To yearn is one thing, but to be haunted by the things we desire is another – a quieter kind of ache, a bit more bittersweet than the former.

Maybe one of our innate habits is rubbing an open wound – one that took weeks to slowly heal – with a piece of cloth and a splash of alcohol. At some point, we find ourselves intrigued by the red stains coming from the wound, pressing harder just to watch it bleed. Maybe pouring on alcohol just to feel the pain deep in our bones. It’s addictive. It makes you bleed. And so, you begin to remember, not because you want to, but because it comes naturally, like it’s meant to haunt you for the rest of your life. You revisit every fracture, every teeny-tiny detail that once made you hope, but now only fuels the pits of regret and unbearable pain. 

There are days that feel like they split your life in two — before the news, and after it.

You think you’re ready. You tell yourself it’s fine. You scroll, you search, you check your inbox with shaking fingers. You try to pretend it’s just another day.

But the moment the screen loads and it doesn’t look like anything you wanted, something shifted.

Maybe it was UP with their heavy THANK YOU! colored in red  — golden sunflowers bloom in your memory, but not in your reality. Maybe it was Ateneo showing you that the blue nest isn’t ready to give shelter to other birds like you. Maybe it was DLSU, where the halls of St. La Salle and the green canopies along the Henry Sy Sr. Hall felt like life. Maybe it was UST, where you once dreamed of walking beneath the Arch of the Centuries, the sun hitting the old stone walls just right. Or maybe just the one school you were quietly manifesting for every night. The one you thought would change everything. 

But it didn’t happen.

And in that stillness, something inside you goes quiet — not the loud kind of heartbreak, but the dull, echoing kind. The one that hums beneath your chest, steady and cold. You try to blink it away, laugh it off, tell yourself, “Dedma lang, kaya pa ‘to.” But something lingers. Something aches.

You think of your parents waiting in the other room. The teachers who believed in you. Your friends who received countless messages from you that were along the lines of “PAPASA AKO! ‘pag hindi ako mag-aaral dito, hindi na lang ako mag-aaral.” The version of yourself that had already imagined walking through those gates, bleeding those colors — Maroon, Blue, Green, Yellow, or any color under the sky as long as you hoped for it hard enough.

You remember the late nights, the review centers, the messy notes taped to your walls, half-faded formulas and rushed messed up acronyms scribbled in the dark, hoping that those late night active recall and blurting method sessions would blossom into a CONGRATULATIONS! glowing in green.

You remember telling yourself it was all for something. That it would all be worth it.

And now you ask: Was it?

It hurts in ways you don’t know how to explain. Not because a school defines your worth — but because it was a dream. And when dreams break, even softly, it still feels like grief.

They say there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Yet sometimes, we find ourselves trapped, spiraling through the first four, never quite setting foot in the last. Acceptance remains elusive; you never know when you'll get there –maybe tomorrow, or perhaps never at all. There's no telling how one copes with grief, especially when what we grieve for is something we never had–not even close, not even at all. 

We’re only taught how to grieve what we had, but never how to grieve what we almost did. 

You spent years picturing yourself running through the corridors, the wind gently slipping through the window sills. Passing by loud chit chats, careful to avoid the sudden swing of doors that might hit you if you walked too close. And in your mind, there were vivid pictures of lecture halls, the people you’d meet, and the environment you’d grow into. 

You worked hard, gave up so much, and believed – all for a glint of hope. And then, in a quiet snap, it slipped through your hold smoothly, like it was never meant for you to hold. 

“This is not a rejection, but a redirection.” 

They say it like it’s meant to comfort you. But why does it feel so heavy? Why is it so unbearably painful to accept that even the kindest words – “I’m proud of you” – bring tears you try so hard to hide? Tears that are held back by the crashing pressure of everything you never became. 

You replay the “what ifs” and “what could’ve been” like a broken record in your mind. And at your door, regret comes knocking, carrying a familiar question you’ve asked yourself for months: Was my best ever enough?

In your silent days, you yearn a little louder. You let the tears fall, one by one, because that’s all you can do — mourn the path you can never take. To live with the regret of not being one of the best, of not being smart enough to set foot on the campus grounds you once dreamed of.

But here's the thing about that kind of grief — even the kind born from things you never held. It doesn't always have to hurt. Sometimes, it weakens not because you've moved on, but because you've grown used to the ache. Like a sprain you learn to walk with. Like air you learn to breathe again through your chest filled with cracks. 

Despite everything, despite the heartbreak, you keep waking up. Maybe that's what no one tells you about. Surviving doesn't mean being back on your tracks immediately. It's slow and uneven. Healing, it turns out, isn't forgetting. It's remembering without having to drown. 

Maybe you won't get sunflowers, or arches, or blue nests, or green gates. Maybe you won't have that perfect picture you’ve been on your knees for, but you will find something else. A new classroom with its own kind of warmth. Hallways you've never imagined, where your laughter still echoes just as loudly. A stranger who becomes a seatmate, who becomes a friend, who becomes someone who reminds you that you still belong — maybe not there, but here. Somewhere. A new prophecy.

It will feel like saving yourself because you were never meant to live only in the story you imagined. You are still the writer. You are still the ink. Even if this chapter is written with trembling hands and even if your pages are tear-stained, it's still yours. You will learn to be proud because you chose to keep going. 

It won't be what you wanted —

but it will be enough.