"He may have had good intentions—pushing you."

You are the only person who has ever made me feel this conflicted. Maybe I needed the push, but why does it sting? Why does it feel less like guidance and more like a wound that never heals?

You have always made me angry at the world, at myself. I push myself past exhaustion because you have made me so afraid to fail. How can you still see me as the same weak child? You know how I've changed. How I stay on my feet from dawn until dusk. Yet, you only ever see where I fall, never where I stand tall. And when life is unkind to me, you never fail to remind me that it is my own fault. More than two decades have passed, but your voice still shakes me more than the world ever could.

You always told me to speak, to open up, to step into the world with confidence. But have you ever wondered why I stay silent? Why I shrink and shut down before I can even communicate? Why I feel insecure in my relationships? Why I have the tendency to leave?

You deserve to be loved because you were there, because you provided. But truth be told, I am broken and you played a part.

If love is vast, then so is grief. If love is a force, then so is the emptiness it leaves behind.

After laying down all my cards and spilling my love into words, hoping to place it somewhere other than my heart, I learned that it is simply too much; That no matter how I try to set it aside or fight it, love seeps into the smallest spaces. It spills through the cracks, demanding to be acknowledged. And every time I give it even an ounce of attention, it takes over me, growing into something bigger than myself.
I tried to outrun it, drown it in reason, bury it beneath time, but it lingers in the quiet moments until it consumes me whole. I'm left with no choice but to give in, fall to my knees, and let it take me at its mercy. I guess misery never really ends when all we do is call into voids without hearing another echo.

Could I stir fate into action by declaring that I have finally learned to hold love with careful hands? That I am better now? I want to be exactly what they need. I want to pour myself into every glass that needs filling, this time, neither too much nor too little. I want to be someone uneasy to let go of, to become the same love that haunts me in my silence. It's Valentine's day, and I have no other desires but to meet love where it stands.

This has held me back more than it’s ever pushed me forward.
This big feeling, a consuming fixation.

I’ve delayed myself for it, time and time again.
I’ve broken promises for it,
suffered the consequences, no matter how punishing,
not for my own benefit,
nor anyone else’s.
It hasn’t moved me closer to anything. It’s taken a limb but hasn’t taken me anywhere I’ve wanted to go.
It keeps me stagnant.

Mendiola Street feels different these days.
I still walk it, tracing the same path I always have; Mondays and Thursdays at midnight, when the city breathes in silence. On other days, I walk as the morning sun rises, its warmth pressing against my skin.

Some days, I stop by the nearby cafés, sit by the window, watch people come and go. Their lives briefly intersects with mine before vanishing into their own stories. I sip my coffee and, for a moment, relive that late afternoon from two years ago. The way the dimming light stretched long over the pavement. The way peace and excitement coexisted in my chest. The way happiness made me feel like I wasn’t even touching the ground. The innocence, the unfolding story, the hope, the magic. I keep trying to step back into that moment, but time doesn’t work that way.

My eyes always wander to the people, the sky, and the trees. Their branches used to cast shadows on the ground, dancing patterns of light and dark. But now, the leaves are gone, leaving the street bare, emptier than before. And yet, the trunks remain, standing tall, holding onto memories even as everything else changes.

Most days, those trees see me worn out, hopeless, and frustrated as I head home in the afternoons. They have seen how I outgrew my naivety, how I lost and regained kindness, how I fought to survive each day, how I was pushed to grow thicker skin. But they’ve also witnessed my happiest moments, the ones where I felt like light itself, beaming and shining down the street. And maybe, just maybe, they remember.

Amid all the ordinary things I pass each day, I still hope for something unexpected; to be found without searching, to stumble upon something that makes me feel weightless again. But I've been contemplating leaving for a long time now, and only time will tell if I'll still be walking the same pavement next year.

She stained the rim with her lipstick,
And I lifted it to my lips.
Red, intimate.

The faint smudge, a trace of her presence,
A friendly face masking the turmoil beneath.
When I think of beauty, I think of her.

There’s a quiet seduction she seems unaware of,
Like how her eyes hold an unintentional allure.
There is slender grace in her form,
A quiet elegance I cannot help but notice.

She moves in ways that stir something within me.
She made me understand what captivates me, what draws me in
She is careless in a way that only makes her more enticing.

Lastly, she made me realize
What simply liking someone feels like;
For that's all she'll ever be.