Will it be on the test?

In school, one question always floated around the room.

“Will this be on the exam?”

If the answer was no, everyone stopped listening.

We finished assignments because they were required.

We studied to pass.

We checked boxes,
submitted outputs,
and called it a day.

Then we went out,
played,
or partied,
because the work was done.

School trained us to think in tasks.

To wait for instructions.

To do only what’s graded.

Especially in postgrad,
there is no "Loyalty award."
"Most punctual,"
"Best in recitation."

Maybe that’s why so many people carry the same mindset into work and life.

We look for checklists.
We wait for deadlines.
We rush to finish
instead of learning to grow.

It’s how the system trained us.

Not to explore,
but to comply.

But life outside the classroom isn’t graded the same way.

There are no rubrics for growth. No medals for curiosity.

In the real world, no one hands you a score. You make your own.

So stop asking if it’s on the exam.

Do it because it’s worth learning.

Do it because it makes you better.

Because the real test never ends.

When life changed color

Some places, like Seoul, you only see on television.

You grow up thinking those moments belong only to the wealthy.

Then one day, you’re inside one.

And it feels unreal.

I’m writing this reflection as we sit by the Han River.

No rush.
Just absorbing the moment. 

Letting the city sink in.

The other day, we went up N Seoul Tower.

Tasting authentic kimchi (not for me, unfortunately)
while Korean neon lights stretched endlessly below us.

While we were there, we added a love lock
and pretended we weren’t being sentimental.

We were.

In Myeongdong, we tried to blend into the crowd.

Munched on tteokbokki from a street stall.

Went shopping for those trending skincare products
to chase that Korean glass-skin look. 

Hopefully, the products work.

Even if they don’t change us,

the memory did.

We stepped into Hanok Cultural Village and Gyeongbokgung Palace.

The same royal grounds from Jewel in the Palace,

which aired almost every night for months in the Philippines.

Now we were standing inside it.

Wearing matching couple hanbok.

Not watching.

Living it.

Then there was Gangnam.

The district made famous by a song the whole world knew.

And yes, we danced to Oppa Gangnam Style.

Half-embarrassed. Fully happy.

Two tourists. No shame.

In the evening, we wandered around Itaewon and Hongdae.

Global streets and youthful corners.
Where cultures mix and creativity lives.

There was a time when trips like this were just dreams.

“Someday,” we said.

So we saved.

Said no to small things.

Chose patience.

Until one day, we could say yes.

Enough to be here.

Yesterday, in Namiseom, that’s where it all made sense.

Rows of trees.
Slowly changing colors.
Turning red and yellow.

Foliage foreign to my homeland.

I thought about us.

How we used to be the ones watching.
And now, we were the ones walking.

How seasons shift.
And somehow, people do too.

From dreaming.
To arriving.

If you stay patient long enough,
if you keep believing in “someday,”
life eventually changes.

And sometimes,
you make it far enough to see it happen.

That’s when you realize:

Life changed color.  

Unposted happiness

“Why are you not posting about your girlfriend on social media?”

I’ve been asked that more than once.

As if love needs documentation.

As if affection needs an audience.

We live in a digital world.

Social media is how many people document life.

Posting your partner.

Sharing milestones.

Celebrating moments.

That is normal.

But over time, I started noticing something.

Not all love lives online.

Some of the happiest relationships

exist quietly.

No hashtags.

No captions.

No audience.

Just two people choosing each other, every day.

There is a difference between sharing joy

and seeking validation.

Between celebrating love

and performing it.

When every moment becomes content,

connection slowly becomes confirmation.

Confirmation that things are “okay.”

That things look “perfect.”

That people are watching.

I once knew a couple who looked flawless online.

Always smiling.

Always “in love.”

Behind the posts were arguments and tears.

When they broke up, everyone was surprised.

Except those who really knew them.

That taught me something.

Visibility is not stability.

Silence is not absence.

Some people do not post

because they have nothing to prove.

Because their relationship is not a campaign.

It is a commitment.

Real happiness does not need proof.

Contentment does not need likes.

Security does not need shares.

Some of the strongest love stories

are never posted.

They are lived.

And in a world that documents everything,

maybe the best moments are the ones kept private.

After all,

the rest of us will survive just fine

without daily updates from #DateNight.

Faith in humanity

You never forget a calamity like Super Typhoon Haiyan,

one of the strongest ever recorded in history.

The 300 kph winds that screamed.

The eerie silence that followed.

Families spending nights on rooftops amid raging storms.

Homes built from life savings swallowed by floodwaters.

Faces searching for loved ones who never made it home.

Children seeing bodies lined along the streets,

death normalized overnight.

Thousands left homeless.

Orphaned.

Hungry.

Traumatized.

And yet, only days later, life went on.

Another disaster.

Another headline.

In a nation so used to calamity,

heartbreak can begin to feel routine.

But what never becomes routine

is how we rise.

Ordinary people became rescuers.

Strangers became family.

Those safe at home found ways to help,

through donations, messages, shared posts,

and quiet acts of comfort.

I witnessed this spirit firsthand

when I volunteered at Villamor Air Base.

Families kept arriving,

tired, hungry, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring.

