Based on my family and friends who have experienced living in Manila, that city feels like the Casanova-red-flag boy who has family issues in Wattpad that you’d willingly risk your love with. Not just because he’s cute and has the “I can fix him” vibe, but because you will be drawn to him on a deeper level. The kind where a brief look could capture you, but in return, you have to condition your heart that you should be satisfied with those glances alone. No more digging further.

I came from a family that’s very strict. And to add fuel to that raging fire, I was born physically weak. Well, I don’t have any serious and life-threatening illness. It’s just that I became a regular at nearby clinics and public hospitals when I was a kid. Perhaps the only thing my mother is thankful for whenever I’m sick is that I always obey her and my doctor’s prescriptions. I don’t care how bitter the medicine was; I just want to heal within a week and not miss my classes again.

To tell you the truth, I hated Manila when I first got there. I was seven during those times.

I didn’t like the mall. I didn’t like the buildings. I didn’t like the public transportation because instead of wrecking the burden of working Filipinos when it comes to commuting, it just makes it worse. In addition, I didn’t like the four-hour commute from our province to my uncle’s house in Sta. Mesa. And worst of all, I didn’t like the way I threw up in their living room as soon as we stepped in it. It was my first time riding a bus, and I, obviously… didn’t like the experience.

Because of that, I endured the multiple exams from different subjects when I was in high school. Why? I don’t like going on school field trips. And if you don’t want to go, you’ll take that 60-item examination. Growing up, I liked the way I lived in the province. It’s peaceful for a teenager who yearns for the sounds of waves after spending most of her time on her study table, memorizing and familiarizing the terms and lessons that might be tackled for tomorrow’s classroom discussion.

Here’s the catch—I met the Casanova again.

It was sometime in March 2023. I traveled with my friends to Manila for our licensure examination. Even though I was there years ago, nothing seems to change. The traffic was still heavy, the noise is just as much as I remember, and more buildings welcomed me. I don’t know what actually happened, but the city life was pulling me in this time. Perhaps, even if the city wouldn’t change itself for you, a part of you would change to continuously dream for it.

Aside from praying for getting a teaching license on my first try, I was silently hoping to live a life in Manila. I heavily romanticized it at first. I was hoping to live independently, meet new people, and be familiar with the world they claimed as “chaos.” So, I did my research. The cafes closed at midnight; most are even open 24/7. The streets don’t sleep. The rent and utilities would devour my monthly salary. Most importantly, I have to start somewhere. Okay, but where?

From there, Manila and I are in a situationship. We’re not officially together for now, but he sure does lure me in with opportunities and strangers on the Internet I wish to meet. However, he also terrifies me from committing. The lack of bravery, the apartment listings, the salary offers from small private schools that have little to no difference from the province, and the pressure of making it all worth it—just like any other situationship, I kept on building these mixed signals and commitment issues.

In the middle of this dilemma, I realized something important. I don’t want to leave this situationship for the sake of shrinking my dreams in the quiet space of fresh air and shorelines stitched on my skin. This is my first time being the toxic one; we couldn’t get past this talking stage because of me. I keep him in my shadow, I flirt with the idea of moving out, and I imagine how many reinventions I’d have once I gave him the look that says, “Yes! I’m madly in love with you. Let’s be together forever!”

Manila is the one who’s been waiting to make it official for years. He isn’t the shining armor I badly want to turn into my savior because he wears the hard layers of shield I need to fight with him. Loving him means running even if his pace is just his normal walk, knowing he’ll never slow down when I get tired. And so, I keep him in a situationship. I want him to watch me start somewhere peaceful at first, and when I finally have the courage to embrace the chaos and turn towards him, I hope he’s still there.

Until then, Manila remains the almost-love of my life.

Close enough to imagine a future with, yet far enough to wonder what could have been.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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I love genuinely.

I don’t know if I have the rights to claim that it’s true, but I do love with all my heart. I don’t do half measures, but I don’t love bomb either. It’s gradual, consistent, and accompanied with sincerity. I have seen both cruelty and compassion, and I always stay with the latter one. I like it when I’m the one who understands, who stands up for others, and who listens whenever they need someone to be there for them.

In school, they teach us knowledge and skills. But human rights? They mentioned it but only covered the surface. Growing up, I learned how to research on my own. The current news about people, animal abuse, environmental problems, gender equality, feminism, and even the government’s activities disguised as duties when, in reality, they’re just a theater play.

