After watching last night’s latest Ang Walang Kwentang Podcast episode, I couldn’t help but think about what Direk Tonet said: “Ikaw ang nagbigay ng susi, pero hindi ka invited sa bahay,” a response to the situation of one’s queerness being a gateway for a heterosexual’s gay awakening. When she said it the first time, I had to pause the video to ground myself because quite frankly, I have never felt so exposed. Shuta, ako ba ‘yung letter sender?

It’s so particularly such a queer experience too, if I may say. Growing up, and especially studying in an exclusive all-boys school, being the portal for so many straight-curious boys is a canon event for every openly queer kid.

I have just recently soft-launched my sexuality, having come out to very few friends as bisexual, when I had my first experience navigating my queerness and queer feelings for the first time. We were classmates, and shortly after our first day back to school, he messaged and reassured me he’d be my first line of defense should there be another kid bullying me for my softness (I think I introduced myself as a bullied kid, and begged everyone to be kind). I didn’t think much of it then, but that was the beginning of everything I would later on come to realize as crucial to my identity.

Ever since that moment, we have become inseparable, sometimes even a target of malice. We often talked on Messenger everyday. We sometimes quietly called, but only for a brief moment, because his mother never really wanted him sleeping too late during school days. We sat beside each other during class—he drew fake tattoos on my hand using a black Panda ballpen. He’d go to my place and asked to be tutored for our quarterly exams. He’d buy me a Yum burger. He’d ride on a jeepney just to accompany me home, despite being so out of the way, and made sure I got picked up by my mom before he rides the same jeepney back to his place.

But he would also talk about girls. He’d specifically talk about one of our friends (who happened to be from an all-girls school, too) and how she makes him feel butterflies in his stomach. He’d laugh like one of the bullies sometimes whenever he’s with his more straight-looking friends. He would always play basketball during recess. He calls me “boi” or “pre” when he slips and thinks I’m “one of the guys.”

Cut to: I eventually couldn’t help it anymore and confessed that I liked him. He told me he didn’t think of me that way, that we were just friends, that he was straight, and that there was nothing going on. Devastated, of course, I kept my distance. We grew apart. Sort of, kind of. We were still in the same circle of friends, but we didn’t hang out like we used to. He eventually got a girlfriend, and by then, I had come to terms with the idea that maybe, maybe he was right after all. That I made it all up in my head because honestly, who wouldn’t?

Three or four years after I confessed, during one of our friend group reunions (and coincidentally a celebration of his birthday, too), I found out that during the time I developed feelings for him, he was curious and exploring all along. He just never had the courage to explore it with me.

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Another guy (and this was during my phase of physical exploration…..forgive me), who I met on a dating app, had told me he was straight prior to downloading the app where we first conversed. This was an exchange already made after we had sex, and it was funny because I was one of the first few men he met when he started exploring his bisexuality. I would relish on the so, so many compliments he had given me and thought to myself that maybe, maybe I could also make him feel love beyond the confines of physical pleasure. Because honestly, we clicked—we were doing stuff within the same field (I was then studying public administration and he was working in government), we laughed at the same jokes, we like the same food, we listened to the same things. I honestly thought he would, at any given time during our third (or fourth) meet-up, that he would finally ask me out over lunch.

Until one day, after a six p.m. class, I opened my Instagram to see a message from him saying we couldn’t meet up anymore, because he was already exclusively dating someone else. Another guy. A queer thing. The real score.

They’ve been together for four or five years now, I think.

It’s only lately that I am beginning to realize if I am the problem in the equation. Because ever since then, I can’t seem to get the formula right—I meet a guy, whether exploring or openly queer, we click, develop great chemistry, and then they move on to say they either 1) can’t be with me or 2) found someone new. It’s the same pattern over and over.

