People Watching

Booked

Copyright © 2025

Literary Folio of Tolentine Star, the official student publication of University of Negros Occidental-Recoletos Incorporated

All rights reserved. No part of this folio may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the Editor-in-Chief.

Published by the students and faculty of the University of Negros Occidental-Recoletos, Inc. at Impress Quality Printing, Talisay City, Negros Occidental.

Literary Folio Editor Arben Jeyk Da-anoy

Theme Contributor Kashina Ashley Gatilogo

Cover Artists Jalyn Rose Elizan Ayesha Mikyllah Mayang

Editor-in-Chief

Kashina Ashley Gatilogo

FOREWORD

In the busy streets where chaos lurks, quiet roars and nuances breathe thought-provoking pieces.

For in every passerby, a story is born— a smile captured, a brushstroke softly curved. The unseen unveils itself in the shadow, once-muted voices now echo hope. Each gaze holds authorship — a legitimate chronicler of mystery. Each stroke holds power, uplifting long-sought, burrowed dreams.

As you flip through these pages, you’ll encounter dauntless crafts woven into the perfectly imperfect nature of storytelling and vision, carefully etched between the subtle gestures in every encounter. Each piece resonates with a quiet fusion of authenticity and artistry as we yearn for solace in our wanderings.

Brace yourselves, and be a quiet herald of what makes each day bearable.

Let silence be your compass.

of CONTENTS

People Watching Table

Nakakakita, Pero ‘Di Nakikita

Retrograde in Pisces

Likod ng Bintana

ng Taga-Masid

Duyog Sang Kalipay

Kiss the Rain Kuwento sa Kanto Poker’s Tales

People Watching

Center of Attraction

Biyahe ng mga Mata

Lost in the Moments

That Melody You Once Played

Sulyap sa Ilaw ng Magbabalut

Gray Fate 113

Constant Gamble

King of the Roads

Umaasang Umaga

WHAT HAS BEEN

by Ayesha Mikyllah Mayang

PUZZLE PIECE

by Rhyza Sion

that marker etched on your body that slid beneath your skin the one that bears your pains — the scars, the aches, the sorrows. a wound you cannot hide yet its roots remain unseen a story whose start you’ve never charted still —it burns, it tears, it screams.

you gather the pieces of what’s broken mending with a thread too fine to see feeling the weight of what remains and hold the fragile tender parts — of body, mind, and soul.

to soothe what aches and burns to bless the scars though questions loom to trust the heart it turns and to feel the hurt with open hands —gently, softly, endearingly.

you who carry shadows on your back the echo you cannot name foes you cannot see a battle you could never win — but what are you fighting against?

so here we stand tracing back the lines searching for hidden doors of all we can see and all we cannot that sometimes we find exit wounds in our bodies but have no idea where it entered perhaps the healing starts with grace for wounds both known and splintered.

A GLIMPSE OF CHILDHOOD

by Jantzen Lumanog

SOMEONE’S WATCHING

by Angelee Valencia

The soft pitter-patter of the rain didn’t bother her, not when she felt the gaze of something she couldn’t see. She thought she got used to it, but she knows deep down she can’t. The soft clang of the door couldn’t match the loud thumping of her heart and harsh breaths. She immediately closed the curtains, afraid she would see even more.

Her phone rang, which made her freeze. She didn’t like the sound of her phone ringing, which petrified her because it had always been silent. She ignored the ringing of her phone that is now echoing in her loud mind.

“Breathe, Alice, breathe,” she repeatedly told herself, trying to wake up in such a vivid dream she wasn’t sure of. She slowly crouched, hugging her knees, when a loud banging of the door made her flinch. She couldn’t look at the door.

Because the last time she did, she saw a pair of red eyes.

Calmly opening the door with locks she couldn’t count, she was met by a familiar gaze before she was silenced forever.

Annicka threw the folder down and annoyingly looked at the police. “Do you think this is some kind of spook fest or something? ” Her voice is full of irritation as she looks at the police officer, his face dark from lack of sleep not due to overtime work but because of heavy drinking.

“This was the only evidence found in the murder, which was posted online. It had gained a great deal of views when someone filed it as evidence of the missing person called Alicia Federson.” The police officer picked up the folder and tucked the pictures back in.

“Can’t you trace back the person who posted it online?” Her eyes bored as she waited for another nonsense to be sprouted from the officer’s mouth.

“We did, but we can’t trace who posted it online; not even one of our experts can, which made it more suspicious,” Annicka seemed to be unfazed as she clicked her tongue and took the folder.

“I’ll think about it, but I need full cooperation from the team,

especially for something like this, which only happens in horror films.” She took her hat without hesitation, clutching the folder by her side.

On her way home, she couldn’t help but want to decline the case being offered to her, but at the same time there was a feeling buried inside her that had been quite bothersome since the case was first disclosed.

There’s no trace of her; it’s as if she doesn’t exist.

She placed the folder down and kicked her shoes out of the way. Soft footsteps followed as she was greeted by a white, furry thing barking with no eyes to be seen.

“Ruffus!” she excitedly yelled, picking the white fluff ball up and giving it a soft and gentle pat. The only thing that kept her calm was the white creature she was. She spent her night reviewing the case, searching as the hallway was filled with never-ending clicks of the keyboard.

Alicia Federson found dead.

Alicia Federson found with no eyes

Tragic Death of a Famous Painter

She slammed her laptop with frustration, realizing that it wasn’t getting her anywhere. She could feel her head getting dizzy with all the thoughts rushing inside her, such thoughts that she wished would disappear instantly.

She was too lost in her thoughts when she heard soft footsteps in the kitchen. Thinking it might be Ruffus, she ignored the sounds, but when she felt the soft fur of his dog on her feet, she froze.

Someone’s in her home.

She looked at her dog beneath the table as its white tail stiffened. Her dog has a hearing and smelling problem, but she knew at that moment something was off because it was the first time she saw her dog react that way. Not even when she was broken in on by an intruder before, but why now?

She tried to back up and sit straight, but every time she tried to, her dog growled louder and louder. This only meant one thing.

It was standing behind her.

With one last pinch of bravery, she looked back, preparing herself for whatever was behind her, but she was met by none.

Not even a trace of what she thought was an intruder trying to kill her. Her dog calmed down. It might have suspected someone was behind her because of how anxious she was. She breathed out a sigh of relief and turned back to her laptop when she came face-to-face with a pair of red eyes. A gruesome face that was smiling widely, showing its bloody grin. It held her face, now full of blood, and it started to scream a series of numbers.

She was looking at the face which was already dead.

It was Alicia.

“0101 0010 0100 0101 0100 0100” screamed the same sequence of numbers all over again as it kept ringing and ringing, making her want to vomit. She gasped as she screamed, thrashing around, but she stopped when she saw her dog jump on her.

It was just a dream. She kept repeating it to calm herself down. She stayed still for a minute and rushed to the bathroom to rinse her face, cooling her head down. When she came back to get her phone, she saw a footprint behind her chair. It wasn’t a dream.

Then, the realization hit her. It was a code—a code she was screaming. A binary code.

She rushed to the front door to call the police, knowing she was still not alone, but without any warning, she felt a sharp pain in her neck as a familiar voice spoke.

The last thing she saw was a pair of dark eyes; they were not red but rather dark. The police officer pulled the trigger, and it ended before it even started.

INVASION OF PRIVACY

by Expired Fungus

by Rhyza Glen Fornolles

SA MATA NG TAHIMIK NA TANOD

by Stephanie Gaston

Sa gitna ng ingay, lungsod na magulo, Tahimik kong tanaw ang mundong totoo; Mga mata’y nagmasid, puso’y nakiramdam, Sa bawat galaw, sa bawat larawan.

May matang may luha, may ngiting may sugat, May paang nagdadalawang-isip lumakad; May yakap na pilit, may diwang nalito, Mga kwentong hindi ko alam ang dulo.

Sa hintong sandali, sa titig na payapa, Nakita kong sugat ay kayang humilom pa; Sa bawat pagkadapa, sa muling pagbangon, May lakas sa pusong sa sakit ay nilamon.

Sa mata ng iba, ako’y natututo, Hindi lahat ng galak ay tunay na totoo; Ngunit sa pagtanaw sa di ko kakilala, Nakita kong ako’y may sariling halaga.

Hindi na para sa palakpak ng mundo, Hindi na para sa paghatol ng tao; Ako’y maghihilom, ako’y lalaya, Ako’y babangon nang may layunin at ligaya.

Sa mata ng tahimik na tanod ng buhay, Nakita kong mundo ay puno ng kulay; Ang sakit, ang lungkot, bahagi lang pala, Ng kwentong ako mismo ang may-akda.

TO PLEASE IS TO FORGET

by Elnie Anjelie Flores

once upon a time, a stroke of a letter molded how she would be called in a world that never seems real once upon a time, she is placed in a sphere with people she may or may not know once upon a time, she is masked with fear of the beings who’s eyes may sparkle with joy or burn with flames

once upon a time, she neglects who she was what she’ll do what she feels for the gazes beyond once upon a time, she was strangled by standards she learned to endure at the cost of herself to serve the feast and please the ever-watchful eyes.

DIGITAL ESCAPE

by Karl Josh Collarin

TANTANAN NAWA AKO

by Arben Jeyk Da-anoy

Sa bawat pagdungaw ng mata sa bintana

Titig nila’y tila nakabubulag, nakasasawa

Sa bawat yapak ng aking mga paa

Ramdam ko ang tinik ng matatalim nilang salita

Sa bawat paglabas ko sa tahanan

Tila may sumusunod sa aking kamalasan

Datapwa’t sa aking bawat paghinga

May bahid ng takot yari sa mundong

mapanghusga.

THE LIMELIGHT

by Amiel John Orciada

THE APARTMENT WE WON’T SHARE

by John Renz Delim

“The apartment we won’t share, I wonder what sad wife lives there…”

Half an hour passed since the song played on loop. The silence between us was as loud as the empty spaces in the house. I glanced at the side of the kitchen sink just to see you slicking your hair back ‘cause it continued bothering you as you washed the dishes. You seemed calm but your eyes reflected a weariness even the dishes could see.

Not until a moment arrived when you looked back and our eyes met. Your smile always held me captive in the most unusual way. I could only respond with a gentle gaze as if I was drawn by an invisible thread of warmth.

“Two years and some strange, isn’t it strange? You’re a fullfledged socialist, I go by a new name.”

My hands were completely submerged in the water as our eyes locked. The piled up dishes, the small kitchen, the empty rooms — all faded into scene. As if everything around me was suspended.

The song continued on repeat. Not even once that I imagined how a simple chore could be this consoling. As our eyes conveyed the words behind those vacant looks, you stood still. Leaving me wrapped in another tender memory.

“The story we won’t tell is my greatest fantasy, the passion I won’t feel again isn’t lost on me.”

Yet the sorrows of the song that had been playing are the opposite of anything in between us. In its aching melody, we find each other’s comfort. More than a love bound together, more than an apartment shared.

ECHOES OF SILENCE

by Dahlia Belle Flores

MOMENTS OF REST AND WITNESS

by Rhyza Glen Fornolles

SILENT STORIES

by Jose Neil Orbecido

THE BIG BANG

by Rhyza Sion

does it ache too? where the stars once collided, scattering their fire to forge us. does the weight of origins linger, heavy in the hollows of our chest?

does it burn too? where questions cut the deepest— why here? why now? why me? is faith the salve we reach for when the chaos sings too loud?

does it break too? when silence answers back, when the void feels too expansive, and the thought of meaning flickers like a fragile, fleeting light.

do you yearn too? for a place that feels like home, a tiny corner carved with you in mind, where the vastness doesn’t smother, and the randomness feels planned.

does it comfort you too? to think the universe knew us before we learned to name ourselves. that we are more than fleeting echoes, more than stardusts lost in time.