By doing so, I learned so many things. Above all, I learned the most important lesson—spreading kindness.

I don’t know how many times I’ve mentioned kindness in each of my reflective essays; I just believe that it’s essential for a human being to possess it. Most of the time, I think I’ve spread it in a very simple way. My friends need me? I’m there in a minute. My family wants me to do a favor for them? They already have it. A stray dog wishes to be petted? My hands are already gently stroking their fur. Someone craves a listener? I’m all ears.

It has been very easy for me to be kind and be honestly involved with someone else’s life with care and warmth. I say the things they needed to hear. Sometimes, I wanted to scream at them, “Hey! You’re not the problem!” Because clearly, they aren’t. They just need someone to point it out. I celebrate their wins and losses, as I believe that when a person tries to do something, they’ve already won. I supported them in everything and in ways that I could.

Then I thought of it multiple times. Why do I feel so suffocated when I want my own kindness? It’s hypocritical of me to yearn for someone who understands others like how I do it, but I don’t even find a way to make myself feel it. I don’t even try. I can’t quite remember the last time I tried to let my own thoughts be devoured by light rather than darkness. I made myself feel that I didn’t have a choice—that my genuine heart beats for people, but not for my own.

Back in high school, I only found myself smiling at the mirror on recognition day when I wore a medal and my hands were holding a certification of my high grades. I laugh at dining tables when they’re talking about their proof of life and the subtle mention of my success. I find myself valuable only at times when I speak bravely, when someone claps for me, and when I know that I’ve gained something that adds worth to my name.

I love myself with conditions, like I’ve written a contract in order to enjoy life.

I often wonder if I love people wholeheartedly. Because, as they always say, and ironically, as I always say, love always starts within ourselves. However, I can’t seem to love myself; I always pour it into souls that I barely know. I wish I could just knock on my door, and someone would open it for me. Perhaps it has always been open. It has always been waiting. I just can’t find my way home to myself, and that’s the hardest realization I ever swallowed.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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I saw this one TikTok post. It’s a mother who asked her child, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

The kid replied, “Happy.”

My immediate thought went, “Oh, that’s going to be hard.”

When I tell you that I realized something deep, I mean that words won’t be enough to describe what I felt after. It’s not about the child’s answer; there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s the thought that came to my mind. I asked myself, “How unhappy am I to think that it’s going to be a hard path for that child to achieve what he wants?”

Am I officially the angry adult who gets annoyed with noisy teenagers and kids who will randomly ask me if I got games on my phone?

I shook my head.

But I’m not angry, just unhappy. Why? Well, let’s sit down for a while and get ready for that coffee to be cold after an hour or two because the next part is going to be a long story. Spoiler: I can’t specifically state how I got here, and why am I clinging to this cycle. Do I want to get out of it? Oh, it’s both a need and a want at this point.

When I was a kid, it was a common question I heard from elders and school: What do you want to be when you grow up? I’ve answered for different jobs, maybe because I want to be everything all at once. Now, as an adult, I do agree with that child’s answer. I also want to grow up happy, regardless of what I do in my life. And it’s frustrating to think that it’s so difficult to attain it, because it’s not some tangible trophy you get to touch; it’s a state of mind.

And inside mine? Oh, it’s hell.

As if burning my flesh is not enough, it decided to burn my ashes too. I don’t know which genre of music I need to listen to. Slow melodies to calm my mind, or the loud ones to beat these thoughts once in a while. I don’t know who I need to talk to. Someone who understands me or a stranger who’s willing to listen. I don’t know how many hobbies I’ve tried in a week. I don’t know how to escape, because no matter what I do, it just keeps on coming back.

Of all the things I wanted to become, I chose the hardest one. Being happy? I’m having a hard time injecting it in my veins and keeping it running in my blood. But strangely, I have painted myself as someone who supplies happiness on the surface. Smiles? It’s not a big deal. Laughter? Just crack a joke and I’ll give the best reaction. Words of wisdom? I’m ready any time of the day.

However, it never felt the same when I was alone. I just keep on drowning and swimming back up to catch some air, and the cycle repeats itself. Then, it hit me. At least I keep on trying to catch some air. Even if it’s draining, even if it’s hard, my whole being controls me to never stop trying. At the end of the day, what I wanted was happiness, not to give up on myself.

