(2014) Heights Vol. 61, No. 2

million stories to tell, could very well be one.

Five months ago after what happened to my dad, I felt like nothing was ever going to get better. I saw the world for what it was—unjust, cruel; that it takes too much and without remorse. I suppose it’s right to say I’d lost my faith in everything.

Things are not better but I know for a fact that I am.

Five months ago, at my lowest, there was this boy sitting across me telling me he tried to kill himself because he felt like there was nothing left to live for. I refuse to lie and say I would’ve gotten by all the same without him. I would’ve gotten by, but he made it bearable. In him I had found a friend who would willingly carry my burdens with me.

If it hadn’t been for him, his stories, the world he fashioned out of nothing—a world I so willingly allowed myself to get lost in—I wouldn’t be where and who I am right now.

When you’re at your lowest, there are just some things you don’t want to hear: things are going to get better, you are going to be okay.

I realize now that even if he had to lie to say it, it was exactly what I needed to hear.

“One time, na-stranded ako sa dorm and I had to eat paper and toyo.”

I look up. He is sitting across from me. We are having dinner with some of our cast mates. We’d just finished another round of Pinoy Henyo and the last item was ice cube. I don’t recall how the topic went from ice cube to eating paper but it did, and he relished it.

“Ondoy kasi nun,” he continues. He is so good at this: holding a crowd’s attention—every single one of us listening intently. “ ‘Di nga.”

“Oo, talaga. Nag-flood nung Ondoy tapos wala akong makain and I was so hungry I ended up eating paper with toyo.”

“Paano yung roommates mo?”

“Umuwi. Mag-isa lang ako nun.”

Question after question, he always had an immediate 50