FLY

by Jalyn Rose Elizan

ALL EYES ON ME by Expired Fungus

by Anicar Frias

TINGIN NA HINABI NG PANGARAP

KISS THE RAIN

by Jalyn Rose Elizan

YOU, THROUGH ME

by Danica Rose Quindap

I watch him step through a wicked street His shoes tap the pavement like there’s a beat

His gleaming glance, his face so sweet That speaks of a thousand feat

I watch him walk, so free, so swift It seems that the world unfolds beneath his feet

The midnight clouds that lie in the atmosphere quietly Even from afar, his presence speaks of mystery

I wonder if he knows the time Or he lost his thoughts through sublime He waits for something; I know it is not me A minute, or an eternity, maybe

Can he hear the silence even when we’re apart?

Like tracing a shadow in the dark I watch him pass by, but still, I feel, The notion of what he can conceal.

FRAGMENTS OF SELF

by Karl Josh Collarin

I SEE YOU, LITTLE ROSSY

by Danica Rose Quindap

Little Rossy

719 Feyna Noble Street

Victorious Creekland

Little Rossy,

You have stepped into an uncertain crossroads. You were once uneasy about the path you were going to take. Now, the silence weighs better than your worries ever— each path lingers and echoes the life you might have lived, but did any of them truly promise to lead you home?

You have and will meet souls painted with colors you’ve never known, and destiny will carry you to lands once you are born in your dreams. The ones you laughed at under the sun will fade into the haze. The world won’t ask you to change, nor does time, especially for something you cherish— it will swerve, and you are left to remember.

My dear, be gentle with your grip on certainty— let your heart bend like bamboo in the wind. Listen, even the whispers of strangers. Remember, wisdom often wears unfamiliar faces. Do not stray away from taking risks— beneath it lie the hidden remnants of yourself, skills buried deep, waiting to rise when the world calls for them. There will be days when the path defies your hopes when nothing unfolds as you dreamed it might. But trust me, you will endure— as you always have. And in due time, you will flourish.

The path before you splits like a dream unraveling at the bottom, each trail a shadow of realms of what might come to be— a voice of unwritten destinies. With the weight of an unspoken decision, the winds will murmur. But the earth beneath you hums with the quiet thrum of a thousand lives waiting to be lived.

Every step forward is both a leap to the unknown and a defiance of the past. The question isn’t which road to take, my dear— it is whether you dare to walk. People will always watch your step, and so will I—near or far.

I see you, Rossy.

xoxo

Your future

CONCEALED

by Arben Jeyk Da-anoy

In the quiet embers I stand in awe of thy beauty

In the loudest roars I sit still, resounding misery

In the peaceful gaze I stare, dumbfounded of thy solitude

In the midst of chaos I looked through every whisper

There I found myself Just looking, hearing, —unseen.

THE SKY OVER KANG LAON

by Theresa Mae Dulman

The dauntless aegis of Yligueynes He’s the rumbling guardian that speaks mightiness

Through the grey sky morning, he’s a silent beast

Ready to conquer everything, he will not be ceased

A legend that tells thousands of tales Majestic being, we were stuck in daze Oh, please! Spare us with your anger Don’t let this poor farmer suffer Mighty Kang Laon, you bless us with your gifts

Don’t let your ashes drift.

A RUINED MEDIUM OF PERSPECTIVES

by Vincy Anne Tropa

Amidst the streets and city lights, We stumbled upon an enigmatic sight, An abandoned ruins of art and perspicacity, A place where we could escape reality.

Hand in hand, we walked through the halls, Admiring the paintings that adorned the walls, Discussing the stories behind each piece, Laughing, sobbing, and sharing our beliefs.

We marveled at the ancient artifacts, The statues and relics that took us back, To a time when life was simpler and pure, And the world was full of adventure and allure.

As we explored this insecure treasure trove, We discovered a side of ourselves we did not know, A love for culture of imperfection and beauty, A bond that grew stronger with each mystery.

“This statue stands as a reminder, Of the power of human art, And the stories that it carries, Deep within its weary heart.

So let us bask in its glory, And let our souls be inspired, By the beauty of this statue, And the stories that it has acquired.”

In the halls of history we walked, Amidst the art and lore, Our minds were filled with stories that talked, As we learned so much more.

We gazed upon the ancient past, And marveled at the present too, Our love for art was growing fast, As we took it all in anew.

A tour in an abandoned ruins was quite a thrill, As we learned and explored it at will, Our hearts full of wonder still, In this place of knowledge and skill.

POV

by Kashina Ashley Gatilogo

Peering into the stillness of water only to be met with muffled echoes of my presence for all I see are eyes bleeding over the death of who I used to be.

Often than not, I find myself succumbed in my thoughts — my own negative thoughts. The moment when their eyes touch the facade of my bare being, I instantly snap back from the gaze.

I picked up all those stones and created the walls I hid behind. This fortress cannot contain the weight of my vulnerability. I stare low upon these walls, not to defend but merely keep the staring eyes far.

Not once, nor twice will I let them see the authenticity. These emotions are not for them to see, they are locked away where they remain free.

Those quiet murmurs of judgement are thundering giants under a shroud. The silence was way too loud, I fear.

Obscured by doubt and fear, it slithered deep into my bloodstream leaving the dry taste of bitter contempt and sorrow.

Fixated in this harsh world, where kindness is scarce and cruelty thrives, God I might not be able to live here.

Vulnerable as I am, I try to take action over my fears. Still guarding the walls, I built. The surface may crack but the foundation shall hold still.

Ire consume the boundaries of my thoughts, but I won’t let this cloud the purity of my soul. These are just emotions that will not define the core of who I am.

Every once in a while, I reflect on the wounds they left, certain that the weight of their words will one day return, heavier than before.

But sometimes I wonder…

When will I let their stares lose their power?

THROUGH THE LENS OF A STRANGER

by Jeri Mae Terry

Boredom hits as I sit on the bench waiting for my bus—staring at the bustling street, fast-paced, sidewalks crowded with busy people, and vendors preparing their trinkets and street food. I have been staring for quite some time. I did not realize that the fast-paced surroundings suddenly became sluggish and everyone was dull. What happened here?

In a flash, my eyes became the lens of a camera, zooming in on the smallest details, focusing on a passerby and observing their actions— from subtle gestures to dramatic facial expressions, makes me realize that everyone has their own story to tell. A woman adjusts her bag, a teenager frowns at her phone, a vendor cooking his goods, and a child tugging her mother’s sleeve. Watching their expressions unfold gives me a feeling of sonder. More passersby walk in front of me, one after another, minding their own business, navigating their personal lives. I am merely an observer, with curiosity taking over me. It could be a friend passing by but in their story, you are just a blur unlike in your story, you are the hero in those lenses.

The loud surroundings suddenly became quiet, I can’t hear anything, although I can still hear their mouths moving sluggishly, it’s as if I am wearing noise canceling headphones—I just sit there, closing my eyes and I find myself in my inner peace being the lens of a stranger observing. I take a deep breath and look back at my past actions. If I wanted to be seen, why was I hidden? It is true that we often mask ourselves to fit the norms but it also leads to losing our authentic selves.

As I opened my eyes, I jolted back into reality—it was already raining. The bright skies I saw a few moments ago transformed into gloomy gray clouds, droplets splashing the sidewalks. I took a breath once more and glanced at my surroundings. It was raining yet, the vibes softened, the busy street became calmer.

I opened my umbrella as I walked towards the bus stop, the sound of my footstep splashing the puddles, etching my white sneakers. It’s a small thing, but this time the lens pointed toward me.

by Karl Josh Collarin

KUWENTO SA KANTO

POKER’S TALES

by Ayesha Mikyllah Mayang

WE LIVE FOR MOMENTS-BIG OR SMALL

by John Renz Delim

Some people live for someone who can’t even pull up his tie completely as he tries to finish his espresso and read the Country’s Stock Exchange in the Daily tabloid at seven sharp.

Some people live just to quickly make a toast and end up eating only half of it because the next bus would come up any minute.

Some people live and stay up all night to associate their solicited proposals for the piled up business contracts of the first half.

Some people plan to visit and try Le Calandre’s best of the best on the Holiday, four months from now.

Some people live to make sure their child has got the best support a parent could give and also to not forget to put enough kiwi and berries on his lunch pack.

Some people live to put a smile on their customers’ faces as they finish their Tonkotsu egg ramen and ask for another round of soup for the third time and request for extra sesame.

On top of these, there are also people that barely live—trying to make both ends meet. Like an open-ended contract, just waiting for that exact signature to be pressed any time of the day.

Perhaps, they might be looking for that perfect place—just trying to tune up, finding a spot for an alcohol spree night…..

We do not know.

But like some people, they live in big and small moments too.

WILL YOU SEE ME, TOO?

by Jasmine Cyrile Alave

I see every change in people that I love Noticing shifts with the smallest of cues Every move, every twitch, everything they do I always manage to see it through

I can tell when they’re feeling down When their smiles are forced, or when they wear a frown Even when they say they’re perfectly fine I know the truth hiding between each line

Because of that I find a way for them to feel that’s it’s okay To change, to be different, or to just be free To choose the self they wish to be

Though welcoming them with all my heart, Not wanting anything in return I can’t help but wish that someone knew, That I want to be seen through too

To make me feel understood, loved, or even acknowledged To judge me not in times I’m in my lowest

Slowly I wondered, when will people see me? When will they notice I’ve become different too? When will they see the move, the twitch, everything I do? When will that time, they’ll see me through?

THE WATCHER

by Kelby Bonilla

Antonio stood by the window of his apartment, watching the city below. The sun was setting, casting a soft orange glow across the streets. People were everywhere, going about their day, while the sounds of tricycles and jeepneys filled the air. The busy hum of voices mixed with the distant calls of vendors, creating the soundtrack of the city. Antonio had always liked this time of day, when the streets were filled with energy, but the heat of the afternoon had finally passed, and the evening was settling in.

From up here, Antonio could see so much. He could see the vendors getting ready to close up their stalls, kids running through the park, families walking home after a long day. It was a steady rhythm that played out every day, and he had grown used to it. Though he didn’t take part in the hustle and bustle, watching it from his apartment gave him a strange sense of connection to it all. It felt like the city had its own heartbeat, and he was just a quiet observer, looking in from the outside.

Down on the corner, Mrs. Rivera was busy arranging dried fish at her small stall. She’d been running this shop for as long as Antonio could remember. Every morning, she set everything up just right, from the fish to the small bottles of vinegar, making sure everything looked fresh and inviting. She had a kind smile for every customer, and she always took the time to chat with them. Whether they were regulars or first-time visitors, Mrs. Rivera made them feel at home. Antonio had seen her go about her work so many times, but it still fascinated him. There was something comforting about her routine—something steady in a city that’s always changing.

As the sun continued to dip lower, the light in the street softened. Antonio noticed a few more people walking by. A group of women stopped in front of Mrs. Rivera’s stall, laughing and chatting as they picked out dried fish. Their voices were easy and light, as though they were just catching up after a long day. The way they moved, the way they spoke to each other—it reminded Antonio of how people here didn’t seem in a hurry. Everything happened at its own pace, and there was no rush to get anywhere. The city didn’t force anyone to hurry; it allowed life to unfold at a comfortable speed.

Across the street, Antonio spotted his cousin, Elena. She was sitting on a bench near the small park, holding a cup of taho, the sweet treat made of silken tofu and syrup. Elena was chatting with a friend, both of them laughing as they talked about their day. Antonio could see the easy warmth in her smile. She was one of those people who seemed to

know everyone, always stopping to chat or greet someone she knew. Antonio admired that about her—how she was always so open and friendly, with time for everyone.

Elena finished her taho and waved goodbye to her friend. She walked across the street toward a group of her old classmates who had gathered at a nearby food stall. Antonio watched her join them, greeting them with friendly waves and more laughter. They were sitting around a small table, eating skewers of grilled meat and fried fish balls. As always, Elena seemed to be the center of the conversation, her easy laughter filling the air. It was clear she enjoyed these simple moments with her friends, and Antonio could tell they enjoyed her company as well.