The life and death of my thoughts may have constantly pulled me to feel like I breathe for it, but my willingness to defeat it is much stronger. And that’s one thing I am thankful for. No matter how many dreams I listed, being happy remains in the number one spot.

Perhaps I’ll continue living like this for a while. But who knows? I might become who I want to be at some point.

Better days are coming, and so is a better version of myself.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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The 7-year-old me would stare at the blank first page of a notebook. It seems like the intimacy of writing on it has gone through my veins, so I won’t write anything. I believe that it has been the tale I’m about to tell everyone when they want me to explain why I don’t have a diary.

Don’t get me wrong, I like memories, especially when they’re written; what I didn’t like back then is the responsibility I’m about to carry if I start writing one. Oh no, not the part where I need to write every day; it’s the fact that I need to be honest with it.

I’m already in my mid-20s, and I realized that I have not been able to write about my everyday life. What I felt, the people that made me laugh or made me mad, the places I long to set foot on, and what particular achievement I want to attain in a specific age bracket. I got nothing to look back on (well, only in terms of a journal.)

It doesn’t matter.

It hits you on a random day. Mine always knocks harder when the clouds gently tap on our roof by showering droplets of rain—it’s my favorite weather. What a combination, right? A weather that calms me down and a nostalgic feeling that kills me inside.

I won’t remember the date, but I’ll remember if the sun shines or it hides behind the clouds. I’ll probably forget the roots of an argument or the source of happiness I felt, but I’ll never forget how it made me feel. I won’t be able to replay what exactly happened, but I’ll surely recall the one I chose to stay on my mind.

You’ll know when it visits you and what it comes after. Pain? Maybe. Tears of joy? Rarely. Embarrassment? Not really.

Grieving for your potential that just sits in silence as it watches you live a different life than you had planned? Clock it.

It still feels like I have a diary written. It keeps on calling for my name, wondering if my attention would be enough to reclaim its spot as the lone reason for living my life. As if recalling the dreams I have would be enough to get it right back at the top of my priority. As if getting back my ambitious self would back up the happiness I long to receive and give back to people.

But how?

Solitude is all I know for now.

There’s a short phrase that gives me a bittersweet feeling: “used to be.” I used to be a young girl who knew how many pairs of hair clips she had in her drawer. I used to be a girl who learned that love would be the greatest medicine prescribed by a poet in order to regain humanity. I used to be a teenager who was eager to learn everything all at once. I used to be a college student who loved the program she took and has loved it as a profession.

You see, “used to be” carries both losses and gains. I have lost an identity I used to live for, but perhaps, in the middle of losing something I’ve considered precious, I have gained a sense of myself that is required to survive my present life.

After all, I chose this.

Over the life I pictured the moment I stared at the blank first page of the notebook I promised to write in. I used to be someone who saved every page untouched just to prove that diaries are cherished in my own way. Nonetheless, I should start writing one, not because memories could come rushing to me aimlessly, but because I would want every detail to be written by my own hands. To find the reason to continue. To look back at the broken fragments I have that will bear the future of the words that were written out of purity.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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If I were a simple person, self-awareness would have to be my armor and shield from the world. It has to be a safety net, a sense of security — I mean, who would mess up their life when their consciousness is always awake even at night? I wish it were something that would protect me, an honesty that embraces me with warmth when I need to go through a chilly night.

It devours me instead.

As what people usually say, it’s grateful to feel, but what about the moment you let it consume you? That’s not something you should be thankful for — that’s torture.

You know, I kind of like kids these days. I am aware that we’re living in a different generation from theirs, and a lot of lonesome perspectives were shifted into positive ones. I remember we used to think about what our lives would be like when we grew up. We used to want the time to flow faster because we saw adulthood as freedom (it wasn’t.)

But the children that surround me today? They cherish the moments; they regret not having enough time to have conversations with their friends; they want their youth to stay a little longer even if they still have more years to experience it. They’re not afraid to hide their tears, to hide their frustration, to jump out of excitement, or to spend a little time sitting on the floor as they check their wounds from falling.