Guy #23 keeps liking my stories. I feel brave enough to return the favor. We exchange a few silly, flirty, banters, and boom: he hard launches a girlfriend. Guy #12 nags me to meet up, and when I say I’m free, he replies three days after to say he doesn’t want to anymore because he’s dating exclusively. Guy #41 draws me a fucking Hirono-inspired (his favorite) portrait of me on my birthday, calls me the cheesiest fucking term of endearment (Maku), and months later cuts me off because I couldn’t be…..a good friend?

Ako ba ‘yung problema? Most days, I could not care less because honestly, getting into a relationship isn’t really what I want in my life right now. But on days when I feel extremely lonely, and it’s past midnight, and I’ve just recently watched Direks Tonet and JP and Geloy talk about such a specific experience on queerness, I cannot help but feel angry about it. Or angry at myself. The line becomes blurry at some point.

I can’t believe that I get to be a launchpad for someone’s someone greater. I can’t believe I let myself be an abused doormat to whoever wishes to step foot into another house door instead. I can’t believe I remain a constant victim of an exploration gone wrong. Because truth be told, I know I don’t hate myself that much to repeatedly find myself in the same situation, over and over again. Malas lang siguro talaga ako sa lalaki, tangina.

All these to say that I have always been the one to provide the keys to a house I was never given access to. I have always been someone who willingly accommodates people in my shelter, but the moment the storm catches on and I have nowhere else to go, I do not even get to see their door open. More than a friend, less than a lover. In between the spotlight and the periphery. I am both and neither. And lately, I’m getting sick of it. Truly, genuinely, sick of it.

Sunugin ko nalang kaya lahat ng bahay niyo?

I write to fuel my (in)sanity.
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Bago ako umuwi ng probinsya ngayon, dumaan muna ako sa Manila Matcha Fest sa may SM Mall of Asia Main Atrium kahapon pagkatapos ng trabaho. Hindi naman na nakakagulat na ang daming tao kahit isang linggo na siyang ginaganap. Biruin mo, mula August 7 hanggang 16 ‘yung event, pero ‘yung dagsa ng tao kahapon lang ay daig pa concert ni NIKI na three days (I miss you my SEA sister). Pagkarating ko doon, ang average consumption na ng mga kaibigan kong nauna mula alas-onse palang ng umaga ay tatlo na.

Bago magsara ‘yung mall, bumili pa ng huling matcha drink ‘yung kaibigan ko, at habang naghihintay matapos ‘yung pagwhi-whisk nung barista, napunta ang usapan naming magkaibigan sa estado ng bansa natin ngayon.

Hindi ko makalilimutan ang binanggit niya na hanggang sa makauwi ako ng probinsya ngayong araw, bitbit-bitbit ko pa rin siya: “Nakakaguilty na minsan mas pipiliin ko nalang hindi makinig sa balita kasi sobrang bigat niyang damdamin.” Shet, gets ko siya.

At hindi ito atake sa pagkatao niya ha, dahil alam ko at sigurado naman akong lahat tayo ngayon, at least within the Substack space, ay may dala-dalang kanya-kanyang bersyon ng pribiliheyo. One form or another.

Pero hindi mapagkakaila na may lungkot at bigat na nakabalot sa pahayag niya, bilang salamin sa mas malalim na pagunawa at pagintindi sa lawak ng espasyong pumapagitna sa tinatayuan namin noong gabing ‘yon at sa araw-araw na buhay ng maralitang Pilipino.

Habang marami sa atin ay may kakayahang gumastos ng pagkamahal-mahal na matcha drink na halos pumalo ng tatlong daan para sa isang baso, milyong-milyong Pilipino pa rin ang ni wala man lang akses sa malinis na tubig pang-inom.

Ayon sa 2025 study ng Philippine Institute for Development Studies, “12.4 million Filipinos still lack safe water, with less than half of households having piped connections at home and 332 municipalities considered “water-less.” Sino bang hindi magu-guilty?

Habang marami sa atin ang may kalayaang bumyahe ng payapa sa kabila ng walang tigil na pagbuhos ng ulan, daan-daang manggagawa sa mga pabrika at mga gusali ang mas pipiliing lumusong sa baha at iligay sa peligro ang sarili para kumita at may mapanggastos para sa kakarampot na ulam panghapunan.