As evening grew closer, the street began to fill with more people. A jeepney pulled up to the corner, and a family of three got off—mom, dad, and their young son. The boy was holding a balloon, his small hand wrapped tightly around the string. He bounced excitedly as his parents walked beside him, laughing at something he had said. Antonio watched as they crossed the street, the boy pulling at his mother’s sleeve and pointing to a store they were passing. The father smiled and gently guided the boy along, his hand resting on the child’s shoulder. It was a quiet, simple moment, but it was full of warmth. Antonio couldn’t help but smile, remembering his own family, the way they used to walk like that, side by side, in the early evenings.

The air was filled with the smell of food—barbecue, fried fish balls, and the sweet scent of halo-halo being sold from a cart at the corner. People gathered around the street food stalls, chatting and laughing. Some people were in a rush, grabbing a quick snack before heading home, while others lingered, enjoying the company of friends or family. It was just the way of the city—people coming together over simple things, sharing stories, and making connections.

Antonio felt content as he stood by the window, watching the city slow down for the night. The street lights flickered on, casting a soft glow on the pavement below. The night was settling in, but the city was still alive, still full of conversation and laughter. It was a place of simple pleasures—good food, good company, and a steady rhythm that made everything feel like it was just as it should be.

He took one last look at the busy street below before stepping away from the window. Tomorrow, it will be the same. The same faces, the same routines, the same quiet energy. It was the kind of life that was easy to overlook, but Antonio had come to appreciate it. In a world full of fast-moving things, the small, simple moments of everyday life were the ones that mattered most.

BEYOND THE GLASS

by Angel Pador

THE SILENT WITNESS

by Densil Faith Padilla

I stumbled upon the great barrier of life—

To be known and be nothing at all. I am the great pretender, a carrier of strife, Too blind to notice my own fall.

I met a friend; who told me once, “How odd—humans are meant to be ghosts someday.”

Then I thought, it’s disturbingly sad, the tragedy of mankind, That when we are ghosts, everything shall be left behind.

I am nothing but a drifter, An old, frail dog in someone’s apartment. I wish to be seen,

But everyone is busy making their own scene.

I am like an abandoned soul, I see and pass through people. I wonder if it’s a curse or a favor

To witness others and feel their burning fervor.

Oh, to see and feel people, But never thine own soul.

SWERVING GLANCES, UNWRITTEN WHISPERS

by Danica Rose Quindap

We share the same air

Gliding in each other’s glare

We held our breath where meaning swerves

Yet every word, a spark the silence deserves

We never spoke—not in words But in visions, we hummed like birds

A flicker, a pause, a silence

That stays between us, fast and timeless

I wonder if I venture into his thoughts the way he ventures through mine

Is he a shadow I can’t outrun?

Like a lingering whisper I can’t undone

In every pace, his reflection stays

A bygone presence that haunts my quiet days.

SEEN by Angel Pador

UNSEEN AUDIENCE

by Kert Jude Zabal

SONDER

by Densil Faith Padilla

In the vastness of the world where light only shines on those who are favored, a man devoid of everything creates his own little world by crafting lives for strangers he would see—playing God in a world that abandoned its own.

Elias was a timid, skinny man, typically on the verge of his 20s, always thinking deeply as if his mind never ran out of thoughts. When he was young, he developed a hobby of watching passersby from his apartment’s window. Perhaps watching them and observing every move they made made him feel that life wasn’t as dark and lonely as he thought. Like a cat, he waited each morning by the window, hoping a dove might land beside him and tell him what the world looked like from above. Elias was orphaned when he was 12 and lived with his aunt since then—who was a spinster. As he grew up, unaware of how the world worked for people like him, he would sit on worn-out benches in the park with a hobby he had developed when he was a child: staring deeply at every stranger who walked past him, like someone who sees every story their body and glances tell. He imagined what their life was like, or where their destinations might be. He was occupied watching and imagining the lives of others, crafting stories from them—old church ladies mumbling prayers as if the world were ending tomorrow, children dragging reluctant parents toward an ice cream truck, couples kissing each other as if the world were made only for them. Elias made stories out of every stranger he thought would fit into the world he was creating. Every day, he spent all his time writing their lives, redefining their fates—like one who breathes life into forgotten relics of the past.

But one day, while sitting on the same worn-out bench in the park, a woman sat across from him. She looked like an ordinary old lady who owned cats and drank tea on her soft couch with a self-crafted blanket, white hair, a crocheted cardigan, and a rosary hanging around her neck. The only difference was that her stare was unsettling. She was also watching people, just as he did. Her eyes moved deliberately, following strangers as they passed by her gaze, as if she too were crafting stories in her mind. Elias felt intrigued, seeing himself in her. He thought, how many eyes would it take to see the world in its pure nudity? As he pondered, the woman suddenly turned her eyes toward him, and with a lingering gaze, she sent a strange ripple into his chest.

The woman began to mumble words, then flashed a soft, sweet smile from across the bench. Elias’ forehead wrinkled as if caught off guard— confused yet mesmerized. The woman took little steps toward him, and Elias’ heart pounded loudly. Blood flushed his cheeks, and sweat dripped continuously from his forehead. He gulped a huge breath of courage as she came closer.

“You always sit here,” she said.

His pulse quickened. “Pardon?”

“You love watching people and making up stories about them.”

“How’d you know?”

The woman sat beside him, and her scent seemed to evoke a familiar distant memory—like the carelessness he had when he was a child, the smell of innocence and burning passion—like freesia withered in spring.

She tilted her head toward him, a sound of chill judgment on her face. “Because I am watching you.”

He felt a sudden, rapid flow of blood through his veins. He had never considered that, while watching someone and quietly observing the world, someone might have been observing him in the same way.

“You see that? I know you’ve imagined,” she gestured toward a woman strumming on her guitar, “perhaps her lover left her and now she ends up playing songs on her guitar, with a voice that is almost perfect but sounds melancholic.”

She pointed again, this time to two frail old men playing chess. “I know you think those men were once army veterans, who once thought they’d never see each other again.”

Everything the woman said made him swallow the lump in his throat— an inexplicable sensation. He appeared to be swept away by the crashing waves of bewilderment.

“Who are you?” he asked, now completely lost in a state of illusion.

The woman captivatingly smiled a soft, warm smile that could send an uncanny chill down your spine.

“Son, strangers have no names because naming something is to possess it, and if you possess something, you believe it will last. That’s why strangers aren’t meant to be known.”

Her words struck deeply, and as Elias sat there, transfixed, unable to blink, his mind raced through the realization of something he had never truly grasped before. He felt the weight of her words press against the skinny bones of his ribs. Elias wished to ask more, but the old woman had already stood up, lifting her bag and taking three steps away from him.

“W-when will I ever see you again?” he asked.

“In another world, in another time. You once told my story, but you never thought it was real.” She said cryptically before finally walking out of the young man’s sight.

A BURNING HILL

by Myron Joseph Yunsal

I am the forest fire, I am the fire, I am the forest , And I am the witness watching it.

I am the crackling hunger, Devouring the edges of stillness, The fierce heat of longing Breaking through the quiet.

I am the silent eyes, Gazing from the shadows, Both afraid of the flames And drawn to their light.

I am destruction, And I am creation, A cycle unbroken, A story unfolding.

I am all of it— The fury, the fuel, The ground that remains, And the life that grows after.

THE GAZE FROM THE DEEP

by Kert Jude Zabal

BALLAD OF A SURVIVOR

by Amiel John Orciada

by Rhyza Glen Fornolles

PAGHIHINTAY UPANG MAKALAKBAY

TIMPI

by Angelee Valencia

Sa munting sulat

Mata ay nakamulat

Katotohanan

Na hindi natin hawak

Sa hinaharap

Na hindi natin sulat

Pag-asa na dala

Sa walang labis na bala

Mga mata na hindi iiwas

Sa matingkad na mensahe

Patuloy na kinikimkim

Boses na di matahimik

Bawat hakbang na matulin

Dahan dahan nilang puputulin

Sa mabatong daan

Ang nakabaon na nakaraan

Hinihintay na ito ay magamit

Kapalit ng mensaheng kaakit akit

Mga kamay na umaakyat

Para matakpan ang nanghihikayat

Mga isip na parang alon

Kailanman patuloy na gustong umahon

Kapalit ng kalayaang mapapatunayan

Ibong ninakawan ng kalayaan

Bagong paraiso nais na masilayan

Walang labis na pananaw

Sa mundo mapanglaw

Nakakasilaw na mga teksto

Na ipinagkakait sa mahalagang pwesto

Dala-dala ang maingay na instrumento

Sa matulin na simula ng kwento

Tao minsan ay hindi makontento

Sa wakas na hindi sinilangan

Sa mundong ikinabibilangan

Katagang inaaliwan

Kapalit ng ‘di makatotohanan

Sa tanaw na madaling matunaw

Salita pa rin ang nangingibabaw

Sa kisap ng mata

Ito ba ay tila tala

Na para bang pinapaalala

Kung ano ang inaakala

Sa bawat sulat ng tinta?

Sa bawat guhit ng boses

Madiin na bumasa

Mga kundimang matalinhaga

Pinunasan ng mapait na tadhana

Sa kasalukuyang pagnanasa

Unti-unting nabubura

Sa sakim na katotohanan

Kailanman di mapupunan

Sa mga matang di matatakpan.

SKY

by Jeri Mae Terry

I sit quietly, watching him sleep beside me, snuggling in his orange blanket hearing the faint snores of dreams only he sees.

World catches up, zenosyne revolves, running towards expectations, wanting to be seen.

Yet he exists for me— days filled with waiting and trusting He wears no mask unlike me.

He needs only my love and presence. As long as I’m here, He wags his tail in joy, leaping towards the name he carries.

His purpose is me. But what is mine?

LOOK WITHIN, LOOK DEEPER

by Vincy Anne Tropa

I wanted to paint the most beautiful thing in the world. “With a brush and an empty canvas, these are the only things a painter must possess in order to create an art,is it not?” I had my arms crossed as I’ve been standing in front of a plain white canvas, holding nothing but my paint brush. “But what is a brush without colors, and a canvas without inspiration?”

To be able to paint the most beautiful thing in the world but cannot narrow down to what it ought to be. Perhaps it is the sunset that paints the sky in vibrant hues of gold, orange, and pink, gradually fading into deep purples and blues. But what makes it prettier than the sunrise? When the sun’s warmth spills across the earth, painting the world in hues of amber and rose. What should be the most beautiful thing in the world if there is a lot of beauty beyond comparison?

I found myself walking in wonder until I reached the town’s church. I saw the priest and asked him, “What is the most beautiful thing in the world, Father?” He quickly answered, “It is nothing but faith, child.” I walked away and whispered, “How am I supposed to paint faith?” Then, it did not take me too long to stumble upon a bunch of children that just came out of the basketball court, “Fellows, what must be the most beautiful thing in the world?” I asked them. They looked at each other and one from the group answered, “I guess it must be teamwork, sir.” I continued walking as I knew I had to find more answers otherwise how was I going to paint “teamwork”? My eyes sparkled when I saw a couple of lovers sitting on a bench at the park so I had to ask them the same question. “Love, obviously. It is the warmth and comfort that comes with it that makes it the most beautiful thing for me,” the man answered. No matter how good of an answer it was, there are yet dozens of things that represent love.

I sighed as I found myself walking back home with no ideas of what am I supposed to paint as the most beautiful thing in the world. I felt my shoulders had dropped a long time ago yet as I opened the door it quickly rose in shock. My children ran up to me shouting, ‘I touched Dad first!” A curved lip was quickly drawn to my face. I kept smiling when I faced my wife who was cooking in the kitchen. “Welcome home, my love. Let’s have our dinner, I know you are hungry.” She giggled her way through me while holding a whole bowl of Chicken Curry, my favorite. “Mum! We’ll get the plates,” my children added. The bond we had on the dining table compensated the whole day I was tirelessly seeking answers to a seemingly complicated question. As soon as we finished, I volunteered to wash the dishes, but my wife insisted we do it together. My children

helped us carry the load by cleaning the table. It was like the teamwork that I was told of earlier in front of the basketball court.