Their self-awareness is so much healthier, and I pray that it stays that way even when they grow older. It’s funny when people say that kids should learn from adults when kids actually carry the kind of lesson we adults usually yearn for. I see it as a refreshment drink my whole body craves when the scorching heat is tormenting my skin. It’s natural, like returning to where we’re held, and hums so gently that it feels like we’re home in our mother’s arms.

I don’t know if I have lived my teenage years so differently from others that every time I stare back at them, misery starts to resurface more than memories that made me learn how to breathe without burden. Well, I didn’t live like a shadow in emptiness. I just wish that I could be much wiser, bolder, and carefree. I miss who I was before I understood myself too deeply. Back when self-awareness didn’t make me lose my mind.

Back when I didn’t have to give myself a minute or an hour to calm down when I wanted to crash out. Back when I didn’t need to look forward to the night because that was the only time I was allowed to shed tears. Back when all I see in the mirror is my reflection and not who I did not become. Back when my flaws didn’t equate to my insecurity, but rather a definition of me. Back when a replayed conversation doesn’t mean I have to second-guess every word if they mean it or not. Back when routine didn’t mean it was a pattern I was required to go through every day.

But sometimes I wonder if I notice too much that I’ve started to absorb even the things I should just let pass by, or did nostalgia disguise itself as self-awareness that quietly distorts the way I feel?

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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You’d sit still in pure silence, but there’s actually a battlefield going on in your mind.

You’ll stare at your phone, waiting for it to light up with the subtle sound of a notification. Or did you adjust its volume so you wouldn’t miss a single message from them, hoping that they’d clarify that it’s just a misunderstanding?

First, you’d ask yourself if it’s one of your petty fights. If all of you let the heat pass by and let the time slip away as you spend your time alone with your thoughts, will it go back to the same old days? You’ll ask if this is all it takes to laugh at it later on, because you’ve been here before. It’s not like it’s your first time arguing… or was it really an argument or a signal from above saying that it’s over now?

Let’s be real. “Hatred” is such a strong word to inflict on the people you love. News flash: it’s not even the emotion that dominates your heart right now—it’s confusion. Is it really the end? Who’s the enemy here? Is it you? Is it her? Is it the other friends who watched the argument happen and stood still behind her back? They were all muted, but the way they avoided your eyes and the way their feet naturally took a step back from you—it was loud enough for you to understand that no one else is on your side.

Oh, I know what you did later on. You blamed yourself, didn’t you? Perhaps they were right. Perhaps it was you who left them on read; it was you who didn’t notice that you were drifting away; it was you who missed all the nights where everyone was laughing out loud through the continuous and hilarious messages they sent. However, in the middle of blaming yourself, you should also consider that within you and all of these people you grew up with, you’re the only one who didn’t see this coming.

The enemy here is life, nothing else.

It just happens.

No one told you that you need to prepare yourself for losing someone precious, someone you relied on... Much heavier to bear than losing this friendship. You can’t decide the moments you wish to mourn; you’ll just wish that heaven were enough for them to bring joy and peace. You see it on a random Tuesday, on the teacup they use every morning, on the little garden they usually spend most of their time in, and on the sudden recommended song on Spotify—you’ll see it in everything.

Growing up faster than your friends—the same people whom you used to play sandcastles with in summer—wasn’t just an unfamiliar feeling; it was unbearable too. But you tried, right? You tried to eat everything that sat on your plate while maintaining a connection you thought would last a lifetime. You tried to go on those friend dates, to check on them when your bustling schedule isn’t as busy as yesterday. You tried to read those hundreds of messages after your shift. But with one argument, everything you tried protecting ended up being invaded by the people whom you wanted to protect from the beginning.

A little space for the things you can’t control would be enough, but you chose to gradually close that space and created another one where the version of you who’s familiar to them was present. Perhaps everyone cradled one another in a way their hearts can’t rest, as well as yours. In closing that space, the distance grew. Nonetheless, you weren’t hurt by the thought of them leaving. It’s when they don’t run after you, but with the others, it appears so easy to do.

It’s when your absence felt more like a presence for them.

It’s when you could do everything for them and never once feel like it was too much.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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I know what you’ll say, that it’s so easy to speak up if I wanted to. You probably think that I’m the one who caused this misery when it takes a simple action from me to take it all out. Then the next thing I’ll hear from you is the regrets I have to face when the time slips instantly through my fingers, and I’ll never have the chance to say what I’ve been hiding inside this messed-up mind.

