words i never get to say

just me and my thoughts woven into words 🇵🇭

[totsnitel]

I was scrolling on TikTok when I came across a video of a woman driving her car, pondering the idea that even when you're in the same place as your ex, there's a huge chance your paths will never cross. And I believed in that, too. For me, the universe has its own way of telling you that something has ended—even without you noticing. You see it in the missed chances, the near encounters that never quite happen.

But unlike what we see in films, movies, and the stories we grew up reading, there's always been this romanticized idea of second chances. It's become so ingrained in us that whether a relationship ended badly or on good terms, there's always that part of us that waits and hopes. That somehow, people are meant to find their way back to each other—better, wiser, ready. That idea has been so romanticized that we almost can't help but believe in it.

But in reality, when people break things off and drift away from each other—separated by circumstances, time, and space—it is almost never that they meet again. And if they do, it's either a mere glance or a short, hurried interaction that leaves no room for anything more.

Then life twists on you.

In that video, she shared how she was having the time of her life in La Union with her friends. But just around the NLEX connection on her way home, she saw him. Him and his new girlfriend in their car, in a setting that felt too familiar—mimicking what felt like yesterday for the woman who posted the video.

And that made me realize: yes, we may not meet them in the same place. But even when we move on, life has its own way of showing us the reality of what we missed and what could have been. When she said that seeing them reminded her of what she couldn't have—a life with him—it had me thinking about how some men can give just enough to those who love them, but turn around and give the whole world to someone new.

Those who get left behind will always be reminded that they were part of who someone was, just not someone they were willing to build a life with forever.

And honestly? I'm afraid of that. To see my ex loving someone else in a way he never loved me. Something that feels both too familiar and completely foreign all at once.

Because no matter how many days, weeks, months, years pass, how many people I've talked to, how many miles I've put between myself and home—to see him treat someone else the way I always wanted to be treated will always remind me that I never got to have that from him. That I will never be loved by him again. Because it means he is capable. Just not for me.

That's why I always hope and pray that God and the universe never let our paths cross again. Whether I've moved on or not—I don't want to see him again.

But endings don't mean those who get left behind didn't matter. We did. We still do. Not to them, maybe—but to ourselves, and to the people around us who care and love us.

It doesn't really matter whether we find that same kind of love again or choose to hope for something better. The truth is, some people are just not meant for each other, despite the want and the yearning to belong, despite the love we felt and maybe still carry. Sometimes things have to end for a reason. And sometimes, yes—our paths do cross again with those who once meant the whole world to us. Often, we met them when we weren't ready yet. When neither of us knew any better.

But maybe that's life's way of showing us that that chapter—that version of us, that version of them—is done.

And that's it. That's enough.

june 27, 2026

-Tel

[minimalistquotes]

We romanticize the stars, but forget the dark is what made them visible.

[paper-wounds]

via

[totsnitel]

I am ashamed of you—furious, sickened, and humiliated by the fact that your blood runs through my veins.

I hate that no matter how far I try to pull myself away, biology keeps dragging me back to you. I hate that I carry your name, that it sits on my identity like a stain I never consented to wear.

Every part of my existence that connects me to you feels like a betrayal of the person I am trying so hard to become.

It angers me that I didn’t get a choice.

That I was born into a history I never asked to inherit, tied to a person who caused more damage than love. I look at myself sometimes and wonder which parts of me are mine and which parts are echoes of you, and that thought alone makes my skin crawl.

The idea that we share blood—that something so intimate links me to someone I resent so deeply—fills me with rage I don’t know where to put.

I am angry that people expect forgiveness just because we are related. Angry that shared blood is treated like an excuse, like a free pass for hurt, neglect, or cruelty. As if DNA is supposed to soften the damage. As if carrying your blood means I owe you understanding.

I don’t. All it means is that I was forced to start life with a weight already on my back.

What disgusts me most is how your presence lingers even when you’re not around. In the questions people ask. In the name I answer to. In the moments when I catch myself fearing that I might become you in ways I don’t even notice.

I fight that every day.

I fight to unlearn you, to tear myself away from the parts of you that tried to root themselves in me.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part—that I have to spend my life proving that sharing blood does not mean sharing character. That I can be nothing like you, even if my veins say otherwise.

I am angry because I deserved better.

I deserved a connection that didn’t make me feel ashamed of my own existence.

And I hate that something as fundamental as blood is the very thing I wish I could drain myself of, just to finally feel free.

june 8, 2026 -Tel

[totsnitel]

‎If one day you see me loved by someone else, ‎I hope you remember there was a time when all I wanted was for that someone to be you.

‎Not anyone else. ‎Not someone easier. ‎Not someone better.