“You seem bothered ever since you stepped foot on our front door,” my wife told me with firm eye contact as if she had been eager to ask me that question all this time. “I apologize for making you worry, my love. I’m only a bit challenged.” I answered as my shoulders had begun to drop again, feeling discouraged about the work I do. “Oh dear, share a bit of confidence you filled me with. No matter what challenges arise, we will stand by each other and work things out together. So please, share with me the burdens you have so we can carry it together. Have faith in me as I have in you,” she said. Unlike mine, her eyes did not portray any doubt or even fear, I saw nothing else in the depths of it but strong faith glowing through her gaze. Did the priest see the same thing? Because it was indeed beautiful, faith is it. My children then pleaded to share the bed with us, such an undeniable request. I opened my eyes while laid down in bed as my family rested beside me. Do they know I’ve been comforted without them doing much? It is just their love that warms me and makes me feel at home. It was then I felt like a fool to not have realized it sooner.

I woke up early in the morning. My arms were crossed as I stood in front of a plain white canvas, holding nothing but my paint brush. And then, I started painting. After a while, my wife walked up to me with my children running behind her. “What are you painting, my love?” She asked excitedly “It is but the most beautiful thing in the world darling,” I answered with all confidence. “That’s me! And mom, dad, and little sister!” my oldest son shouted enthusiastically. A bunch of little giggles filled the air. Nothing compares to the beauty of having a family. It is like standing in the heart of a sunrise; warm, golden, and full of quiet miracles. It’s the feeling of coming home to laughter that feels like music, of hands that hold you even when life is unkind. It’s the safest place in the world, where love speaks through the smallest gestures; a shared meal, a knowing glance, a gentle touch on your weary shoulders. It’s where your heart finds its rhythm, beating in sync with those who cherish you beyond words. So what is the most beautiful thing in the world? It was never a complicated question all this time because the answer had always been within my grasp, I merely had to look within. Although it varies to different people, your “most beautiful thing in the world” will always be within you. You just have to look within and look deeper.

STRANGERS, AGAIN

by Rhyza Sion

somewhere, maybe, dreams are born over cups of coffee in the murmur of conversations and dissolve into quiet, wistful smiles.

somewhere, maybe, laughters bloom in bursts unfolding at a table for two where stories are shared like secrets and time slips away unnoticed.

somewhere, maybe, fingers tap on glass tracing patterns of waiting while eyes wander to the clock and linger on the faces passing by.

somewhere, maybe, a hand hesitates before a wave a silent question caught mid-motion wondering if the gesture will be returned or if the moment will slip away.

CANDY BONDED SMILES by Anicar Frias

DUYOG

by Anicar Frias

SANG KALIPAY

BEYOND THE VISIBLE

by Densil Faith Padilla

The eye is nothing but a mirror of one’s own, Hints are told in glances thrown. In the contours of ephemeral enormity

Lies the monumental feeling of restlessness beyond guilt.

I puzzle over people’s faces, trace them into curved lines of tangled strings,

Deliberately holding it all together until someone notices my helplessness.

The state of being capable and yet caught by the inevitable fate of surrender—

You hope until hope is gone, gradually ebbing away in the face of what cannot be changed.

Every action taken is an action lost; it’s as if we’re engulfed by the vastness of it all.

We love life until we’re bored of it.

We were made to watch others perform before us, with greatness etched in their flesh.

Perhaps we were born only to see people, to worship their image, and to mimic the life we wished we had.

What are eyes without vision, and life without the awful wish of spending it long?

I have recognized my soul until I have never known it at all. It has escaped from my body like the noise of a cracked mirrorball, Until someone concernedly asked me where it had gone.

I tried hard enough to trap the sadness in me,

To hide it from the world where people are born to judge and defy another.

Indeed, you can never know yourself until someone introduces you to it.

You vaguely comprehend the meaning of it all—the scripts someone has written in the skies, Alas! Life is but an art painted by the hands of circumstance. The next time you see not a soul in someone, tell them, “I see you; I understand.”

CENTER OF ATTRACTION

by O’Neil Miguel Iguidez

THROUGH THE LENS

by Jeri Mae Terry

I wipe my lens, preparing for the shot Waiting patiently as she adjusts her composure

Unaware of the world beyond, Quietly observing her small gestures— Fixing the wrinkles of her blouse.

I point my lens at the craft

Graceful stitches one after the other Elegant rhythms etched.

So simple yet profound From my eyes to the lens, From the lens to a frame— A moment, a life captured.

THE SHAPESHIFTER

by Vincy Anne Tropa

When sanity eclipses one’s self, The mind becomes a prison cell, A place of darkness, fear, and doubt, Where every thought is fraught with clout.

The moon, a symbol of the mind, Reflects the light we seek to find, But when the sun eclipses it, Our thoughts and feelings start to split.

We become a shadow of ourselves, Trapped within our mental cells, Our thoughts and actions no longer ours, But shaped by fears and inner scars.

The world outside becomes a blur, As we struggle to maintain our stir, Our grasp on reality fades away, As we slip further day by day.

The stars above, once bright and clear, Now flicker in a haze of fear, Our inner world a tangled mess, A place of chaos and distress.

But even in the darkest night, A glimmer of hope can take flight, A spark of light, a guiding hand, That helps us to reclaim our stand.

We must embrace our inner light, Have courage to win the mental fight, To break the chains that bind us so, And let our true selves once more glow.

For sanity, when it eclipses us, Is but a temporary fuss, For with strength and courage, provides. We’ll find our way back to the bright side

by

O’Neil Miguel Iguidez

LOST IN THE MOMENT

by Jan Daniel Biñas

VERDICT OF JUNCTURE

by Morpheus Sykkeee

Dew in the morning mist, Oh, what a day, to start with a warm cup of coffee. When times are good and sometimes are lost, with them I have shared my stories, and so do I for them. All those creational memories that we all have shared, a bond that we’ve created even on the first day that we met.

Time will never be on our side; nothing in our story will be genuine and authentic. There will be and always be a loophole to it.

As for you, my fervent prayers for you, moron, even with that mischievous look in your eyes, I don’t care what others would say. Let them be the judge of my actions, never to my emotions.

For in this monstrous reality, even for a short time limit, it changes the peripheral view of this little girl, once you called yours.

THE HILLS HAVE EYES

by Theresa Mae Dulman

Eyes on me, I cannot speakIn your arms, I am weak I am a jewel who lost its shineAnd you’re a thief cutting my vines

Shattered; burned; no remorse Innocence was wrapped in white and covered in red As sky turns black, so does my soul

My petals have withered; My roots found no water to drink; Nor air to breathe

The hills have eyes, I cannot hideWatched as I suffered in agony And when I become one with daisies; May hope bloom with me.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

by Elnie Anjelie Flores

In a split second your orbit landed unto me leaving me in silence, dumbfounded for i’ll never infer my heart’s plea

I made hurdles enough to stand as a shield against the unsolicited gazes that i never sought everything bends and sways in the field with your spark within, never caught in thought

your gaze makes my soul examined as if every saccade leaves me bare where peaks of fragility clanging this is how i feel, just from your stare

should I be unfazed or let the cracks shatter?

under the layers of hues in bullet or loose when each stretch and stroke can greatly falter for every unsaid prose and aching bruise

will you remain amid my flawed soul? will your blink be filled with pride? after a long time in the hole to be or not to be? that is the question.

THAT MELODY YOU ONCE PLAYED

by Jan Daniel Biñas

IS THIS LOVE?

by Jasmine Cyrile Alave

I miss the idea of being loved, but don’t get me wrong, okay? I am loved— by my parents, by my friends—but I haven’t felt that kind of love from someone special. Well, not that I know of.

“Hey, are you busy?” a guy asks, standing in front of me.

It’s Kevin, my classmate. He’s an irregular student, which is why we only have a few classes together. We’ve never had many interactions—just a few exchanged glances and simple conversations about homework or projects.

He’s cute. I have a crush on him, but I don’t know if it’s love. I mean, he’s really cute, believe me. He’s also smart and tall—my type.

Days go by, and my crush on him grows. It’s cringe because this feels like a corny rom-com film. I don’t even know a single thing about him. Like, I only know his full name. I don’t even know how old he is or what his course is. All I know is that the cord of his ID says College of Engineering.

Little did I know, I was staring at him a little too long—long enough for him to notice and give me a funny look.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod and quickly look in the other direction. That was embarrassing. But at least something good came out of that stare—I noticed he has freckles and very black eyes. Every day, I start noticing new things about him. Like how he’s right-handed but does most other things with his left hand.

Then, I hear a ding from my phone.

I open it and boom! A friend request from him! I let an hour go by before accepting it. Girl things!

Scrolling through his profile, I learn he has two siblings and he’s is the youngest. He has three little nephews. He loves fishes? Me too! Oh! And he wants to become a pilot—oh my, I think I’m starting to like him more!

“I also have two dogs, Snoop and Minchi. You won’t find that on my Facebook, though,” I suddenly hear him say.

Wait... is he talking to me?!

“I- uh- I just wanted to check who you were, sorry!” I lie.

“You have tiny dimples at both edges of your lips, but they only come out when you smile. And you always play with your hair whenever you daydream,” he says.

“What do you mean? How come—why do you know those things?”

“You’re not the only one who has a crush.”

“What? I don’t!”

“Well then, let me get to know you more. Maybe if we spend more time together, you’ll like me too.”

My heart is beating so fast. Am I dreaming? Is this... love?

Receipt

Mabuhay Mart

POCKET-SIZED MEMORIES

by Kashina Ashley Gatilogo

#108 Katipunan Ave.,Quezon City, Metro Manila (034) 777-1188

Date: 2023-09-17 Time: 18:42

Transaction #: 00123456

Issued to: Torres, Miguel A.

Cashier: JOSIE Terminal: 03

09/17 1 x Strawberry Cake Mix

1 x Gold Candle

1 x Colored Sprinkles

1 x Happy Anniversary Banner

1 x Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream

2 x Pancit Canton Calamansi

2 x Pancit Canton Chilimansi

2 x Coke in Can

170.00

95.00

42.00

45.00

249.00

28.00

28.00

60.00

Subtotal: ₱717.00

Shared Notes App

I’ve flipped through what feels like every dictionary in the world—at least Cambridge and Webster’s, but I still can’t find a word that accurately describes how much I love you.

Always, Miggy

“Cheers to more year to us! I love you, my Miggy. ” (Elie commented)

Splitwise Screenshot/ Shared Expenses

10/13/2023

• Dinner with El’s parents ₱ 2978.00 - (paid by Miggy)

• Wet wipes and Cotton Pads ₱85.00 - (paid by Miggy)

• Therapy (Elie) (covered by Miggy)

“Hey! This is too much, Migs” (Elie commented) “No, let me handle this.” (Miggy replied)

“This is not so wise of you, should we cancel our splitwise subscription?” (Elie replied) “Hahaha!” (Miggy replied)

Text Thread

Super duper tiredddd today :(

Monday 3:28 PM

I got you your favorite snacks I’ll hop at the eng. bldg. after your lab. See you Elieeeee.

Yass! <3

Tuesday 7:20 AM

Rise and Shine! Good luck on your school performance.

Not feeling the best today. Still tired? How can I make you feel better?

Nah, just woke up at the wrong side of the bed, i guess.

Idk

Oh okay, I guess I’ll see you later. Don’t forget your meds. Take care!

Migs!! I lost my apartment keys. Helppp

I did, 5 times!

Wednesday 2:15 PM

Did you check your bag? Check it again just to be sure.

I’ll report it at the security office, after my class.

Thanks, migs! i’m trying to reach my landlady, maybe i left it there.

No worries, El. Let me know when you find it.

2:45 PM

Where’d you find it?

I thought you had class?

I got your keys.

At your apartment.

Went out lol haha

(angry emoji) (Thankful sticker) Thanks Migsssss <3 (heart emoji)

I got my period, will you be able to bring me pads? I’m at the north CR.