Honestly, I don’t want to burst your bubble of “realistic thinking,” but I am aware of all the possibilities. I am aware of what I can do to ease my pain; I am not walking barefoot into the unknown, and I am not bottling these feelings up just to keep myself hurting. In fact, I don’t want myself to be full of these thoughts, which end up being too powerful that it led me to being voiceless.

It wasn’t that good being nice; it wasn’t that good to have a huge amount of sympathy for people. I hope that I wasn’t the “bigger person” they knew because honestly, it didn’t turn me into a better person — I ended up being used. And when you’re used, you endure it. When you endure, it will be a part of you. When it’s already a part of you, you’ll want to escape it. But when you wanted to escape from it, it will make you realize that it would be forever a part of you — you’re already captured.

At first, I was so thankful that I grew up being able to understand every circumstance and discomfort of people around me. Not until I became the dump truck that picks up their pessimistic views about life. I should’ve let go of it when I had the chance; I should’ve let it escape from my reach.

Why did I see each of them as paper stars that deserve a spot in my clear jar? Why did I have to collect it as if it was my own? As if it will make a beautiful decoration for a museum that displays the suffering of people I knew? Now, I have to face the consequences of absorbing every little detail about them while I’m gradually becoming unknown to me.

I’ve read somewhere that people should practice the art of observing and not absorbing what they hear or see. I think it’s really appropriate especially to people who ponders too deeply. Perhaps it could be a way for us to avoid repressing our emotions and keeping opinions that should be voiced out.

Perhaps silence wouldn’t hurt like this if what our eyes see couldn’t find its way to the bottom of our minds. Keeping our mouth shut wouldn’t hurt us this bad if we choose which word needs our attention.

Silence wouldn’t hurt us this badly if it existed to protect our own tranquility, not for other people’s peace.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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You love a ghost. You love a kind of love that only you could feel. In every piece of him scattered on the floor, you admire your beauty in his reflection. In silence, you spin his world; in unspeakable, you know the truth; in your strings, he made a promise — in your heart, there he lives.

You love a ghost. The freedom is caged, and it was enough for you to know. You disguised it as a place where it’s enough for him to survive — merely enough for him to give up striving. You hold a lifeless hand; you gave warmth to the cold; you seek a heartless mind; he gave a wordless soul — in your mind, there lives the truth.

You love a ghost. It was a moment in time, yet he exists for eternity. A love you cannot have — what makes you long for his certainty? A love that binds you to chains of memories — what makes you yearn for something beautiful more than that? A love that broke the turns of infinity into parallel lines — what makes you think that both of you could meet in the middle again?

You love a ghost. You love the idea of being loved, yet it does not fall too hard. He occupied those scribbled thoughts around your head, but was he that enormous enough to never enter your affection? Or was it the other way around, but with one difference? You made your way towards his whole being, but it was never enough to make a love that lasts?

You love a ghost. You trapped him in your poetry, and he was your most used muse. You manipulate the letters into a loop of words, running in circles and turning into lines. You turned your devotion into an obscure sense. Of course, everything was real; who said it wasn’t? But what comes after everything? What else is in the presence of honesty?

You love a ghost. You knew it. You knew it was not a supernatural entity that dives into your soul — not him, not you. You love a ghost, and you can’t ever reach it to break and throw it away. You love a ghost that lingers in your scent, in a rolling camera and its films, in every little detail that made you remember multiple “when’s” in your city — you’ve been carrying it, don’t you?

You still love the ghost, and it’s the love that was long gone.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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If people decided to dig my grave, they wouldn’t see a decaying body — they would see the entirety of a woman’s time continuously passing by. Several words that are imprinted on my bones, the letters that miraculously remained untouched, the flowers by visitors would be in my hands, and the fragments of everyone I knew would have visible marks.

If someone sees me for the first time, six feet underground, I hope they know how I love the gloomy days, the gothic artistry, and how I swore I wanted to be buried somewhere secluded. Where the air whispers my name, as if someone constantly haunts the place, and it’ll be a myth that my soul wasn’t at peace.

But despite all these thrilling thoughts about death, they would discover my tomb, where the sun joins me at daytime and the moon reads me my favorite fables at night. I hope they would have a hard time finding where I sleep, for flowers have grown wild in it. And if my name has completely disappeared from my tombstone, they wouldn’t be puzzled about who lies underneath.