‎‎Just you.

‎‎You were the name hidden behind every prayer I never said out loud.

‎The person I kept choosing,

‎even when you were giving me reasons not to.

‎‎And maybe that’s the saddest part.

‎Because I really would’ve stayed.

‎I would’ve loved you in quiet ways.

‎In patient ways.

‎In the kind of ways that don’t leave the moment things become difficult.

‎

‎But love cannot survive on almosts.

‎Not when one person is trying to build a home while the other keeps standing near the door.

‎So if one day you see me being loved gently, ‎consistently, ‎completely—‎please understand that I was always capable of giving that kind of love too.

‎You just met me at a time ‎where you could not hold it.

‎And maybe someone else eventually will.

june 4, 2026 -Tel

[totsnitel]

"For you, I would."

There’s a strange kind of magic in the phrase “for you, I would.”

It’s simple, almost weightless—yet it carries the heaviness of a door someone chose to open just for you.

I’ve realized that in life, people are like old houses with rooms they rarely let anyone enter. Some rooms stay locked because of fear, or habit, or years of convincing themselves that nobody needs to see what’s inside.

But then someone arrives—quietly, unexpectedly—and suddenly the lock doesn’t feel so stubborn anymore. For them, you’d turn the key.

That’s what “for you, I would” feels like. An unlocked door. A held breath released. A choice made willingly, not out of obligation but out of gentle affection.

And I think that’s the sweetest part—the choice.

Because it means: I don’t normally do this. I don’t normally offer this part of myself. But for you? I’ll make an exception that doesn’t feel like a burden.

When I look back on my own life, I realize my deepest connections weren’t built on big dramatic gestures. Theywere built on these small exceptions—the tiny, quiet ways someone stepped out of their comfort zone because I mattered. And the tiny, quiet ways I did the same for them.

It’s like discovering that love—real love, not just romantic—is less about fireworks and more about rearranging your routine. Making space where there wasn’t any. Letting someone into a life that was once carefully self-contained.

Because “for you, I would” isn’t about sacrifice. It’s about trust.

It means: I believe you won’t break what I’m offering.

It means: I’m willing to soften in places I’ve kept hard.

It means: I see you—and I want to meet you halfway.

And maybe that’s what makes the sentiment so beautiful and fragile. We don’t say it lightly. We don’t give it freely. It’s reserved for the rare people who make us feel seen enough to try again, try differently, or simply try at all.

In a world where so many choose themselves first, “for you, I would” is the quiet rebellion of the heart.

A reminder that sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is take one small step outside our walls.

Not for everyone.

Not for just anyone.

But for that one person who makes the ordinary feel worth stretching.

And when someone says it to you or when you realize you’re thinking it about someone else,

that’s when you know: Something in you has shifted. Something tender has begun. And you’ve just found another door that, somehow, you’re willing to open.

november 1, 2025

-Tel

[totsnitel]

Thank you for teaching me what it means to love.

The words left my lips softly, without bitterness, without regret. For the longest time, I thought love was something you gave until you were empty, something you proved by how much you were willing to endure. I thought love was about waiting, about bending, about holding on even when it hurt.

But love—real love—is none of those things.

You taught me that. Not in the way I once hoped, not through warmth and permanence, but through absence, through the spaces you left behind. You taught me in the way the ocean teaches the shore—by retreating, by pulling away just as I reached for you.

At first, I mistook this for cruelty. I convinced myself that if I was patient enough, if I proved my love enough, you would stay.

I waited at the water’s edge, believing that love was about persistence, that if I stood there long enough, the tide would change.

But love is not meant to be chased. It is not something to beg for.

I see that now.

Because of you, I learned that love is not about losing yourself in someone else. It is not about sacrificing pieces of who you are in exchange for scraps of affection. Love should not feel like constantly reaching, constantly hoping, constantly proving.

Love is soft and steady. It is reciprocal, not a test of endurance. It does not ask you to shrink or to wait in the cold.

And so, I thank you—not for staying, but for leaving. Not for loving me, but for showing me what love is not. Because now, I finally understand.

"Thank you for teaching me what it means to love."

And this time, I mean myself.

may 30, 2025

-Tel

[totsnitel]

A House I Tried to Be

I wanted to be more of a shelter than a storm.

You know—the kind of person you run to when the rain comes down sideways. The warm porch light is always on. The kettle just starting to hum. A place where your fears could unlace their boots at the door and take a breath.

But I couldn’t control the wind.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped being a house and started becoming the weather.

It’s not that I wanted to be chaos. It’s not like I woke up and thought, “Ah yes, today I will knock over some furniture and rattle a few windows.”