Thursday 10:02 AM

Just checking up on you. You at school already? Just arrived. 11:15 AM

NOOOO. I’ll try to ask Nicole. 11:17 AM

That was fast (confused emoji)

Quiz in a while. Still waiting for the prof. Be there in a few.

El, I brought you your pads.

I always got pads haha Thank youuu (crying emoji)

Calendar Event 11/11/2023

“Dinner with Elie” (Cancelled)

X Cancelled by Elie

Hey, I see you. You’re tired. Let’s not push through just for the sake of it. (Elie commented)

I know we’ve been planning this, and I don’t want you to believe I’m going to back out. I saw you seemed tired recently and wondered if we might rest. Just just once? (Elie adds another comment)

Google Calendar Reminders (Set by Miguel)

• Monthly Therapy – Elie (Recurring)

• El’s Birthday dinner for Nicole

• Midterms Quiz (Major Subjects)

“Everything big to you is big to me too.” (Miguel commented)

Receipt Compilation (Miguel)

Date Item Notes 11/11 Almond milk Diet? 11/11 Strawberries Sunday pancakes 11/12

Band-aids (pack of 10) still clumsy huh 11/13

Wet Wipes She always needed one 11/14

Cereal (just one box) ? 11/15

Ice cream (Vanilla) for me this time 11/16

Pancit Canton Chilimansi late again 11/17

-Nothing Added-

Cake mix (vanilla) bought it anyway

Notes App (Miguel, unsent)

“I do not want her to see me worn out. I’m supposed to be her calm.”

“Why do I feel that if I say no, everything would collapse?”

“Am I doing too much?”

“What if I let someone down one day and they stopped loving me?”

“What if I come across as selfish when I say “I’m tired”? What if being nice means constant exhaustion?

Text Thread Saturday 11:58 PM

I love you for all the reasons in the world. You have been patient and kind.

But I need you to know that You can say “no” You can cancel plans Nothing is more important to me than your wellbeing.

You have been my safe space, and I want to be the same for you.

You’ve done so much for me. Now it’s my turn to do something for you

Sunday 11:58 PM

Hi Elie,

I said no today. It felt scary, but it was the most satisfying and relieving feeling I’ve had.

Today, I chose myself. I want to be better—for you, and for the future us. I am still a good person, I just have to think about myself this time.

And I still love you, as always. You never forget to make me feel loved—and that’s why I’m doing this for you.

Now I realize, I have to take a breather at times when I need it. I have to listen to what my body feels.

Thank you for being there for me.

Love, Miggy

Winning Entries

Poetry

THE STORY WALKING BY

by Allan Paul Redulla

I watch them pass from where I sit, A nameless face, a ghostly wit. Halls are filled with hurried feet, With lives that never pause to meet.

A child runs past with carefree glee, Hands held tight in family. No weight to bear, no past to chase, Just endless time and open space.

A boy walks tall, his medals shine, His parents’ pride, their hope divine. In their gaze, a silent plea— Be the man they wish to see.

A student laughs with friends so bright, Voices loud, their world alight. No thoughts of time, no hint of fate, Just fleeting dreams that cannot wait.

Another walks with lowered head, His past now lost, his hunger dead. Weight of pages, ink, and scars Has dimmed his fire, blurred his stars.

One more steps forth, no gold in sight, A hard hat gleams in morning light. Not for the past, but what’s in store— He walks ahead, afraid no more.

Then suddenly, it all feels clear— The child, the dreamer, the one who fell, The hands that built, the heart once torn, Were never lost — I knew them well.

I was never just a passerby— I was the story walking by.

PANUDANG-SUDANG

by Richard Caballero Jr.

Sa pagtakup sang kagab-ihon, magabanaag ang sidlak sang adlaw

Kaupod sini ang pagpanglugayawon sang dalunggan kag mata sang mga salimpapaw

Aga pa sa banua, nagalambiyong na ang mga sugilanon

Bangud ang mga sudang-sudang yara na sa ugsaran nagatililipon

Sila ining mga tinuga nga wala na sang iban nga ginapaligban

Kondi ang magpalapnag lamang sang mga sugilanon sa sulod sang katilingban

Bisan diin kita magpadulong, aton sila makit-an kag mabatian

Mga pulong nila nga kon indi pagkamalaot, makatalalang

Halos wala sang mga tinuga ang makaluwas sa ila mga pato-pato nga istorya

Bisan pa sa mga ultimo nga bumulutho, may pamatbat sila

Sa tanan nga mga butang sa kalibutan, may ihibalo sila

Kon kaisa wala pa matabo, nahibaloan na nila ang kabug-osan sang istorya.

Bangud sa ila mga panudang-sudang nga mga pulong

Ang katilingban, sa kalipay kag kaakig, nagaugayong

Sila ining mga “marites” kon tawagon sa karun

Mga tinuga nga daw indi makaginhawa kon indi makapakigsugilanon

Apang tinaghipusoon nga higugmaon naton sila

Bangud kon wala ining mga sugilanon, ang kabuhi maluya

Ugaling maghalong ka, basi buas ikaw na ang unod sang ila istorya!

TAN-AW-TAN-AW

by Kris Ann Belbar

Sa sulod sang isa ka merkado, May nagakadto, may nagahinalin

May nagasinggitanay, may nagaayo-anay

Sa tunga sang kasamok, may kinabuhi nga nagapadayon.

Sa tunga sang kasamok kag kagahod, Ang tagsa ka isa may kaugalingon nga sugilanon, Pero sin-o bala ang naga-inchindi?

Sin-o ang nagabatyag sang ila kasubo kag kalipay?

Ang iban nagapakita sang masanag nga mata,

Apang sa sulod may ginapanago nga luha, Ang iban nagapangita sang pagpakilala, Apang sa ila kaugalingon, sila nagakadula.

Sa tunga sang kasamok, May nagalantaw, may naga ulikid

Sa merkado sang kabuhi, bisan gasaka ang balod sang kagahod, May kamot nga nagapadulong, nagatabang, nagasanyog.

EYES THAT SPEAK

by Ma. Daniella Bonache

Each step I take, I wander still, Where have you been? What’s left to fill? With glancing hopes, I cross the street, Wishing to catch you, our paths to meet.

Hearts are fleeting, like whispers in the air, As my spirit rises, your gaze pulls me there. When our eyes connect, a world unfolds, You stare deep into my soul, stories untold.

I can’t deny what my heart conveys, But my mind whispers caution, urging me to stray.

Your glance, a memory, a bittersweet view, Not born of love, but of moments shared true.

Just one glance from you, and my heart’s on the line, Yet beneath the surface, our fate’s intertwined. Though it stings to let go, I’ve come to believe, In this fleeting illusion, we’ll never truly leave.

NAKAKAKITA PERO DI NAKIKITA

by Zindy Go

Sa bawat hakbang ay may nakakabit na kwento,

Istorya ng agos ng buhay sa bawat segundo.

Hulmang pilit binubuo ng lipunan,

Oras na para gumising at makita mo, kaibigan.

Walang taong mag-isa, walang taong pareho, Kahit saan ay may mata—kahit sa madilim na eskinita, may nakakakita.

Lahat ng pader ay may tenga, naririnig ang bawat sigaw ng paalala.

Hindi pagkakamali ang pagiging iba, kung matututunan mong huwag bigyang-bahala.

Paglimot sa sariling pagkakakilanlan ang dulot ng bawat “kailangan ganito.”

Pero paano hahantong sa “ito ang totoong ako”?

Maraming nakatingin, pero iilan lang ang nakakakita.

Maraming nakikinig, pero mabibilang lang ang tunay na nakakaintindi sa bawat salita.

Hindi ikaw sila. Hindi sila ikaw. Hindi kayo pareho.

Hindi mo kailangang magkubli sa anino.

Sa bawat titig na puno ng duda,

Hanggang kailan ka magpapanggap na iba?

Write like no one’s watching....

Short Story

MERCURY RETROGRADE IN PISCES

by Angel Jean Padernal

“@astrology_acc: Mercury Retrograde in Pisces, March 20th – April 7th.”

I scoffed as I threw my phone across my bed, urging the remaining instances of Hypnos to leave my mind. I took my phone and scrolled through the photos, finding one for Taurus risings. I don’t know if it was the stars being aligned but there’s one sentence that seemed to be highlighted out of everything else.

It was a simple statement which felt like a punch in the gut.

“Your inner self still has the urge of being liked, being agreed with, being heard. What happens when you let go of being understood?”

Apparently, I have to let go of my innate want of being understood. I wanted to laugh at that but to some extent, I agree. But nonetheless, I thought it was stupid. I also thought maybe the stars that aligned were making fun of my want for validation. I huffed out the air with that thought. Imagine being so much of an attention-seeker that the stars themselves start to laugh and mock you. Even if it’s through a horoscope app on your mobile phone.

Getting into school means trying to forget whatever thoughts I’ve had back in my room to stare at each kind of person right in front of me. In spite of the fact that you might think of me as some loner in school who writes poetry in the back of her notes, I have a decent social life. In some ways, I’m a loner by choice. I don’t exactly know why but there’s that kind of solitude that came with walking alone. With seeing different people live different lives as you pass by, unaware of what goes on in their little bubble. For example, I always pass by this circle of friends around the garden of the university, their Jollibee takeout for breakfast cluttered around them. Sometimes they laugh just a bit too loud over a joke and I have to try to not laugh alongside them, too.

Sometimes, I stare too long, one that I silently scold myself for because I seem like a creep. When that happens, this quote by Fyodor Dostoevsky which said, “we sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken” comes to mind. In a way, he was right. I don’t know these people other than the fact that we go to the same university. I see them once each day, maybe twice if I’m lucky. Yet, they are all so interesting. There’s something beneath the exterior of a human being that made me want to ask them directly just who they really are.

That, however, crossed a question in my mind, too.

Do these people ever feel the need to be understood, too?

Do these people ever wonder what they look like in the eyes of their peers, or strangers? Did they ever have the urge to come up to somebody just to ask if the headband sits properly on their hair?

Or everybody else let go of that need to be analyzed and understood for the sake of validation except for me?

I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.

At the absurdity of the thought that maybe nobody really cares about outward appearances, about expectations. All except for me.

Frankly, I have nobody to blame but myself for that.

Growing up as an only child, much less a daughter, in a Filipino household meant having multiple expectations thrown at you the moment you learn how to say your first “po” and “opo”. I never faltered with reaching those expectations. In fact, I exceeded them.

It didn’t take long for everybody else to catch up on my reputation. I even heard I am the stereotypical Filipino daughter every parent wanted to have—smart, talented, polite. I was the cousin you’d hate during family reunions because your parents will most likely compare you to me. I was the kind of girl who’d get gold medals and come home with a trophy and her parents would make sure it’ll get posted in their Facebook account for all their friends to see.

Sometimes I wonder, if I come home with nothing, would they still look at me the same way?

My thoughts were halted with the sound of familiar laughter a few feet behind me. They’re laughing about some inside joke that I know too well. I can hear the way their keychain jingles against their school ID and the sound of ice rattling with some coffee.

I turned to see my friends who were elated enough to give me a hug, “We missed you! You’ve been MIA for a week!”

I laughed at that, taking a sip of the coffee they offered me, “Guys, you know I have to win this debate. It’s for school!” I don’t know if they noticed, but I did. I noticed the way my voice faltered just a little, the conviction I have for winning slightly wavering. I noticed the way I hesitated with the thought about winning this debate for everybody else.

The laugh that followed and the lighthearted smack on my arm was proof that, thankfully, they thought nothing of it. They dragged me along, drowning me with their ‘chika’ that I apparently missed for the

week. Along the way, they diverted their topic to me, nudging me and dropping their “good lucks” for my competition. One of them hugged me tighter than before, “We know you’re stressed but know that we’re proud of you even if it’s just a certificate of participation you’re holding. Just please bring us Jollibee! I’m craving those!”