Ayon sa research ni Dr. Jason Alinsunuriin patungkol sa job insecurity, kalahati ng mga manggagawang Pilipino (55 to 59%) ay hindi nakakatanggap ng regular na sweldo, at halos 30% ay nakapailalim pa rin sa kontraktwalisasyon—patunay na ang kakulangan sa seguridad sa trabaho ay likas pa ring saklaw ng kasulukuyang hulma ng employment sa bansa. Nakakapanlumo, diba?

Kahit ilang daan pang research o study ang ilapat ko dito, hindi pa rin naman magbabago ang reyalidad na para sa karaniwang Pilipino, ang paglahok sa mga matcha festivals at kung ano pa man ay isang pribilehiyo mahirap matamasa. Isa ring pribilehiyo ang simpleng pagdebrief lang ng kasulukuyang krisis sa bansa dulot ng climate change, o isyu ng pagpapatayo ng AI data centers, o ang circus nating Senado na araw-araw ipinapakita ang impeachment trial proceedings ng bise presidente (na napakabagal, masabi ko lang ha).

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At siguro, ang pinaka-nakakalungkot na pribilehiyo ay ang kakayahan ng marami sa ating putulin ang ganitong mga diskusyon kapag hindi na siya nakakatulong sa ating mental health o peace of mind. Nakakatempt, oo, pero ‘pag iniisip kong piliin ang mas payapang ruta, mas nakakasuka. Mas nakakasuka pa kaysa sa six grams ng matcha.

Ang pagkilala sa pribilehiyo ay isang pang-araw-araw na kontradiksyong internal. Kasi kung tutuusin, madali lang namang hindi gaanong makielam. Madali namang pindutin ang next button kapag nanonood ng Facebook reels patungkol sa kabobohan ni Robin Padilla. Madali lang namang i-mute nalang ang mga posts patungkol sa mga protesta.

Pero saklaw ng pagpiling ‘wag mangielam ay ang pagtraydor sa kapwa. At bago niyo ko simulan sa mga argumentong, “Eh sila-sila rin naman ‘yung nag-upo sa mga ‘yan. Deserve nila ‘yan!” Halika dito, baka masampal kita.

Kesyo binoto nila ‘yan o hindi, ang tunay na kalaban pa rin naman ay ang kung sino rin lang ang nakikinabang sa kapangyarihan at posisyon ngayon. Kailanma’y hindi kalaban ang kapwa Pilipino. Kung nagfe-feed into tayo sa ganitong pag-iisip, una palang ay nakuha na ng mga sakim ang gusto nilang mangyari.

Sa totoo lang, hindi ko rin alam anong point ng galit at lungkot kong ito. Marahil ay gusto ko ng kakaunting reassurance na kahit may kaakibat na pribilehiyo akong tinatamasa ay hindi ko ito binabalewala. Marahil ito ay isang patunay ng aking pakikiisa sa milyon-milyong Pilipinong hindi man lang makatungtong sa unang palapag ng pribilehiyo na tinatamasa ng iilan sa atin.

Marahil ito ay salamin ng aking pang-araw-araw na kontradiksyong internal. Marahil itong salaysay ay aking munting paraan para sa kolektibo at puspusang pakikibaka ng proletaryado.

Pero siguro, sa ngayon, ang gusto ko lang naman mangyari ay balang araw, mawalan ng lugar sa lipunan ang pribilehiyo ng pagkibit-balikat. Na sana balang araw, walang sinuman sa atin ang mas pipiliing magkibit-balikat.

Magdahan-dahan muna tayo sa matcha, mga teh. Leche.