But my feelings—God, my feelings—had a barometric pressure all their own. Sudden gusts of need. Low pressure systems of sadness that hovered for days. Thunderheads of resentment I didn’t know how to wring out gently.

People don’t seek refuge in hurricanes.

They board up their windows.

They say, “She’s intense,” or “It’s just too much,” or worse, “We’ll wait this one out.”

And I get it.

Because I, too, have stood at the edge of myself, bracing for impact.

Because I, too, have watched the weather warnings crawl across my own skin and still not known how to stop the storm before it broke.

I wanted to be someone’s shelter.

But the truth is, sometimes I only had splinters where beams should be. My walls trembled with each confrontation. My roof leaked grief in places I hadn’t noticed before. And when people came close, I feared they'd find not safety, but shrapnel.

Still—I tried.

I patched what I could. Reinforced the doors of my honesty. Lit candles when the power flickered. Told people: I might not be a perfect shelter, but I’ll try to hold steady when the sky darkens. I can’t promise I’ll always be calm, but I can promise I’ll try not to collapse while you’re inside.

So maybe I’m not a weather-proof sanctuary.

Maybe I’m the creaky cabin that sways a little but still stands.

Maybe I’m learning the difference between controlling the wind and just anchoring myself better.

And maybe—just maybe—there are people out there who don’t need me to be a perfect shelter.

Just a place worth staying through the storm.

may 29, 2025

-Tel

[totsnitel]

And I will never understand how you could hurt your own child when you're angry at the world.

I try to make sense of it, to justify it, to tell myself that maybe you’re just tired, stressed, or lost in your own battles.

But no excuse will ever be enough to explain why your hands, the same hands that were supposed to nurture and protect, became the source of my pain.

I still can't comprehend how you could hurt us just because life has been unfair to you.

Why do we have to bear the weight of your frustrations? Why does your anger fall on us like a storm we can never escape?

I don't understand why, instead of finding comfort in your own children, you choose to release your rage on us.

Do you see us as nothing more than an outlet for your suffering? Do you even realize the scars you’re leaving behind—not just on our skin but deep within our hearts?

Every slap, every harsh word, every look of disappointment—it all stays with me, long after the bruises fade.

I love you, Ma, but I can’t defend you.

I can’t understand you.

The more I endure the pain—both physical and emotional—the more I lose the respect I once had for you.

Ma, why are you like this? How could you hurt my sister? How could you hurt me?

I can still feel the sting on my face, and over time, my skin grows numb. But I can still feel the weight of your hand. It’s not just the physical pain—it’s the betrayal, the deep, aching realization that the person who should love me the most is the same person who makes me feel so small, so unloved.

You made me feel like a burden, like an inconvenience you never wanted to deal with.

And yet, despite everything, I still long for your love. I still find myself hoping that one day, you will look at me not as a problem, not as something to break, but as your child—someone who only ever wanted to be held, not hurt.

But every time I reach out, every time I try to be good enough, I feel like I’m met with nothing but your disappointment.

No matter how much I try, no matter how much I endure, it never seems to be enough.

I wonder, Ma, do you even love me? Or am I just someone you tolerate, someone you wish was never yours?

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to ask you why—why do you do this to me? Do you even know how much it hurts? Do you even care?

I wish I could make you see the damage you’ve done. I wish you would realize that your words cut just as deep as your hands. I wish, just once, you would hold me without anger, without resentment, without treating me like a mistake.

I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that I’m okay. I don’t know how much more I can take before I finally break completely.

All I ever wanted was to be loved.

Was that too much to ask?

march 31, 2025 -Tel

[totsnitel]

How do we tell the sea that we're drowning on land?

The sea knows drowning as gasping lungs and thrashing limbs, as saltwater filling the spaces meant for air. But how do we tell it that sometimes, drowning looks like sitting still? That it sounds like laughter in a crowded room, and feels like walking through the world as if nothing is wrong?

How do we make it understand that our lungs may not be full of water, but they are still heavy with everything we cannot say? That the currents pulling us under are not made of tides but of thoughts, of expectations, of memories that won’t let go?

The sea rages in storms and screams in crashing waves, but we—who are drowning on land—are expected to be quiet.

To smile through the weight. To act as if we are not sinking. To pretend that breathing isn’t exhausting when every inhale feels like a battle.

So maybe, we don’t tell the sea. Maybe, it wouldn’t understand. Maybe, it would only watch, confused, as we reach for a lifeline that doesn’t exist.

Or maybe—just maybe—it would listen.

Because the sea knows what it means to hold too much, to keep secrets in its depths, to appear calm even when there’s a storm beneath the surface.

Maybe it, too, understands what it’s like to drown in something no one else can see.

march 24, 2025 - Tel