We kept walking to our classroom after that. I said nothing, save for the occasional laughter and the confusion with what they were talking about. Along the way, I slowed down and just…stared. The echo of their words reverberating in my mind—would that really be enough?

I thought it was stupid. My thoughts screamed at me that whatever happens, I have to come home with a trophy. That it’s the only thing to make people happy. To make them love me.

But then the soft breeze of the morning air, the laughter that echoed down the halls, the way my friends laughed and looked back at me, checking in as to why I’m not following—the epiphany came, almost unexpectedly.

Maybe this time I could just be me.

Maybe this time I could just be a student who does what she loves; whether or not she comes home with a trophy or a single appreciative certificate.

Maybe life isn’t all about whatever people have set in stone for me. Maybe it’s about the people who care enough to look back and wonder why I’m not laughing with them. Maybe it’s about the people who care more about my dumb jokes than whatever award I could offer.

Maybe it’s about living. On my own terms. At my own pace.

Maybe my horoscope for this retrograde was right.

Maybe, despite everything, it’s okay to just be myself.

SA LIKOD NG BINTANA

by Bryl Genegaban

Dahan-dahan kong isinampa ang baba ko sa gilid ng lumang bintana, pinagmamasdan ang makikitid na kalsada ng aming bayan. Ang mga naglalakad na tindera, ang maingay na tricycle, ang mga batang naghahabulan sa hapon. Dito sa bintana, tanaw ko ang mundong hindi ko kailanman mararating.

“Nandiyan na naman siya,” dinig kong bulong ng isang ale sa kapitbahay. Napakunot ang noo ko. Muli kong nilingon ang kalsada, may mga matang nakatutok sa akin, may mga daliring nakaturo. May ilang pasimpleng yumuko, nagkukunwaring hindi ako nakita, habang ang iba naman ay tahasang bumubulong sa isa’t isa.

Siguro, iniisip nila kung bakit hindi ako lumalabas ng bahay. Kung bakit kahit kailan, hindi ako nasilayan ni isa sa kanila sa labas ng aming lumang bahay. Baka akala nila’y may sakit ako, marupok, mahina, isang anino lang sa bintana.

“Anak, lumayo ka na sa bintana,” tawag ng lola ko mula sa likod. Mahinahon ang kanyang boses, pero dama ko ang bahagyang panginginig nito.

“Bakit po?” tanong ko, hindi lumilingon. Sa tagal ko nang naririto, kabisado ko na ang paulit-ulit na sagot niya.”Hindi maganda ang matagal na nakadungaw,” sagot niya, gaya ng dati. “Malamig na ang hangin.”

Pero hindi ako nilalamig. Hindi ko lang maintindihan kung bakit parang may bumibigat sa hangin tuwing tinititigan nila ako mula sa ibaba.

Napalingon ako, pero wala namang tao. Si Lola lang, nakatayo sa may pintuan ng kwarto ko. Pero bakit parang nanginginig ang kanyang kamay? Bakit hindi siya tumitingin nang diretso sa akin?

Sa buong bayan, isa na akong usap-usapan. Hindi ko naman sila naririnig nang buo, pero ramdam ko ang pag-uusisa. Ang mga bulungan sa tindahan ni Aling Pasing, ang mga sulyap ng mga tambay sa kanto, at ang mga pabulong na dasal ng matatanda tuwing madadaan sa harap ng bahay namin.

“Bata pa siya nang iniwan ng kanyang ina. Anak daw ng kasalanan,” bulong ng isa sa tindahan.

“Kawawa naman. Pero... hindi mo ba napansin? Parang... parang siya pa rin.”Isang gabi, habang kumakain kami, nag-usap sina Lola at ang kanyang kaibigang si

Aling Melda. Hindi nila alam, pero tahimik akong nakikinig.

“Baka naman panahon na, Lourdes,” marahang sabi ni Aling Melda. “Baka dapat mo nang sabihin sa bata.”

Napatigil si Lola sa pagsubo. “Hindi pa. Hindi siya dapat matakot.” “Mas matatakot siya kung siya mismo ang makakatuklas.”

Napakunot ang noo ko. Ako ba ang tinutukoy nila?

Lumipas ang mga araw, at mas dumalas ang mga sulyap sa akin mula sa ibaba. Mas bumibigat ang bulungan tuwing dumudungaw ako. Hanggang isang hapon, nang dumaan ang isang grupo ng matatandang babae, nakita kong pasimpleng nag-antanda ang isa sa kanila bago tumingin sa akin.

Doon ako kinilabutan.

Noong gabing iyon, hindi ako makatulog. May kung anong bumabagabag sa isip ko.

Hanggang sa hindi ko na napigilan ang sarili kong hanapin ang sagot.

Binuksan ko ang lumang baul sa kwarto ni Lola. Amoy amag, alikabok, at lumipas na panahon. Isa-isang bumagsak ang lumang litrato sa sahig.

Isa roon, may larawang kuha sa tapat ng bahay namin. Sa bintana, may batang nakadungaw.

Ako.

Pero hindi ako iyon.

Dahil ang litrato’y kuha isang daang taon na ang nakalipas.

Nanginginig ang mga daliri ko habang isa-isang pinulot ang iba pang larawan. Sa bawat dekada, may batang naroon sa parehong bintana. Parehong ayos, parehong anyo.

Biglang bumukas ang pinto. Napatalon ako, napaatras hanggang sa sumandal ako sa malamig na salamin ng bintana.

Si Lola.

Nakatitig siya sa akin, ngunit hindi sa mata ko, kundi sa likuran ko.

Napahawak ako sa dibdib ko, pilit pinakakalma ang sarili. Huminga ako ng malalim, saka dahan-dahang tumingin sa repleksyon sa salamin.

At doon ko siya nakita.

May isang batang nakadungaw sa likod ko.

Hindi siya kumikilos. Hindi siya kumukurap. Ang mukha niya’y walang bahid ng emosyon, pero ang kanyang mga mata, madilim, at malalim.

Napasinghap ako, gusto kong tumakbo, pero hindi ako makagalaw. Kasabay ng pagkalampag ng hangin sa lumang kahoy, may narinig akong mga bulong.

Mas maliwanag na ngayon.

“Huwag kang dudungaw.”

Pumikit ako, nanginginig ang buong katawan. Nang muli akong dumilat, wala na ang repleksyon ng isa pang bata.

Pero sa ibaba, sa kalsada, naroon pa rin ang mga tao. Nakatitig pa rin sila. At sa mga mata nila, alam kong hindi ako ang tinitingnan nila.

Kundi kung sino ang nasa likod ko.

Sa likuran ko, humakbang si Lola, mahigpit akong niyakap. Ramdam ko ang panlalamig ng kanyang mga kamay. Nasa gilid ng aking tainga, mahina niyang bumulong. “Patawad, apo. Panahon na.”

Nalaglag ang lumang litrato mula sa kamay ko.

At sa bintana, sa repleksyon ng salamin, dalawa na kaming nakadungaw.

Sa ilalim, patuloy ang mga matang nakamasid.

Subalit hindi sa bintana, kundi sa katawang duguan sa ibaba.

WHY ARE BIRDS FREE?

by Khrystal Faith Oñate

It is already 5 o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun is slowly setting. The sun rays go through the rustling leaves of the tall trees that dance slowly to the rhythm of the bustling wind.

Evie was sitting on the bench chair in the park, holding the papers she just printed from the nearby printing shop. She’s not supposed to be doing this because it is not her job. But her group mates are unreachable today, leaving her with all this.

Evie is seen as a perfect girl— considered the role model in beauty, intelligence, or personality. Which comes with a price of pressure to fit into people’s expectations. She looked around, and saw a lot of people walking. Everyone likes her. Or do they? She’s unsure about it too. Because right now, she’s all alone.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the savory smell of fishballs and hotdogs that lingered in her nose. She’s hungry —having barely eaten anything today. But she can’t eat knowing that exams are coming up and she still has lots of studying to do. Adding up to that, her friend told her she’s starting to gain some weight. So she settled on observing everything around the park. People walking, water gushing out of the fountain, dried leaves taken away by the wind, the blooming flowers, and the birds flying around.

“Why are birds free?” she asked herself. “Do birds think about assignments and exams too? Or their appearance and weight?”

*Bzzzz! Bzzzzz!*

Her thoughts were again interrupted when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She opened it to see a message from her friend saying, “Are you done with the assignment? Can I copy it?”

“You always copy mine, why don’t you do it yourself?”

She wanted to say that. But she didn’t, worried that if she says that, her friend will think she’s being stingy and selfish.

As she was just about to respond saying yes, a bird poo just landed on her phone. She was shocked and she panicked a little but didn’t react to it. She’s worried that people will think she’s being loud and weird.

She doesn’t have anything to use to wipe it off, which left her no choice but to use the papers.

“Ughh! Now I have to print it again.” she said to herself as she’s cleaning her phone.

She’s annoyed and she wants to cry. A simple thing like that triggered all her emotions. She doesn’t want to do it again. She’s hungry, tired, and just fed up. She sat here to find some peace, but it just gave her more work to do.

Then she heard the birds singing.

“How come you can do whatever you want and just get away with it?” she told the birds, as if they could hear her.

Then it struck her. Birds are free because they decided they are free. They WANT to be free.

“If birds can do whatever they want, why can’t I?”

She has always been the girl who disregards her wants to get people’s approval — whether it’s with family, friends, school, or just people in general. She adjusts the way she dresses, the way she acts, her diet, her studies, her freedom. It’s like being caged in an endless cycle of conformity, where she always ends up losing.

“I should set myself free too.” Evie said firmly to herself.

She grabbed her phone, typed a message, and ran towards the streetfood stalls. People are looking at her, but she started to not care at all.

She will be herself this time. She will do whatever she wants, and will not try to fit it to the standards set by anyone.

As Evie was about to take a bite of her food, her phone vibrated again. She looked at her friend’s message, saying “Why are you being selfish now?” then she took a huge bite.

Because she said no, for the first time. And it made her feel better.

When Evie got home, she messaged her group mates saying they will have to do their assigned tasks. She just smiled when she saw her friend’s message apologizing for the way she acted towards her.

And Evie drifted off to sleep with a peaceful mind, finally free from the need for other’s validation.

Meanwhile, the papers, page by page, are being blown away by the wind...at the park.

DETECTIVE ELENA: UNDERNEATH THE STILLNESS

by Rosaura Parnicio

The early morning light filtered through the capiz shell windows of the renowned Detective Elena Reyes’ apartment in Manila. The sound of jeepneys starting their routes drifted in as her phone rang. Her chief asked her to investigate a death in a quiet neighborhood known for its old family homes. The victim was Mr. Victoriano Santos, a respected elder known for his philanthropy and deep connection to his neighbors.

Detective Elena arrived at the scene. The police presence was subtle; inside the old Filipino house with polished wooden floors, smelling the scent of sampaguita hung by the window, she saw a body lying peacefully on a woven mat in the living room. There were no obvious signs of struggle. The forensic team was quietly doing their work.

Caiden, the new trainee under Elena’s guidance, looked around with wide eyes. “Ma’am,” he said softly, “in this quiet place, a person beloved by everyone has passed but no one noticed?”

Elena smiled softly. “Sometimes the calmest place hides the biggest secret.”

She began to observe the surroundings. She noticed the way the curtains were slightly parted, as if someone had been watching the street. A half-finished cup of tsokolate sat on a nearby table, and a wellworn copy of a local history book lay open.

Chief Inspector Dela Cruz approached Elena, his expression stern but his voice calm. “Detective Reyes,” he said, his tone measured, “the family is distraught. Mr. Santos was a pillar of this community. His phone is missing, and so is a small, antique baul he kept in his room. It seems someone took them.”

“Hmm,” Elena murmured, her eyes scanning the faces of the neighbors who had gathered outside, their expressions a mixture of concern and curiosity. “Mr. Santos was well-loved, you said? What were his days usually like?”

“He would often sit by the window, watching the children play. He knew everyone in the neighborhood, and let me remind you, Elena, the people are watching. They expect answers, and they expect them quickly. This isn’t just another case—it’s about trust. Don’t let us down,” Chief Dela Cruz replied.

