga mag-away ta.” That’s not drama, that’s maturity.

See, most people nowadays settle for temporary happiness. Kanang lingaw lang sa sugod, pero mag-ilog na ug pride in the long run. Some relationships turn into silent competitions instead of partnerships. Ang ending, duha kabuok ang kapoy.

That’s why it’s important to look for someone who knows how to communicate. Someone who listens before reacting. Someone who won’t let days pass without peace. Because peace is more important than “who’s right.”

And this doesn’t only apply to relationships — even in friendships, family, and work. If you can’t talk with respect, nothing will ever be fixed. If you can’t admit when you’re wrong, love turns into resentment. So maybe, the question shouldn’t be “unsa imong gipangita.” Maybe it should be “Are you also becoming the kind of person you’re praying for?”

"Kapoy na gyud ko." Mao na pirmi nako masulti sa akong kaugalingon kada gabiing magtan-aw kog laptop screen, magdungan ang tabs: AutoCAD, Reportings , ug YouTube tutorials. Engineering life daw. Pero murag dili na ni life, murag torture na ni.

Every day feels like a cycle — project, exam, quiz, report. Makapangutana ko usahay "Sir, dili ba mo kapoy og hatag deadline?" Pero ang tubag pirmi "That’s life, manage your time."

Unya akong utok kay halos empty na. Ako ra’y nag-manage sa time, pero mura ra ko’g gina-manage sa time mismo. Wala koy tulog, wala koy peace.

Di pa gyud mawala ang pressure. Tita:"Dapat maayo ka sa school ha, dili ta magpakaulaw." Ako (silently): "Tia, kung kabalo lang ka nga kada exam, nag-panic attack ko sa CR kay wala nako masabtan ang giklase sa instructor."

They expect me to be strong and perfect. Pero unsaon, I’m just trying to survive every day. Then comes the reality check. Ang uban nako nga classmates, makapalit og MacBook, makakaon og Starbucks samtang nag-answer og plates. Ako, di gani sure kung naa bay bugas ug sud-an inig uli. Sometimes I borrow a friend’s laptop kay hinay ra akong unit. Pero I still try, kay kung mu-give up ko, wala na koy padulngan.

Unsaon nato pag-asenso kung ang system mismo naglubong nato? Taxes left and right pero ang resulta? Broken roads, empty promises, ug "scholarship programs" nga di tanan deserving maka-benefit tungod kay "kinsa imong kaila."

Life is so unfair. Ang dato, mas mudato. Ang pobre, mas mupobre. And we, the students, we’re stuck in the middle — fighting for a degree nga murag lisod kaayo maabot.

Honestly, gusto ra ko i-express nga dili lalim.

Gusto ko tulog, pero naay deadline. Gusto ko mag-relax, pero ma guilty ko. Gusto ko molingaw, pero wala koy kwarta. Gusto ko musulti nga "dili na nako kaya," pero people will just say, "kaya lagi na nimo."

Pero what if dili na gyud kaya?

GREEN

“Ganahan lagi kaayo ko moadto sa bukid kung daghan kog problema.”

That’s what I told my friend one afternoon. We were sitting under a mango tree, the air was calm, and the fields around us were painted with different shades of green.

She laughed a little, almost teasing me. “Unsa man diay naa sa green? Murag ordinary ra man gud siya nga color.”

I smiled, then looked around. “Dili lang na ordinary color. For me, green reminds me of growth. Bisan unsa pa ka lisod ang adlaw, ang tanom motubo gihapon basta naa siyay adlaw ug ulan. Same ra sa atong life nga maski puno sa struggles, naa gihapon possibility nga motubo ta, nga mo-improve ta.”

My friend grew quiet. She glanced at the rice fields in front of us, the young stalks swaying with the wind. “Oo sah. Murag relaxing man gyud tan-awon,” she admitted.

“Exactly,” I replied. “When I overthink, mura ra og black and white akong makita. Everything feels heavy, dull, and lifeless. Pero kung naa ko sa nature, surrounded by green, I feel like life reminds me nga dili lang kutob sa problema ang imong storya. There’s still peace, healing, ug hope nga naghulat.”

We both sat in silence for a moment, just listening to the sound of the breeze. The leaves above us rustled gently, almost like a soft lullaby. The coconut trees stood tall at a distance, as if telling us: “Kalma lang, padayon lang. You are exactly where you’re meant to be.”

I then added, “Green gives us peace nga dili noisy, dili flashy. It’s the quiet kind of peace. Like when you pray in silence, when you pause from social media, or when you take a deep breath after a long day. That’s the kind of peace nga makahatag og kusog balik sa imong soul.”

My friend smiled, finally understanding. “Mao diay. Murag mas maayo pa gyud ni kaysa mag kape ta pirmi para maka-relax.”

We both laughed, but deep inside, I knew she was right. Sometimes, peace isn’t in expensive coffee shops or noisy places. Sometimes, it’s in the simple color of green—trees, grass, mountains—that remind us of life, growth, and calm.

That afternoon, we didn’t talk much anymore. We just stayed there, breathing in the fresh air, letting the green embrace us with a quiet peace.

“What’s your dream?” my teacher once asked me in front of the class.

I was only nine years old then, holding a pencil in my tiny hands, with eyes full of wonder.

“Gusto nako teacher kanang mahayahay ko, makalingkawas sa kalisud, ug makatabang sa ako pamilya ug sa uban pa,” I said with a bright smile, my voice trembling with innocence but filled with determination.

Back then, I thought life was simple: study hard, grow up, achieve my dream, and make my family proud.

But years passed, and life turned heavier. When I finally stood in college, I realized that dreams are not only built with books and pens, they are tested with the weight of people’s words. The same people I once vowed to help became the reason my shoulders sagged.

Discouragement came like heavy rain. Their swearing cut deeper than I expected. And the worst part was the constant comparison, as if my worth was always measured against someone else’s success.

One evening, I sat in our living room, my books scattered on the table. My parents’ voices echoed louder than the ticking clock.

“Dili ka kabalo mu-manage sa imong oras. Tan-awa imong mga ig-agaw, mas maayo pa sila kaysa nimo!”

Their words pierced through me. I bit my lip, holding back tears, but finally I broke.

“Dili na nako kaya, kung ing ani lang mo permi sa ako!” I shouted, my voice shaking as tears finally fell.

Silence filled the room. I lowered my head, ashamed yet exhausted. The dream that once gave me light now felt like a burden pressing down on my chest.

I went to my room and stared at my notes. For the first time, I asked myself, “Why am I doing this? For them? Or for me?”

That night, I realized something important: no matter how much I loved them, I couldn’t let their wounds become mine. I couldn’t allow the cycle of pain to continue.

If parents don’t want their children to suffer the way they did, then they should not repeat the cycle. Support, patience, and understanding are heavier than gold. Because sometimes, the biggest help a child can ever receive is not money, not gifts, but simply acceptance and encouragement.

And maybe, just maybe, if that nine-year-old girl could speak again, she would still say the same dream—but this time, with one addition:

It’s frustrating. I stay up late, trying to squeeze knowledge into my head, but when the paper is in front of me, my thoughts scatter. I tell myself, “Maybe I’m not capable enough… maybe this isn’t for me.” And yet, I still show up. I still try.

There are days I compare myself to others—those who ace their exams as if knowledge flows effortlessly for them. Meanwhile, I’m here, battling self-doubt and the sinking feeling that I’m always one step behind. But what I’m learning through this struggle is that capacity isn’t fixed. It expands through effort, through resilience, through falling short and trying again.