What would I miss if I gave up… now?

বিজ্ঞাপন

How many versions of me did pain try to bury alive?

How many times did I… try? try to live? uncountable to die? thrice.

The world almost lost me three times, and I stayed without knowing why staying felt heavier than leaving.

Sometimes I am left speechless at how I could do things even I myself never thought I could.

How survival sharpens talent out of desperation.

How pressure turns into proof.

People call it a gift, luck — but I call it a hindrance, because it only proves that I could do so much.

That I am capable.

That I endure.

So much that it hurts me, that I badly want to end this life. Because being capable means being expected to continue. And continuing feels like another demand I didn’t consent to.

What would I have missed?

Would I miss my first ever published book? My graduation?

I imagine pages with my name on them, a stage where my absence would be louder than applause.

I would miss entering law school, right? Or meeting the one.

The love that might ruin me beautifully. The love that might finally stay.

I’d surely miss traveling the whole Philippines, the first snow in Japan. I know I’d miss so much. But the wanting to leave keeps interrupting the wanting to stay.

I keep asking, and I keep erasing the answers… because knowing too much ties me to tomorrow. And the longer the list gets, the harder it is to leave.

I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to continue either.

If the first attempt succeeded, I wouldn’t have met my friends. I wouldn’t have found home in the spaces of people I had just met. I wouldn’t have learned that belonging can be accidental.

I wouldn’t have ranked first in our class and proven that I am beyond the shadows of those who came before me. I wouldn’t have made my parents proud. And I hate how much this still matters.

If the second attempt succeeded, I wouldn’t be here writing. I wouldn’t have learned that words can hold blood without spilling it. I wouldn’t have found Medium and poured every pain I had consumed.

I wouldn’t have found the beauty of being unknown, of writing and knowing that thousands of people love the words you bleed. That strangers can cradle wounds without touching them. A place where I am accepted for who I truly am. Even when I don’t accept myself.

And if the third attempt succeeded, I wouldn’t have turned 18. I wouldn’t have crossed the age I once swore I’d never reach.

I wouldn’t have seen the crater of Taal. I wouldn’t have learned that destruction can also be breathtaking. I wouldn’t have felt the calmness of my mind I had never felt before. I wouldn’t have been hugged by the fog and introduced to living again.

If one of them succeeded, I wouldn’t have experienced one of the best memories of my life. And I hate that joy arrived late, like an apology.

But survival sucks.

It doesn’t reward you.

It doesn’t clap.

It doesn’t remember.

It doesn’t see all the battles you’ve fought or how brave you are for staying. It just hands you another day and asks what you’ll do with it.

I thought the past few months after that debut, I was living. I thought I was finally slowly healing from all of it. But I mistook movement for healing.

I stayed, and nothing magical happened. The sadness didn’t leave it just learned how to sit beside me. Like it plans to stay.

But now, what would I have missed? If now, I try? Would the answers finally stop forming.

People would cry, but my room would stay the same. dust settling where I once existed.

My name would slowly become past tense. a word people lower their voices around.

All my unfinished thoughts would dissolve into nothing. Unwritten endings. Unanswered prayers.

I wondered how long it would take for the world to forget the shape of my voice. And I wonder why, despite everything, some small, stubborn part of me still wants to be remembered.

Source: medium/Vina amoris࿐

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