Elena met his gaze, her voice steady but her jaw tight with unspoken pressure. “Understood, Chief. I’ll handle this with care, but I won’t delay.” Elena’s investigative skills are honed through years of experience; she excels in interviewing, reading body language, and piecing together evidence from seemingly unrelated clues.

The chief’s expression softened, just a fraction. “With that sharp mind of yours, I know you will. But remember, time is not on our side. Be thorough, but fast.”

Later, in their car, Caiden asked, “Ma’am, does the chief’s mention of the missing phone and baul mean it was a robbery?”

“It’s possible, but first we need to understand Mr. Santos’ life, his routines, and who he interacted with,” Elena added “this neighborhood, these old houses, hold stories if you just listen.”

As they drove, Elena recounted a Filipino saying, Walang gustong maiwanan sa kodakan, meaning no one wants to be left out of the picture.

“Mr. Santos, as an elder must have had many connections. Someone likely saw something.”

Elena decided to spend the next day observing the neighborhood herself. She sat in a local carinderia, sipping halo-halo and watching the people go by. She paid attention to those who lingered near Mr. Santos’ house, who seemed more interested than others. Filipinos are highly relational, and these connections often reveal more than direct questioning.

She learned from a neighbor that Mr. Santos had a regular afternoon visitor, a younger man who would help him with errands. This man hadn’t been seen since Mr. Santos’ death.

Using her understanding of the strong family ties in Filipino culture, Elena focused on tracing Mr. Santos’ extended family. She found that a distant relative had recently fallen into financial trouble and had been asking Mr. Santos for assistance. This relative had also been seen in the neighborhood on the day of Mr. Santos’ death, looking anxious and avoiding eye contact—a keen observer might notice.

Elena and Caiden located the relative. When questioned, he confessed to taking Mr. Santos’ baul, hoping to find something valuable to solve his financial issues. He admitted visiting Mr. Santos that afternoon but claimed Mr. Santos was resting peacefully. He panicked and took the items, thinking it would appear as a robbery.

While the relative’s story explained the lost items, Elena felt something was still missing. She returned to Mr. Santos’ house and sat by the window he used to frequent. Looking out, she noticed a small detail she had overlooked before: a faint set of footprints in the soft soil of the garden, leading away from a side gate that was usually locked. These footprints were smaller than an adult’s.

Remembering Mr. Santos’ fondness for local children, Elena asked about any kids who might have visited him that day. She learned of

a young boy who often assisted Mr. Santos with gardening and had a habit of borrowing his old phone to play games.

Elena found the boy, who, nervous but honest, admitted to visiting Mr. Santos that afternoon. He said Mr. Santos had felt unwell and had asked for medicine from a nearby store. When the boy returned, Mr. Santos was still resting, and thinking he was asleep, he quietly took the phone to play, forgetting to return it. He also saw the distant relative leaving the house looking flustered.

Through careful observation, Elena pieced the events together. Mr. Santos likely passed away peacefully due to natural causes. The relative, under duress, had taken the baul, and the young boy unintentionally complicated matters by taking the phone.

As Elena reported her findings to the chief, he expressed a rare approval. “Good work, Detective. You handled this swiftly and carefully. The community will rest easier knowing the truth.”

Detective Elena returned to Mr. Santos’ house, sitting by the window where he spent countless afternoons. Watching children play outside, she realized that her case-solving approach had been guided by something deeper than the need for approval or recognition from colleagues. It was her intuition, her perspective, that led her to the truth.

Earlier, the expectations from the Chief had weighed heavily on her, and the community’s watchful gaze made her feel immense pressure. But as she walked through the neighborhood, she let go of the need to prove herself. Instead, she focused on being present, noticing the subtle details often overlooked. It was in this state of attentiveness that the clues revealed themselves.

Caiden had often sought her validation, and Elena always encouraged him to trust his instincts. Now, as the case concluded, she saw the same lesson mirrored in her own journey. She didn’t need the chief’s praise or the community’s admiration to uncover the truth; she trusted her own perspective.

Leaving Mr. Santos’ house, Elena felt a quiet satisfaction. The case reminded her that profound truths often lie in the familiar, in everyday connections that bind people. Like Mr. Santos, who found contentment in simply observing life, Elena realized she, too, could find fulfillment in her way of being—free from the need for validation.

She smiled and said to herself “I’m enough just as I am.”

HINAGAP NG TAGA-MASID

by Zindy Go

Noises from the jeepney barker, lights from cars everywhere, students laughing as they cross, vendors pushing their carts, and the rush of everyone who wants to go home already—these are the everyday scenes that I witness here downtown.

“Mark! Pauwi ka na?”

I looked back, seeing Kuya Gabriel, our building guard, walking toward me.

“Opo, may hinihintay lang,” I politely answered.

“Tignan mo si Tatay sa tabi, araw-araw ‘yan nandiyan pero wala namang ginagawa.”

That caught my attention, so I looked past Kuya Gabriel and saw an old man leaning against the post. And truthfully, every day on my way to the office, he’s just there—either standing or sitting with the candies he sells.

“Mark, mauna na ako ha. Mag-ingat ka,” Kuya Gabriel said, grabbing my attention.

“Sige po, ingat po!” I replied.

A couple of minutes passed, and still, no jeepney arrived. Bored, I walked toward the old man and started a conversation.

“Tay! Good evening. May Maxx po kayo?”

He looked at me and nodded, so I bought five pieces. As I opened the candy, I noticed that he was watching everyone passing by. Out of curiosity, I asked, “Tay, nakikita ko po kayong palagi dito. Wala po ba kayong ibang ginagawa? Parang mas wala pa po kayong absent dito kaysa sa akin, eh.”

The man chuckled. “Ang dami kong ginagawa, iho, at araw-araw akong nandito dahil pinapanood ko kayo.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Po? Bakit?”

The man shrugged. “Kasi akala n’yo walang nakakapansin sa inyo. Pero meron.”

For a moment, I stood still, thinking back to the times I frustratingly fixed my hair using my phone’s reflection, the times I muttered my speech for my reports, the times I walked with my head down, exhausted from the day, the times I scrolled through my phone, pretending to be busy when I was really just avoiding looking alone. I

thought no one noticed. Had this man seen it all, I wondered.

The old man smiled. “Nakikita ko kung sino ang laging nagmamadali pero hindi alam kung saan pupunta. Nakikita ko kung sino ang masaya kasama ang barkada pero malungkot ‘pag mag-isa. Nakikita ko kung sino ang nagpapanggap na abala sa cellphone pero ayaw lang magmukhang mag-isa. Nakikita ko kung sino ang biglang tumitigil para lang huminga, kasi pagod na pagod na sila.”

I swallowed. I had done all those things.

The man chuckled again. “Alam mo, lahat kayo, palaging may pupuntahan. Ako? Ako ang taga-pansin. Kasi minsan, kahit nasa gitna kayo ng maraming tao, walang nakakakita sa inyo. Ako lang.”

I looked directly into his eyes. “Pero Tay, bakit niyo po ginagawa ‘yan araw-araw? Kahit nababasa niyo ang bawat galaw ng tao at nakikita niyo kung ano ang totoong nararamdaman nila, hindi naman po nila malalaman na may isang taong tulad niyo na nakakakita at nakakapansin. Parang wala lang din po kung ganun.”

He smiled knowingly before speaking. “Dahil minsan, naging katulad din ako ninyo—dumadaan lang, nagmamadali, parang hinahabol ng bawat segundo, at unti-unting inuubos ng mundo. Gumigising lang para mabuhay, na parang naka-plano na ang lahat.

Noong akala ko’y ubos na ubos na ako at wala namang nakakapansin, may isang matandang lalaki ang umupo sa parehong pwesto ko at sinabi sa akin…”

“Araw-araw kitang nakikita dito. Para kang nakikipaghabulan sa mundo—palaging nagmamadali.”

I was surprised, but I stayed silent, listening. “Iyon ang hindi ko malilimutan,” he continued. “

‘Minsan kasi, akala natin walang nakakakita sa atin, kaya pilit tayong sumasabay sa agos—nagpapanggap na okay, hinahabol ang hindi natin alam, sinusunod ang huwad na anyo na binubuo ng mundo para sa atin. Pero kung titigil ka at titingin nang mabuti, makikita mong hindi mo kailangang magkasya sa ilusyon na ‘yon. Dahil sa bawat hakbang, may kwentong nakakabit—at hindi mo kailangang maging iba para lang mapansin”

The words hit me. I had spent so much time worrying about how I looked, how I came across to others, and whether anyone even noticed me—never realizing that someone always had. And it was never about being seen. It was about seeing.

The usual noise of the city—the jeepney barker’s voice, the laughter of students, the hum of rushing cars—felt different, like I was hearing it

all for the first time. I looked around.

The woman at the sidewalk, adjusting the heavy bags in her arms. The vendor wiping his forehead as he pushed his cart forward. A student fixing her hair using her phone’s reflection. Another one hunched over, dragging his feet like the day had taken everything from him.

They had always been there. I just never really looked.

I turned back to the old man. He was watching me, smiling knowingly, as if he understood what had just shifted in me.

As I walked away, I felt different—like my every move was being recorded by an unseen storyteller. I blended back into the sea of people, but for the first time, I wondered: Who else is watching? And who have I failed to notice all this time?

Photography

by Renz Godwin Sajo

SULYAP SA ILAW NG MAGBABALUT

GRAY FATE

by Dann Gel Orot

CONSTANT GAMBLE

by Nezel Fria Legaspi

KING OF ROADS

by Adrien Ramirez

UMAASANG UMAGA

by Khaezelly Faith Sajo

Artwork

HISTORY HAS ITS EYES ON YOU by Althea Therese Narazo

ON THE OUTSIDE ALWAYS LOOKING IN

by Andrea Bianca Uy

BEYOND THEIR JUDGEMENT

by Charis Nekka Tomaquin

PRIVACY?

by Alfred Rivera

IN A SOCIETY OF SILENT JURIES

by Yornel Sicangco

And finally, his gaze met the chroniclers...

Profiles

Adrien (art popper). He has a knack for multimedia designs in the way he delivers his work with fidelity and perfection. Despite being a student, his dedication is eminent to providing quality designs. Check out their page Cloud Piercers.

Allan (nube). Despite having a clever mind and a cheeky smile, his words pierce the soul of his readers — a poetic way of saying it.

Alfred (mad hatter). His artstyle shows off like a surreal dream. It feels like falling into a rabbit hole, grasping words with great depth, a fascinating way to tell a tale.

Alexis (liaison). Pring frantically rushes along crowded hallways just to get a paper signed. An office gem radiantly shining and reminding everyone to always keep the office kuh-lean and suh-ni-tized.

Althea (builder). With each stroke of her brush, and the way the graphite core of a pencil hits a fragile piece of paper, she gives off a strong character that will surely awaken a variety of emotions from her viewers.

Aly (faye wong). A walking dye that paints the world through her hued eyes. She spreads nothing but positivity and creativity. Literally a dye girlie because she sells hair dyes before XD and is a former research warrior.

Amiel (mr. spur-of-the-moment). AJ’s intentions are reliably rational except when he sees something he doesn’t really need. If you can’t find him elsewhere, just look for the nearest bazaar and expo, you can probably catch him splurging his millions on a fancy ballpen. *He says it’s a therapy*

Andrea (literary angel). Her refined and elegant demeanor contrasts the bold yet warm feeling her artworks give off. She will leave you wanting for more for her artworks will cage your heart as you embody the true meaning of it.

Angel (poetic musician). Every stroke of her pen creates a harmonious world filled with emotions deeply felt by everyone. Angel is a master of her craft and her artistry transcends mere words.

Angelee (living poet). List all the superlatives you can think of and you’d still run out of words to describe Angelee. Her cherubic aura makes her a head-turner and a stand out in the crowd.

