Cebu really is a small, small world. Every now and then, malls and parks felt like one big game of hide-and-seek from people I went to highschool with or college blockmates I avoided like the plague. Sometimes I’d see the hyperactive boy who sat beside me in the fourth grade, and I’d run the opposite direction. Though, for some reason, I can never leave. Every song on the radio is the same, after all, but even if a spry group of friends dream big enough to fill stadiums and fields, it’ll be the same four chords.

You might never see me come home with a bouquet of daisies that don't smell like sorrow. You might never meet miniature versions of me, and the only person on this Earth who will ever "have my eyes" or "have my smile" will be myself. Perhaps I just observe the experiences of others, to later turn my head and experience my own company.

This time, I would like to have golden tinsel in my hair that sparkles in the blazing sun. It would be nice to see her dance like swirling water in a glass. It would be nice to be a singular wave in the sea of people again.