References

Adrian, A. (2025). Securing Tomorrow’s Water: insights on groundwater, surface water, and the role of water districts in the Philippines. https://doi.org/10.62986/dp2025.50

Xavier University - Ateneo de Cagayan. (2025, November 5). Xavier University - Precarity and incomes in the Philippines: Measuring labor market vulnerability through a multidimensional job precarity index. Xavier University - Ateneo De Cagayan. https://www.xu.edu.ph/xavier-news/234-xu-ateneo-news-ay-2025-2026/7694-precarity-and-incomes-in-the-philippines-measuring-labor-market-vulnerability-through-a-multidimensional-job-precarity-index

It hit me on a random Tuesday morning inside a provincial bus passing through Balintawak. Leanne & Naara's cover of Alapaap plays on loop, while my right foot remained partly suspended mid-air to minimize the swelling from an unfortunate misstep last night. I am not getting any younger.

I've been accustomed to this commute route ever since I transfered to Manila for college. This is a familiar path, one that has become an extension of my body. Like I could tell by hearing the tire screeches when it's time to prepare my things for drop-off. I could pin point the specific road bumps that reveal where I'm almost headed.

Except this time, I no longer commute for school. I ride the bus to go to work. I now wait in line at train stations to brave through the rush hour because my body could withstand the pain brought by shoulder punches from strangers, than the agony of another hour wasted waiting for metropolitan traffic to subside. I book Grab car rides not for post-midterm late-night bar hops, but because I cannot afford getting a portion of my salary cut from my payslip for the time I get to my office later than I should.

I digress. I guess what I wanted to say is so much of our youth is wasted on desiring a life beyond it, when really, not a lot from the life you expect is what you make it out to be. Sure, you get more money. You get better networks. You have more control over the decisions you make.

But you also gain more responsibilities. You attract more risks. You shoulder more failures—more complex ones at that, the kind that either makes or breaks your future. Yet with so little time. Such little, little time. So much of the life you build for yourself beyond your youth, you mostly get to experience in twice the speed that you try building them.

And sometimes, living will feel so fast that you don't notice the many things you slowly start to miss out on. That dinner with your relatives from your mom's side. That weekend getaway your parents planned. The birthday celebration your brother organized for his eldest daughter.

God forbid a 20-something year-old queer kid can wish for time to slow down. Because I really hope I could just breathe. Even for a moment.

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When my eyes do not speak of my charm,

or when my laugh lines do not settle in enough to be “just right,”

or when my cheeks cannot be warm pillows on days

I wake up on wrong side of the bed anymore,

and when I’m not beautiful in anyone’s eyes anymore

Where do I put the value of my worth?

Because every day is an unchartered territory for my insecurities

The ones that cannot be solved by mere affirmations

Or “fake-it-’til-you-make-it”s

And every night is an endless cycle of battle

between indulgence—in attempt to catch up on the days I dry myself out—

and thirst for necessary approval

“You do not need their approval,” is the biggest lie

Anyone has ever spoken into existence

When the numbers on the weighing scale

And the amount of calories I take in

versus the one I try so hard to kill

Determine the space I’m bound to fill

Because space is not what’s already there

or what cannot be taken

It is what’s desired and given,

or earned, and hated, or loved.

Approval is necessary not because we want to

But because sometimes

Liberty necessitates approval

And oftentimes the only way out is through

Throughout twenty-two years

All I’ve ever been reduced to was how I look

And how I act

and how I am perceived

And not what my dreams look like

Or how my voice feels when used as a lullaby

Or why I write the way I write

But no more.

Because when my arms fail to carry the weight of a thousand whispers

And my legs tire out from going the extra mile

And when my teeth chip off from the tension that forms when I fake a smile

My words are what remain

In the wind

At the doorstep

On the wrong (or right) side of the bed

My words exist.

And when I’m not beautiful in anyone’s eyes anymore

I hope my worth remains in my words.

From the 2023 archives

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Nagkumustahan kami ng kaibigan ko noong Huwebes ng gabi pagkatapos ng ritwal ko kauwi galing trabaho. Hindi ko rin alam kung bakit naisipan kong tumawag, pero kinailangan ko ng kausap dahil mas pipiliin ko pang tuluyang makatulog gawa ng aking yap session kaysa makatulog nang bitbit ang pagod bilang empleyado sa Makati.