The nature would speak on behalf of my demise, and everything it does would bring a lucid recognition to their minds.

If they dig my grave, the birds will sing a song… So loud that their hands wouldn’t be enough to cover their ears. The trees would ask the sky to carry my hatred and turn it into storms. The wild grass would create a path towards the city. The butterflies wouldn’t be gentle as they’re known for.

But if it still wasn’t enough for these dreadful folks, then they would meet a body that has been the talk of the town. A cursed soul, as they say, a spirit that puts you to sleep, a rotten body like how it was spelled by their tongue. The tales will turn into truth; the noble warriors will turn into cowards.

If, by chance, the madness towards these thoughts is what’s keeping them alive, I hope it carries innocence and purity. They would find treasure, but not in the form of gold, jewels, and diamonds. I’m wishing that my time here breathing for poetry would be enough for them. It’s wisdom I could offer; it’s the precious words I cherish the most.

If they dig my grave, they’re not digging for a mere body. They’re forcing themselves on a woman’s peaceful sleep. They’re not looking for the one who departed; they’re disturbing the presence of both life and death.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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My mother is staring at me. Deep. Steady. Questionable. Her eyes were fixed on mine, and her frowns are telling me that she’s mad, but my oldest sister once told me that that look on her face wasn’t anger—it was fear. Beside her is my father, who is busy looking at his little container of medicines, looking for painkillers. My mother asked, “Tell me where it hurts.” I breathed in softly. The kind that I would want to release heavily, but since I’m still in the same room as them, I won’t.

I turned my gaze on my right foot. I haven’t been able to walk properly since a month ago. I wasn’t injured; my foot looks just fine. No bruise, no cuts, no swollen area. Hell, I couldn’t even feel any lumps or dislocated bones. It just hurts—the way that would let you walk, but you’ll drag it to the floor as the other lifts itself up normally. How did it happen? Silly reason, if I’m being honest. I think I battered it up while working. Tying my shoelaces too tight, going up and down the stairs of a four-story building, and the constant standing while doing my lectures.

“Where? Which part hurts?”

My mother asked me one more time. I don’t know how many seconds I stared back at her, but I know that it’s enough for her to wait for my answer. She’s impatient when one of us is sick; she wants it gone immediately. Just like any Asian mom, she’d scold us for being too clumsy and unaware of our surroundings, yet she’d urgently apply all of her home remedies to treat us. My father is the same—well, not exactly. He’s the calm version of my mother. He worries but not to the point that will make you worry too. He’s practical. He’d go to the nearest pharmacy as soon as you said that you’re in pain.

If I’m being honest, I don’t know where it hurts.

I don’t know why I couldn’t stand with my right foot and why it can’t carry my weight anymore; the other one is still functioning well. Those five seconds of locked gazes have brought me to another dimension. That question, that tone, that rustling sound of both plastic and aluminum foil as my father searched for pills—I don’t know if it’s a need. I don’t know whether I want it or not. I don’t know the answer. I don’t know what I’ve been feeling. Oh, here it comes. It always steals the spotlight whenever I’m circling myself with questions. I don’t know how well I am.

I don’t know how lines like “You’ll have your own timing” and “You have your own path” do not work on me anymore. I recognize progress; I know when I’m left behind. I don’t know if I want to love or if I’d grow older watching it from others. I didn’t know that it’ll be this hard to abandon my youth. I don’t know how to heal and cure my anxious mind aside from breathing exercises and forcing myself to think of nothing. I don’t know how to go through a day without hiding these insecurities with concealer.

“Mom, I don’t know where it hurts. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know where to seek help or if anyone is willing to listen. I don’t know if it’ll go away if I let it rest like any other injury. I don’t know if I’d heal. I don’t know—”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Ah, yes. The ultimate weapon I’d pull when I’m being asked about something I should share—I’d avoid it. I’ll watch my mother’s worried face turn into a sigh of relief, but not entirely. She’d tell me to not move for the meantime. My father is going to hand me the painkillers I need to drink after I have had my breakfast. The questioning will pass. The heat will turn cold. I’d endure it as I became familiar with it.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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December, I’d smile at you but with fear in between my teeth. Accompanied by heartbeats that wouldn’t stop until I sat down on the edge of your room. You’re cold as always, and somehow, on the first day of this year, I longed for your warmth. I wanted indifference, for familiarity has been my comfort for years. It indeed made me feel safe, sheltered, and homely — how dare I demand a battlefield I wouldn’t survive from you?