Some spoke of returning to Tacloban

once it was rebuilt.

Many worried about food, jobs,

and their children’s schooling.

I lost count of how many times

I tried to hold back my tears.

You could see the exhaustion in their eyes,

but also a quiet strength that refused to give up.

I watched children play at the activity center,

too young to fully understand the devastation they had survived,

yet laughing anyway.

The volunteers worked tirelessly.

The leaders stayed calm and steady,

giving clear direction despite the chaos.

For a brief moment,

I saw what unity truly looked like.

And in the middle of it all,

I knew one thing for sure:

My faith in humanity is intact.

I saw it in tired eyes that still hoped.

In hands that kept helping.

In hearts that refused to harden.

Together, we shall overcome.

10pm version of me

The 10 p.m. version of me is quiet.

He doesn’t chase ideas.
He doesn’t fix problems.
He’s done explaining, convincing, performing.

He’s just tired. And that’s okay.

He sits in silence, staring at the ceiling or the city lights outside the window.
Dinner reheated.
Notifications muted.
The world can wait.

This version of me doesn’t care about being productive.
He just wants a moment to exist without purpose.

He doesn’t think about deadlines or deliverables.
He wonders if the day meant something.

And sometimes, the honest answer is, not really.

Because some days aren’t about winning.
They’re about surviving.

The work deadlines.
The term papers for grad school.
The bills to pay.
The hobby you parked.
The date you promised to keep.
The exercise you owed your body but did not have the energy for.

And that’s fine too.

Not every day has to be extraordinary.

Some days are just about making it through traffic, through meetings, through yourself.

And if you made it to 10 p.m.,
still breathing, still trying, still here,

that counts.

The quiet version of you is not a weaker one.

He is the proof
that you showed up
even when no one was watching.

Plot twist

I used to rush through mornings.

Everything was a blur.

Breakfast, commute, chaos.

All checklist, no consciousness.

But lately, I’ve been noticing things again.

How sunlight hits the same corner of the wall every 7:32 a.m.

How the bus conductor hums under his breath before the first wave of commuters.

How the air smells different right before it rains.

Maybe it’s age.

Maybe it’s burnout.

Or maybe it’s just finally understanding

that not everything needs to change

to be meaningful.

Because the truth is,

life doesn’t move in leaps.

It unfolds in centimeters.

In the bites of tapsilog.

In small talk.

In shared glances and quiet returns.

We keep waiting for big moments to feel alive.

But maybe aliveness is hiding

in the routines we take for granted.

In the sound of the train quietly running.

In the flicker of streetlights.

In the weight of a bag you’ve carried so long

it feels like part of you.

Plot twist:
Nothing changed.

But maybe that’s the point.

The shift isn’t in the world.

It’s in the way

you finally learned

to see it.

And suddenly,

even a regular Tuesday

feels like a small win.

Not bad for someone

who used to sleepwalk through mornings.

Turns out,

I wasn’t waiting for a new life.

I was just waiting

to wake up to this one.

Familiar, then gone

Every morning, he was there.

Same corner.

Same cart.

Same smile.

He sold taho near the bus stop.

“Tahooo!” he’d call, and somehow, it always made the mornings feel softer.

I never learned his name.

Never asked how long he’d been doing it.

But he became part of my mornings,

the way sunrise quietly becomes part of a city.

Until one day, he wasn’t there.

No cart.

No call.

No trace.

Just an empty space

where kindness used to stand.

At first, I thought he was late.

Then a day passed.

Then a week.

And then I realized

I hadn’t just lost a vendor.

I’d lost a rhythm.

It made me wonder

how many lives we brush against

without ever really seeing them.

How many small acts of presence

go unnoticed until they’re gone.

Maybe he moved away.

Maybe he got tired.

Maybe he’s resting

after years of showing up

for people who never asked his name.

Whatever it is,

I hope he knows

that his absence was noticed.

That his presence mattered.

At least, to me.

Nothing is guaranteed to stay.

No one is guaranteed to stay.

That’s why presence is sacred.

The taho vendor who brightens mornings.

The guard who goes beyond checking bags.

The parent who checks in unconditionally.

The mentor at work who coaches for free.

Life’s constants aren’t permanent.

They’re privileges.

So while they’re still here,

don’t just pass by.

Pause.

See them.

Acknowledge

the miracle of still showing up.

Passing lives

We see them every day,

but we don’t really know their names.

The woman selling siomai by the station.

The guard who never forgets to say “good morning.”

The bus conductor who still cracks jokes at 6 a.m.

The stranger who gives up their seat without being asked.

They don’t know your story either.

But somehow, your lives intersect for a few brief minutes,

and it’s enough to remind you that the world still runs on kindness.

We often think impact has to be big.

A promotion.

A project.

A breakthrough.

But sometimes, it’s just the way someone smiles back after a long day,

as if saying, “Same.”

You’ll never know what these people carry,

just as they’ll never know the battles you fight.

But for those few seconds in transit,

you share the same air,

the same exhaustion,

the same small hope

that tomorrow might run smoother than today.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because even when life feels heavy,

there will always be people who lighten it.

Not by fixing anything,

but simply by showing up,

just like you.