“Break na kami,” paliwanag niya. Hindi rin naman ako nagulat, at mas lalong hindi rin naman iba sa akin na may bago na siyang kausap dahil kung tutuusin, karapatan naman niya ‘yon. Kung ako rin naman, single at maganda, bakit hindi ko pa sasagarin diba? Maliban pa roon, hindi rin naman kagulat-gulat dahil panigurado ako na bago pa man banggitin ng kaibigan ko ang dahilan ng kanilang break-up, alam kong kasalanan na nung isa. Mga lalaki talaga.

Noong binalik na niya ang tanong sa akin, kung kumusta na raw ba ako at kung may bago na raw ba, tumawa nalang ako. Hindi dahil wala, kundi kahit mayroon ay pakiramdam kong wala rin naman itong pupuntahan. Five years na akong single, at sa araw-araw na ginawa ng Diyos, wala pa akong nakikilalang kayang punan ang pangangailangan na hinahanap ko. Maarte ba ang tawag don? Hindi ko sure, actually. Pero mas malapit sa pakiramdam ang salitang pagod.

Kaya sinabi ko sa kanya, at binalik ko ulit ang tanong: Hindi ka ba napapagod magpakilala ulit? Ayun, napaisip ang gaga.

Ilang buwan—or baka ilang taon na rin—ko nang dala-dala ang pakiramdam na pagod. Nakakapagod magpakilala nang paulit-ulit sa iba’t ibang tao kung ang byahe mo palang papunta’t pabalik ng Makati, ubos ka na. Hindi ko mabilang kung ilang beses kong mas pinili nalang mag-doomscroll sa Tiktok o ‘di kaya nama’y mag-doom swipe sa dating apps nang walang ibang iniisip kaysa paglaanan ng oras ang pagpapakilala at pagbigay ng access sa mga bagong tao sa buhay ko.

Feeling ko, subconsciously ko siyang hinayaang mangyari, dala ng bigat ng pakiramdam na paulit-ulit ka lang rin namang ginagago ng mga taong hinayaan mong kilalanin ka.

O baka naman tumatanda lang ako? Ay, ewan ko ba.

Pero sa panahon ngayon, na halos araw-araw ay laging may masamang balitang ipinapalabas—mga buwaya sa Senado, mamamatay-tao sa Hague, pagtaas ng presyo ng krudo at iba pang bilihin, kawalang-hiyaan ng mga opisyal ng gobyerno, at kalechehan ng Pax Silica—aba’y mas pipiliin mo nalang matulog. Pagod ka na sa trabaho, pagod ka na sa balita, at galit ka na sa mundo, may oras ka pa bang magpakilala?

Aba’y bahala kayo. Magpapahinga nalang ako.

Nobody fucking reads Bumble bios anymore, which exactly proves that dating apps are the purest form of superficiality.

Don’t get me wrong—I cannot claim high ground and provide a reliable and sound take on modern dating because, quite frankly, this is the fourth time I reinstalled a dating app just this year alone. To put simply: I do not have the right to shit on it. But am I really wrong, though?

The reason I have boldly claimed a statement like this is that, in my Bumble bio, I included a prompt that let me finish the sentence: “My character flaw is …”

I will write about you in one way or another.

For some reason, people I’ve matched with still end up messaging me, and I cannot help but think dating apps are meant for people who like the idea of being perceived rather than seen; idealized rather than understood; available but never truly present. Unfortunately, I am a caricature of the kind of people I mock.

I digress. Nobody fucking reads Bumble bios anymore, because why do you not give a fuck if I write about you in one way or another, exactly the way I am doing the very thing I warned you about just now?

To be written about is scary.