It’s been raining swords and noises outside. Any time I decided to get away from this home, I’d be struck with madness. Then, I realized, either way — whether to feel the blood rushing down my hands or make myself a warm coffee while waiting for Christmas to come over — I’d still crave the sanity I had at sixteen. I’m sorry, I couldn’t crawl back; I’ve fixed my gaze on a blurry tomorrow that certainly wasn’t promised in my prophecy.

December, I could love you with all my heart. But you remind me of who I was on the first day of this year, and you’ll hate me for standing on the same ground. I grew my vines in between the stones and neglected concrete — some people found its beauty, but I do not. Surviving is indeed special but growing in between made me feel that I don’t belong in the faint chemical scent of these pavements.

December, I couldn’t face you. I hated broken promises, but it is I who gave you false hope. I’ve seen sparks, I’ve felt love, I’ve survived storms, I smell the sweet fragrance of flowers in spring, I’ve filled my room with photos and red lines and black texts as if it were a crime scene of my failures, I yearned, I stumbled, and I couldn’t get back on my feet. It’s not enough — I know it’s not enough. I felt the same. God, I begged you to not make me feel this way again.

December, the first day of this year, still lingers. All I do is survive, and I don’t know if it’s enough. No, I’m sure that it wasn’t. I had a long way to go to love my scars, but it became hideous as I stared at them for a year. I am grateful for the things that have stayed with me, only if they’re meant to hold me. But seeing myself with fireworks and a feast while hoping to meet you at a new table, only to end up with a spoiled spread, was not on my list this year.

But hey, December?

Forget about all the things I’ve said. Screw it all!

When the flickers of flame in the fireplace are gone, when the cold dust of your joy has turned warm — I’d see you at the fresh dawn next year.

Let me try again. I’d love to see myself try. Again.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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You always find a reason behind everything.

It looks like your life depends on how many lives you understand in this lifetime. You’ve turned yourself into many different souls, trying your best to comprehend what they did, what they feel, what they see, and why it seems that way in their perspective. But when it comes to the clarity of your purpose, you become clueless — like it’s you who feels different when, in fact, you’re supposed to be the first person to be understood by someone like you, an empath.

Empathy was easier to find in good things. Why people do charity work and volunteer for other people who need it. Why a five-year-old little boy who placed an umbrella over a stray dog is able to grasp the sense of kindness because it needs shade under the scorching heat. Why a stranger is able to help a student who’s getting bullied. There’s always a reason behind it, and you’re able to see it even without any effort.

That was the blessing of being able to recognize what was hidden behind these actions, and you thought you were ready for its other side.

The silence they filled in a room that was once a source of laughter, the tiredness in their eyes, the fear in their voices even if they screamed at the top of their lungs just to show you their outrage, the shaking of their hands even if they appeared to be confident in front of people, the sleepless nights they spent to get their work done only to be shouted at in the office — everything you saw meant so much more. And to you, it meant that it hurt them more than you.

You started off as fair, but not until it consumed you, and not even the cycle of night and day can stop you. The fragments of the people you meet and their suffering have found their place inside you — not as a home, but as a mere existence. An unforgiving reminder that no matter how those people have lived their lives to heal, a part of them will always haunt you. In the end, it’s you who understands you cannot forgive the most.

You don’t always have to listen just because you can hear beyond the voiceless. You don’t always have to see what refused to be shown. You don’t always have to read between the lines just because it was drawn. You don’t have to decode a message written in the language they’re most familiar with when clearly, it felt different to your presence.

It’s truly a gentle fortune for you to carry the ability to understand, but you don’t need to bear it throughout your life. What you’ll give as an empath is empathy, not your whole being. What they need is compassion, not for you to ruin yourself in the process of giving it to them. You can listen, you can watch, and you can read, but you don’t have to touch an aching heart when yours is broken too.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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“What’s your favorite color?” A question that probably struck a six-year-old girl as she looked around the classroom. There are so many different colors, and she adores all of them. She looked at the ABCs above the blackboard, the bulletin board with their birthdays, the iconic three garbage bins with different labels, her bag, and her glittered pens — she’s surrounded with pretty colors.

