That morning, when I left for school, I kept on looking back as I walked away. There was this feeling inside of me, something tell me that I left something, that I had to back. But I didn't. I walked to the terminal and got on the jeepney.

I wasn't even halfway yet to school when I got a call. A trembling voice on the other end of the line told me she was gone. I knew who she meant but I had to ask again. I got the same answer.

I cried all the way to school. Everyone told me I should go back. I did. And I cried all the way home. As I got nearer, my heart felt heavier and there was a lump in my throat that I couldn't seem to swallow.

I came back at the wrong time.
I came back when it was too late.
I should have walked back home that morning. I should  have entered the house and kissed her goodbye instead of walking away.

I wish I didn't need to write about this.
Six months later and I still am.

Six months later and it still won't sink in, the pain just surfaces.
Six months of coming home to an empty bed in your room.
Six months of no goodbye kisses and no embraces. I wonder how I even made it this far.

Six months of feeling alone in this home.