Daniel once told me I had the makings of a cursed poet. I would let him read my verses during lunch time, just a tiny bit past 12:30 p.m. at the school canteen, and he’d always say he was envious of the way I write. How each word is a substitute for piano notes, and my verses sounded like tunes he could hum even in his sleep. He wanted to know what was constantly going through my mind, so much so that he gave me a handwritten birthday greeting in an attempt to match my poetry. It was the first and last time he wrote about me. He never found out the poetry book was an ode to how I’ve always felt about him.

Pau was a gentle prose. She was reassuring—the kind of love that translates into words I can associate with peace. With her, I could always start writing the most beautiful sonnets and haikus, yet interestingly, I have noticed I could never exactly end them with decided punctuation marks. Looking back, that must have been a premonition of something far greater than what I could comprehend at the time. To this day, I can never completely bleed ink inside me for her.

John understood me a little differently. He never really cared much about the pieces I write, partly because he jokingly tells me his mind could never comprehend the extent of my literature, but he did find my handwriting peculiar and unique. My handwriting was one of the worst things I owned, but for him, it never had to be readable for my thoughts to be understood. For John, what my writing held was inimitable from how I choose to write them. Ironic, because the handwritten notes I made for him have always served as a picture-perfect portrait of the kind of love I’ve grown to yearn even now.

I could go on and on about the entries my journal notebooks have housed in the last 24 years, and they would stare back at you as if they were waiting for you to wave through the window.

I’ve heard people say that how I speak my truth is a testament to my bravery. I tell them that this is how it has always been; especially when you grew up thinking that the world holds no space for your meaning. And yet, when I say your name, all I remember is how soft I have to do it because I remember you telling me that words hold more sentimental value, and I didn’t want to tarnish the way your name dances out of my tongue.

Silence Must Be Your Friend

My words look more like sketches and photographs than they do like words, and it’s precisely why I want to tell you that being written about is scary (or at least, with me). I will write about you with adjectives that start looking like rough lines and creases. I will etch you in letters that look like almond-shaped eyes and pursed lips. I will color you using paragraphs I’ve mixed and matched that you’d never realize you’ve browsed through a catalogue of memories that depict what you have become in my eyes.

I do remember. I have written castles of your memory by hand that I could vividly rewrite the way your smile curls up when I gave you handwritten letters on burnt paper. I could clearly retell the way your eyes reflect the whispers on the corridor when I wanted to hold your hand. I could restate, word per word, the way I would say a prayer that held your name on repeat.

Now, all I am is afraid.

Untitled

Thad is a dreamer with narcissistic tendencies. Jo is a lover who could never really allow room for mistakes. Paul is an avoidant dickhead. Isa is never serious about liking me back. Niel could only talk about himself.

Some pieces are hereby omitted just because.

Again, I digress.

I have written too many pieces about people that I could only hope the next time someone walks into my life, I forget to write about them, even for a brief moment. For someone who has grown attached to their Notes app and their maroon-covered journal, I would despise the day I’d search for it when I meet someone new. I do not want to write about you in ways that hold no space for forgetting, because that would only mean I have already lost you by then. I don’t want to add another journal page to my growing list of anecdotes. I do not want to immortalize the memory of a person; I would rather just exist where I could see them.

So please, for the love of God and Bumble bios, don’t make me write about you.

My parents used to tell me I was made for great things when I get older. At nine years old, you rarely feel the weight of the words they blurt out. Because who even looks at a child and thinks they can do great things? Well, besides my parents, of course.

For a time, however, I held on to it for my dear life because it was one of the early examples of external validation that all children sought after from parents. From elementary and throughout high school, I basked in straight lines of 9s, overflowing extracurriculars, competition medals, you name it. Modesty aside, I always thought I was cut out to be the poster child of the family.

Until I wasn’t.

At 16, barely growing my facial stubble, I had a huge argument with my father. On our way to my Lola’s house, my parents got into a huge fight about the way my dad almost crashed the car for failing to anticipate the blind spot. Admittedly, my rebellious disposition elicited a tone higher than my usual speaking demeanor, calling them out for fighting in front of my then two-year-old niece. I may have been reckless at the time, but in no way was I indifferent—fighting in front of kids should never even be a question in the first place. Despite my intention, my dad cherry-picked a completely different and unforgivable act of defiance: biting the hands that fed you.