“What do I say? Maybe pink? Hmm… But I like orange, too. Oh! I like pastel colors, but dark colors caught my heart too.” She looked at her crayons because she wanted to pick one color from them. Her classmates only have one favorite color, so she needs to have only one too. That’s how it works, right? Because if she acts differently, she’ll be called weird for it. But maybe being a little peculiar from them wouldn’t hurt? So, she answered, “All of them!”

I can’t imagine a life without colors. I mean, whenever I’m down, they’re the ones who pull me from the depths, even in the simplest things. I am able to feel and interpret them too. Red is for love, green is for tranquility, yellow is for happiness, and many more. I have memorized them all, but I didn’t know that it’ll dictate what kind of person I am until I unleashed my bottled-up wrath.

Perhaps, being calm all the time wouldn’t save you if you give it to others constantly. They’ll assume that everything they do is alright; they figured that anything would be fine as long as you’re the sacrificial lamb. They forgot that you’re one of them — that you’re able to feel differently aside from composing your thoughts every single minute. They don’t welcome your anger, and they only embrace what you can offer to them.

Your hundreds and thousands of good deeds and happy memories with them wouldn’t suffice — they’ll be replaced by what they call a mistake. Suddenly, it’s a mistake to let out what you feel. Suddenly, you don’t deserve people on your side. Suddenly, you’re not too good to be true because if you bear kindness, your temper should always be under control. If that was true, then I’ll be proud to walk away from them and carry it as a misjudgment.

I know what I endured.

I know what I went through.

I know how many times I held back until it piled up inside of me.

I know that my anger is one of my true colors, but so are my kindness, sorrow, happiness, love, fear, shame, regret, and peace. I hope someday I’ll be able to meet someone who understands me like how I am able to interpret colors. Sometimes, it’s not us who needs to make people understand us. Sometimes, they just do, and you don’t have to ask for it.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.

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I am gonna grow wings.

Out of all the three senses I see in this line, I am most confident in the first one. I will soar high, ascend up to the air, just to look where the sun meets the sea and to see the shore in every mountain nearby. I’ll make sure that no pair of feet will be able to reach my feathers, like how they look down on my dreams. I wouldn’t step down on the ground and bathe my wings with mud.

I’ll make it, regardless of how hard it would be. If they hunt me down, I’d dodge the bullets as they rain on me. I’d bury all the fear to taste the butterflies of success. I’ll ride the swing with fairies and their glittery dust that brought me into the forest of hope. I’m halfway there; I just need to endure it a little longer.

Someday, I am gonna grow wings.

If there are things I truly believe in, then there are also a few of them that make me falter. Someday, I am going to grow my wings, and I will know how it feels to be genuinely free. Flying around my hometown wouldn’t be that tiring — it’s the wind that has the wheel; it’s the flow that’s keeping me afloat.

Day and night, I’m on the loose. Time wouldn’t matter because it’s never-ending in the first place. My limbs won’t be tied that will turn me into a puppet. I’d feel liberated that even my wings will be painted with pastel colors. I’d roam in the city and appreciate its lights and buzzes. This time, it wouldn’t just be a room where I could unravel my raw thoughts — the world will welcome it.

Or not?

Because I know one day, I am gonna grow wings. And my last breath will be filled with terror and tears if I leave without putting a smile on my face in my own way. It won’t be a prediction where it’ll be possible to avoid it — it’s predetermined. The time, the day, the place — whether I am done or I’ll leave something behind, it will run after me.

I’d fall back to regain a new pair of wings. Not to wander in the world I’m familiar with, but I’m hoping it will be a place where everything is better. I wish it would have everything that’s easier to bear, a peaceful night view where I could rest, and tranquility that my entirety could sleep on.

Either way, I am going to grow wings, and I’ll use them to fly with the birds. To reach my dreams, to feel that I am no longer behind bars, and towards the safest place I yearn for.

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I am Cloud and I write personal essays, poems, and reflections about life in general. This piece is published under a section named “Nimbus” under my publication, “To all the words I couldn’t utter,” This section opens space for carrying the weight of sorrow, struggle, and the rains that fall within.