Love Letter to the Universe
Time is exactly 10:30 PM.
And I badly need to pee.
Beside me, the waves crash steadily.
‘Ang Bandang Shirley’ hums gently in the background. For a fleeting moment, everything feels still. Everything feels… at peace.
As I try to make peace with this new reality, I realize that there’s more to grief than just a chipped ceramic.
Harsh truths whispered in the dark. And somehow, it’s in these reflections that I find our humanness.
The wind brushes against my face as I write this.
I am grieving.
I am also healing.
And in this slow unraveling, I begin to accept both what has been and what must now begin.
The pages ahead are blank, waiting.
Maybe I’m writing them alone now.
But there’s something sacred in knowing I get to write them on my own terms.
Time is now exactly 10:40 PM.
Still haven’t peed.
‘Backburner’ plays, making me pause at the line about “Asian Calvinism.”
I don’t know what it fully means—but it stirs something in me.
Reflecting in these times where I’m putting myself behind for the comfort that stains in the future.
Rain pouring and lightning striking in the horizon, I can’t stop the forlorn feeling from seeping. But reality check comes as a filter for this feeling to stop spreading.
Time: exactly 10:50 PM.
‘Yellow’ is now blasting through the speakers. One of my senti songs before this situation. We’re heading home. Braving the storm, like I’ll have to do from now on. And though the road ahead is uncertain, I carry with me courage, and lessons that burned. I hope that hope itself will be enough to keep me moving.
And as the rain softens and the music fades, I sit with the weight of it all—what was, what’s gone, and what’s quietly beginning. It still hurts, yes, but in this stillness, I feel something shift—like I’m slowly learning to be okay with holding both the grief and the hope, the ending and the becoming, all at once.