Frustrated and appalled, I stayed in the car as I waited for them to bid farewell to our relatives. From the window of the backseat, I saw my dad storming towards the car door with furrowed brows. I know it only happens in animated shows, but at that moment, I swore I saw smoke coming out of his ears. Yelling, he yanked the door open and asked, “Anong problema mo?” (What is your problem?) so loudly that all the neighboring houses must have heard it. In the heat of the argument, my father told me the most painful words he could ever muster: Bukas na bukas, magpacheck ka na! May mali ka na sa utak! (Tomorrow, have yourself checked. Something’s wrong with you!)

He was actually right, because just a week after getting myself checked by a psychiatrist, I was diagnosed with Type II Bipolar Disorder. Funny how timing works, no?

At 19, freshly out of the closet, I cried because of my mother. I had initially started exploring my sexuality and self-expression, stealing a few makeup products from my sisters’ vanity tables and nabbing women’s clothing from the first cabinet I could bravely open. I went out to the park nearby to meet with a friend so we could take photos, and for the first time, I wanted to look pretty in mauve cheek blush and a black crop top. As soon as I got home and changed into my sleepwear, my mother messaged me because some weird neighbor decided to snitch about what I wore at the park. At that point, I pretended to actually care less, but my insides were already churning. The only thing I could think of was how humiliating it must be for my mother to hear a stranger probe into our lives and ask if her son was gay. Not that it matters in the grander scheme of things, but for a barely legal teenager, that felt like the end of the world.

My mother pleaded that night. “Baka p’wedeng bawasan, anak,” (Tone it down a little, son), was all she could say, and for some reason, it became the right amount of desperation that fueled my courage. I was a little older then, and so naturally a lot softer with my words. I stood my ground and asked her if she found anything wrong with my self-expression. She didn’t say she found it wrong, but her “no” wasn’t reassuring, either. At the time, the only thing that came to mind was that if I allowed her to succumb to the idea of restricting a child to be themselves, I might end up hating her forever.

“Kung wala naman po palang problema sa inyo, bakit kailangan nating isipin anong sasabihin nila?” (If you don’t see it as a problem, then why should we care about what they have to say?). She apologized to me the same night, and that was the last time my sexuality ever became an open concern.

I’m turning 25 now, and I rarely get into fights with my parents anymore. Not that I’ve become less defiant or more submissive. Quite frankly, I haven’t completely stopped from being a challenging child to look after (I can still become pretty insubordinate if I’m being honest). But it’s because I believe getting older made me realize my parents are just handling things for the first time, too. All while juggling so, so many roles besides being a father and a mother.

My mother is the only mama I have, but she is also a sister to five other siblings. She is also a child of my Lola Lily, a Ma’am Ophie to her employees, a Te Ops to her friends, and a wife to my dad. My dad is the only father I have, but he is also the bunso to six older brothers and sisters. He is also Dok to his patients, kumpare to his colleagues, a brad to his closest friends, and a husband to my mother.

They were these and so many other things in the moments I get to be a part of. And just like so many of us who are figuring life out for the first time, my parents are still constantly trying to figure out every stage of their life as well, before and after I came into the picture. And so whenever I remember how my parents always told me I was made for great things when I was nine, I can’t help but think: these words were really just the same things they’ve always wanted to hear ever since they started figuring things out.

It has always been the norm to expect our parents to offer such validation since we were young. To hear them say they’re proud of us, or that we have so much potential, or that the universe is so lucky we get to exist. But it has never been customary to say the same for them.

That we recognize how they’ve done so much to achieve the great things they deserve today. That we’re proud of them for trying, and proud of them for unlearning. That we know they did an excellent job juggling so many identities all at the same time. That we’re happy to see them emerge victorious through countless rebirths in this lifetime.