Anicar (julie babes). Anicar’s prolific shots and dance moves are to die for. She owns every apple product you can think of and she’s even planning to buy more in cash. Anicar loves to give away free coffee without any underlying condition.

Arben (rora). A real creature of habit who limits her day to day shenanigans to only what she knows. Not because she hates the idea of exploring, she just doesn’t like finding herself disappointed. Now that’s a real deal.

Ashraf (traveller). He travels the world like how he handles his research paper — precise, detailed, and most of all, interesting. His adventurous mind will bring you ideas beyond the wonders he visits. Mess with his research buddies and he might claw you back.

Ayesha (peaches). Ayesha’s calm exterior can easily fool everyone because she never runs out of tricks up her sleeves. Her creative skills and boundless imagination always puts her on the winning side. And mind you, art block is not in her vocab.

Bryl (literary siren). A warm, gentle beginning with a hint of nostalgia to it. But once you are trapped in between the lines, he will pull you into a shocking twist. A siren that lures his sailors to stories he creates.

Charis (meticulous). Her art has a realistic touch with every brush stroke. In every pinpoint comes an intriguing substance that will keep you pondering “how does one do it?” while admiring the artistic touch of her works.

Dahlia (enchantress). A beauty who works sharp as the thorn of a rose, she is someone you can rely on. Like her charming personality, her artworks will surely enchant you.

Danica (mother diva). Dan’s forthright principles keep everything steady in its place. As a go-to adviser and a sister to all living forms, she speaks her mind gently like a soft hand giving you a pat in the back.

Daniel (jeydiiiiii). You can entrust anything to JD. Your billions, your most prized possessions, your jewels, your life’s hideous secrets, or even your life. He will always make you feel like you’re heard and noticed in every circumstance.

Dann (direk). Unfolding the essence of cinematography while showcasing the beauty of photography in still motion pictures is what this filmmaker does. He gives you a full grasp in every captured shot.

Densil (chat). Denz is keen on the smallest details. Her intense precision and attention to every task she works on is something to admire. You can also hire her as your personal gunman. XD

Elnie (godessa). As a life of the party and a scene-stealer, she brightens up the mood with her center energy. Elnie strikes people as someone who knows exactly how to handle herself and sell her crafts. A hotshot diva!

Glen (gurliepops). This girl can spill all controversies in one sitting. The weight of the stories she serves at the table carries more than that of a tea but a conversation starter, enough to make everyone get fully invested.

Godwin (pandora box). He does not take the word “photography” lightly. You’d often catch him pulling the pictures out and plastering it like an experience that could not easily be forgotten, while delivering stories that are yet to be told.

Jalyn (kaplan heiress). Jalyn knows how to play the game. You’ll know when she’s locked and loaded the moment she zones in on her goal. Her eyes turn laser focused the moment she takes out her reviewer. Plus, she’s so rich that she can even buy you and your friends.

Jantzen (zen). A living movie maker giving you the visual sight in the eyes of a true photojournalist. She delivers her photos as if telling an insightful story — exciting, enthralling you name it. A very manang behaviour and someone you can surely rely on.

Jasmine (min). A natural thought-provoker who always keeps her cards close to her heart. She might seem too reserved but what lies beyond is an irresistible charm that draws people in. She cooks the best meal in town!

Jean (doll). She has a doll-like appearance with a smile that will surely mesmerize you, but don’t be fooled with her sweet persona for her pen could pierce your heart with unfolding emotions.

Jeri (pres). Jeri’s mellow character is a living proof that you can always choose peace if you intend to. She is always happy in her lane, serving the goods, and savoring every piece of solitude she can.

Karl (brise). In every click of his handy dandy camera, he brings out life in every photo, giving a hindsight of the foretold story. Through his silly remarks and annoying teasing, he brings a light atmosphere around him — an exact personification of a breeze himself.

Kashina (pink pony devotee). Behind her beaming innocent face lies an ability to flawlessly spot errors and a strong urge to perfectly kill every Chappel Roan song. Yes, you heard it right! Kash ain’t messing around when her playlist is on tune.

Kelby (gentle giant). Don’t be intimidated with his great physique and sturdy height for he speaks with his mind in calmness, just like how he delivers his eye-catching artworks.

Kert (hercules). Kert might seem like he holds the strength of a thousand men but inside he’s a real softie. His shy energy is most of the time misunderstood as a sign of “stay away from me,” but in reality, he’s up for a good talk.

Khaezelly (film maker). Every click of her camera brings a different meaning in everyone’s mind. She relays a series of stories in a single take, like a film that can be viewed in different perspectives.

Khrystal (painter). Her story brings a breath of fresh air. Close your eyes and you will see the world she wanted to relay. Like a painter, her words will be seen with painted hues of color.

Kris (hawk). Her discerning gaze gives out an accurate perspective, she shares her way of thinking. Like a quill, her pen would bleed as it stains the blank paper. She opens a new world with a unique perspective.

Kyun (kyun! kyun!). A very demure and very mindful girlie with a great mind and personality literuhleh an RSW topnotcher. She gives off a calm and humble demeanor and really knows how to get people hooked at her stories and lessons. Also a former research girlie.

Lance (jack of all trades). Lay your cards down and name a task he can’t do, and you will surely lose. His mind works like clockwork, ask him for help and he will surely come up with an idea in an instant. Like a pandora box, once opened, ideas will surely pour out.

Ma. Daniella (nostalgia). Her work has a mix of certain nostalgia that one can’t deny experiencing. Every pause makes you embody the character she wrotes.

Myron (Carlos Yulo). His oppa-like features is a real head-turner. At first glance, he seems to be reserved but once he opens his mouth, you’ll surely laugh at his effortless jokes. Don’t be intimidated by his usual demeanor for he’s one of the office divas.

Neil (batman). He lurks behind and you will find him present in times of need, his powerful strikes of colorful design and precise details gives a visual pop to the readers. A calm persona with buttoned cheeks and silly remarks. Indeed, a rare sight to see but then again, he is a mysterious person like the multimedia hero he is.

Nezel (neko). She has a keen eye on telling stories. Like a cat, her claws will pierce your soul. Her pictures relay the experience and narrative with every precision of detail and contrast of lighting.

O’Neil (hirono). O’Neil’s reserved personality is what makes him admirable. You can often find him intentionally distancing himself from the rest not because he’s an introvert but because he’s busy betting money online on NBA Games.

Peter (techy techy rumba). You can hire him to detonate a bomb, hack the Soviet’s air defense, or even compete with AI if he has spare time. If it includes wires, zeroes, ones, and anything in between — Peter can do it.

Renz (feature diva). He might fool you for his handsome looks and strict demeanor but he’s one of the most unhinged people you’ll encounter. A feature writing enthusiast that will get you hooked on every masterpiece he makes.

Reshyl (girl boss). Reshyl can run a sorority with gossip as its foundation. She proteccs, she delivers, she attacs, and she always has something to say when she notices something wrong. Despite her strong behavior, she’s also a member of the gurliepops society.

Rhyza (sawako). She has a soft and delicate demeanor like a hydrangea flower. But don’t be deceived by her light and graceful movements for she has a mind as sharp as the tip of a quill and is a news warrior.

Richard (dream maker). This guy knows how to add subtle touches of cinematics to a movie-like dream. Reading his literary piece is like finishing a puzzle. The ending is worth completing for.

Rosaura (lyrica). The pen that would graze the world she creates will leave a deep impression on the trail she walks. She has her own way of hooking her readers through touching their souls.

Stephanie (miss maem). Steph can do anything without wasting a drop of sweat. Uzz enn! She can strut down the alleyway all loud and confident with her upright demure. Not to mention that she’s also the next President of the Republic of the Philippines 15 years from now.

Theresa (divine glory). Mother not only knows best, but also the right time to lower the heat when cooking sisig. Her classic unbothered aura makes her constantly win in every situation you put her in. Martian Invasion? Z Apocalypse? Civil War? — Mother doesn’t care!

Vincy (enz). Vincy is a living sponge — whatever you teach her, she takes it in for the rest of her life. A real team player and a listener who articulates her advice in the most gentle way possible.

Vish (marivic). Vicia’s veins run on coffee rather than blood, a walking artist in a caffeine-dependent form. She always brings something new to the table with her fresh and conventional ideas.

Yornel (ninja). The shadow of his blends and the highlights of his visual arts bring satisfaction to a viewer’s eyes. An artist who truly knows how to invade minds.

Zindy (pianist). Her work sounds like an orchestral play, with a hint of poetic drama. The melody flows through word-like notes, adding a gentle touch to the readers’ minds.

TOLENTINESTAR

THE OFFICIAL STUDENT PUBLICATION OF UNIVERSITY OF NEGROS OCCIDENTAL-RECOLETOS INC. tolentinestar@gmail.com SINCE 1947

Editorial Staff 2024-2025

EDITORIAL BOARD

KASHINA ASHLEY GATILOGO Editor-in-Chief

DANICA ROSE QUINDAP Associate Editor

LANCE JOSHUA SATOJITO Managing Editor

DESK EDITORS

Literary Folio Editor

ARBEN JEYK DA-ANOY

Magazine Editor

JASMINE CYRILE ALAVE

Newspaper Editors

ELNIE ANJELIE FLORES

JERI MAE TERRY

WRITERS

Myron Joseph Yunsal

Theresa Mae Dulman

John Renz Delim

Angelee Valencia

Vincy Anne Tropa

Densil Faith Padilla

Stephanie Gaston

Reshyl Rein Colonia

LAYOUT ARTISTS

O’Neil Miguel Iguidez

TECHNICAL EDITORS

Multimedia Editor AMIEL JOHN ORCIADA

Graphics Editor AYESHA MIKYLLAH MAYANG

Online Content Editor

PETER BIEN LUMAYNO

Editorial Assistant

PRINCESS ALEXIS MORAÑA

PHOTOJOURNALISTS

Jan Daniel Biñas

Karl Josh Collarin

Rhyza Glen Fornolles

Anicar Frias

GRAPHIC ARTISTS

Jalyn Rose Elizan

Vicia Mae Bacurnay

Angel Pador

Kert Jude Zabal

HUMAN RESOURCE CONSULTANT

Kaye Eunice Lamera, RSW

TECHNICAL CONSULTANT

Alyssa Marie Arceño

TECHNICAL ADVISER

Engr. Ashraf Khater, ChE, MEnE

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For comments, suggestions, or reactions, e-mail us at tolentinestar@gmail.com or feel free to drop by our office located at the ground floor of St. Thomas of Villanova building, beside the CAS Student Council Office.

Tolentine Star would like to express gratitude to the following people:

GOD ALMIGHTY for His overflowing blessings, grace, and protection that have enabled the completion of the folio despite the adjustments in coming back to the university grounds;

THE GAWAD TOLENTINO PARTICIPANTS AND CONTRIBUTORS for expressing their narratives and perspectives through their pieces and art, and making us a part of that artistic journey;

THE TEACHERS for nurturing, recognizing, and supporting the students’ skills;

ENGR. ASHRAF KHATER, ChE, MEnE for eagerly mentoring, motivating, and guiding us;

KAYE EUNICE LAMERA, RSW, for the mental wellbeing advice, life teas, and sound counsel;

ALYSSA MARIE ARCEÑO for her comforting presence and sincere advice;

DR. DEXTER PAUL DIOSO, CSASS, for continuous support and trust as we keep the flow of love for art and literature alive through our outputs;

REV. FR. LEO ALARAS, OAR, for entrusting us with the holistic growth of the students through campus journalism.

Every glance captured is a tale woven in each soul. Dear readers, and chroniclers of different forms — writers, photographers, artists, dreamers — you cast light into the quiet corners of the world simply by being. Your presence in the midst of the crowds, your soft gaze in times of toil, and the subtle caress of your clicks and strokes breathed life into this literary folio. As you venture into the realms bathed in every ray of light, may you carry forth the gentleness of life not just for others, but for yourself as well. In your walk through the art of people watching, may you never forget the eyes that never spoke, yet listened — and may you always be among them.

-Literary Folio Editor