Charm In Ink

There are stories we carry quietly in our hearts — the ones filled with love that was never spoken again, apologies whispered too late, and memories that linger even after goodbye. This is one of those stories. It’s about a father and daughter whose paths drifted apart, whose words were left unsaid, and whose love  despite distance, silence, and time never truly faded. Because in the end, no matter what happened, love stayed. It’s really all a blur. I knew Tatay was sick as early as April this year. But even as a child, about twenty years ago, I already knew he had maintenance medications for high cholesterol, high blood pressure, something for the liver, and sometimes for gout. Our relationship had always been complicated. In 2012, my parents separated, and since then, things have been hard. It eventually reached a point where Tatay and I were no longer speaking. In fact, we weren’t speaking at all until the time of his death. In my heart of hearts, I always believed that someh...

  There are days when I wish life had a reset button. Not a full reset—nothing extreme like going back to diapers or elementary school. I’m talking about a rewind. Maybe a decade back. Maybe to 18, when I was still figuring things out, still allowed to stumble. If I could just go back and make different choices—smarter ones, kinder ones—maybe things would look better now. But I can’t. And here I am at 28. Not quite young anymore, but not exactly old. Somewhere in that blurry, confusing in-between. It’s like being stuck in a holding pattern while everyone else’s lives are taking off. The Lie of Having It All Figured Out At 28, there’s this quiet expectation that you should have something to show for yourself—a degree, a stable job, maybe even a relationship, a savings account, or a five-year plan. But what happens when you don’t have any of those? What happens when all you have is a pile of unmet goals, faded dreams, and a voice in your head constantly whispering: You’re behin...

  When I left for Europe, it wasn’t just a trip. It was a mission, a commitment. I went as part of the Philippine UPR Watch delegation, carrying with me the stories of our people, the struggles back home, and our collective hope for justice and accountability. As the Lead Convenor of Defend Southern Tagalog, I stood in rooms and on streets across different cities, speaking not only for myself but for communities silenced and marginalized for far too long. I thought that after fulfilling this deeply meaningful work, I would come home to another dream finally coming true: my graduation. I imagined arriving back home fulfilled, tired but triumphant, and soon after, walking across the stage wearing my sablay — the symbol of years of hard work, sleepless nights, and unending perseverance. But life had other plans. I found out I wasn’t graduating while I was already in Europe. In between meetings, human rights conferences, and advocacy visits, I received the news that shattered me. A ...

  After almost a year, we met again. We saw each other. You’ve changed a lot — I told you that. You said I still looked the same. We had coffee, shared a drink from the same cup, and you agreed to come home with me — to the family that once called you their own. You were there again, and it felt so familiar. So soft. So quietly significant. We talked about life — where we’ve been, how we’ve changed, how the world moved forward even without each other. And maybe because I know you too well, I caught it. That moment when something you said didn’t feel like the truth. I didn’t call it out. I didn’t have to. I knew. Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was protection — for you, for me, for whatever we still didn’t have the words for. But here’s what I do know: That night could have been the start of something new… or it could’ve been the closure I didn’t know I was waiting for. I love you. That much I’m sure of. God knows how much I love you — even after everything. But maybe what we sh...

  Today, I attended what may very well be my last face-to-face undergraduate class — not just for the semester, but maybe for my entire college life. Not maybe . I hope . I pray . I need it to be the last one. As I walked out of that classroom, I was hit with a flood of emotions. Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to cover it. There’s still so much uncertainty. I have three major requirements left , and I honestly don’t know if I’ll make it. I’m praying — to every god and force out there — please, help me graduate this semester. It feels so surreal to be here. I started college twelve years ago . Twelve years. That’s a lifetime of starting, stopping, falling behind, trying again. And now, as I stand at the edge of what I hope is the finish line, I’m feeling a mix of fear, hope, nostalgia, and exhaustion . "What happens if I don’t make it this time? What do I do? What face do I have left to show?" Despite the fear, I know there are still things I can do. I can still give i...

I love him, but I am afraid. Almost a year has passed since we broke up. We once promised each other forever, shared inside jokes that only we understand, and made memories that still echo in my heart. Now, after all this time, I find myself reconnecting with him — a connection I thought I had to let go of. Keeping myself away, practicing no contact, was torture. But now, I want nothing more than to go back to him, to make us a thing again. I’ve asked him if there is someone new in his life, but he refuses to answer. He tells me he doesn’t want to talk about it. That silence is painful, confusing, and leaves me hanging between hope and doubt. I can feel the spark between us when we chat — something familiar and electric that hasn’t completely faded. But I also know I cannot read him completely, and I cannot jump to conclusions about what he feels for me. God knows how much I miss him, how deeply I love him. I cannot even picture a future without him in it. Sometimes I wonder — am I...

  There are moments in life when someone begins to feel like every move they make is under surveillance — not out of care, but out of doubt. She feels it deeply now. Supposedly, everyone around her stands as equals. Supposedly, they are her friends. But in reality, she senses something different — something heavy. To her, it feels like people are just waiting for her to make a mistake. Every action she takes is questioned, every decision second-guessed. She notices how others are given space to move freely, to make choices without judgment. But when it comes to her, it’s as if the rules suddenly change. The trust that others receive without question is something she has to earn — over and over again — and even then, it’s never really granted. What’s worse is how these people claim it’s all out of care and concern. But to her, it feels hollow — like a twisted version of compassion. It's as if they’ve become emotionless, robotic in the way they interact — driven more by quiet resentm...