Not that it should be done for all parents, needless to say. I believe this largely depends on very valid circumstances. But I’m glad I get the privilege to say it anyway.

Thank you, mom and dad. I’m very, very proud of you.

Today, I did not see your name hug my screen like you used to.

Or the day before. Not even the week prior.

Ironic, really, to think that to me, your absence sounds like the scratching tune of a fork on a ceramic plate. Ears pierced; not the piercing you used to tell me you’d want on your helix, but the kind that punches through the eardrum as it pulls apart every fiber attached to the skin.

Does my absence feel like paradise? A liberation of some sort? I wouldn’t be surprised if I see you nod when someone asks. I guess the bigger question would be, since when did it feel like serenity?

Because to me, your absence looks like a guillotine before a public trial. Except I am forced to cut the rope, our memories served their sentence, and you called for the beheading.

Does my absence taste like medicine, a bitter pill to swallow? Something you take in regardless, because you believe it’s best to help you heal quickly. You’d probably say yes, and because I believe you are so much of the good things this world has to offer, I would still be relieved to know you think that way.

Because then that would mean it’s not necessarily what you wanted, but something you had to do to keep whatever grace you have left for my sake.

Does my absence haunt you?

Do you think about what could have been if we hadn’t fallen apart?

Did you ever, even for a split second, wish I still held some space in a life you would see yourself in?

Because if the roles were reversed and I were asked the same thing, these words serve as a testament to my response:

Your absence lurks in the crevices of my room, in the milliseconds just right before I sleep, in the crumpled bond papers scattered on the wooden floor. I’m still holding space for your presence even when I’ve resigned myself to that privilege.

Because holding fragments of your presence meant keeping the best parts of you, I deliberately chose to remember. Because I’d like to believe that when you said you were grateful we met, it was real.

When you said my existence should not be the reason for how I got used to apologizing, it was genuine. When you said my eyes looked best when I smile, it was your truth. Holding fragments of your presence despite no longer being around would mean I get to cherish you in ways that I can. In ways that you couldn’t see. Nor would they ever be able to.

Today, I did not see your name hug my screen like you used to.

Or the day before. Not even the week prior. And that’s okay.

Because even if my absence feels like your solemn paradise, or when it feels like your medicine, I hope you know that to me, your absence is overshadowed by what you have been when you were still around.

And I hope, for the meantime, it could suffice.

From the 2025 archives

What they never tell you about grief is that it never carries a sound as it approaches, and more so as it leaves.

It lies beside you in the wee hours of the night. In fact, it mimics the experience of having a gun pushed to your rib cage. You know it exists, and you feel the mouth sink in deeper, but you never make a sound out of fear that the first scream you let out becomes a trigger for your demise.

Gruesome as it may sound, but I have lost a lot in this life. The first dog I ever truly loved and took care of like my own was taken from me because my mother didn’t think I could be a proper fur parent. My autonomy and capacity to consent have once been stripped from my bare hands because of a stranger’s inability to distinguish a forced nod from a fearful denial. A whisper barely escaped my mouth when I first heard the news of a close friend’s passing at four in the morning.

I have encountered grief too many a time that I’ve learned how to sit with it in the silence. I have grown accustomed to how it settles into the crevices and as it hardens into cement. It integrates into your own cells and builds a layer atop your outer skin, similar to a lobster shell. I know grief because it never goes away. You only learn to co-exist with it.

I know grief, and as silent as it becomes when it approaches, it also learns to look at you from a distance as you board an express train to closure. It mimics the sound you make when you scream inside an empty house alone; it seemingly talks back to you for a moment and then… gone. You know it was real, and yet you’re never really sure because the only real thing about any of it is the fact that you were there. Nobody really knows if it ever really sent a message back.

Grief is silent. It feels like losing access from the periphery. Grief is accepting you never deserved to know it exists, even before it arrived, and more so as it leaves. Almost as if grief has always been there, but at the same time, it never did.

Funnily enough, grief is something else.