"Holding on by letting go"

 Name:Mary Cherry A. Rusiana

Section:12- Sartre

My name is Marie, and I was seventeen when this memory etched itself into my heart. People often told me I was cheerful, like sunlight slipping through half-closed windows, always eager to brighten a room. But that afternoon, my father’s words lit me up in a way no one else’s ever had.

“Tinay, get dressed,” he called with a rare excitement in his tone. “We’re going back to Ozamis for the fiesta.”

The word fiesta alone was enough to make my pulse quicken. It meant color, laughter, the smell of roasted lechon wafting through the streets, and familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years.

As I folded clothes into my bag, my phone buzzed. A name flashed on the screen. Ronel. My childhood friend. My secret ache.

“You’re coming home?” his message read.

I set the phone on my bed, fingers hovering as if they wanted to type a thousand words. But time pulled me away; I was in a hurry. Still, his name clung to me like perfume you can’t wash off.

The journey back felt like opening a long-forgotten book. Every bend in the road showed me how much had changed, yet how much remained achingly familiar. I pressed my forehead to the window, snapping pictures of the landscape, afraid the moment might slip away too quickly.

By the time we arrived, night had already draped its velvet curtain over the city. My uncles, Leo and Ekong, met us with laughter loud enough to compete with the hum of the tricycle engines. Their voices rose and fell like music, blending with the faint melody playing in my earphones. Midnight found us at our old house. December 14. The eve of celebration.

The next morning, my father shook me awake. “Tinay, church,” he said.

Water trickled over me in the shower, but it couldn’t wash away Ronel’s unanswered message. A thought pressed against me like a thorn: What’s the point? He already has a girlfriend.

The church bells rang, scattering doves into the early sky. We arrived before the crowd, the pews still mostly empty. I tried to focus on the priest’s words, but my eyes strayed—and there he was. Ronel.

Our gazes met like two stones striking sparks. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw questions flicker in his eyes. Questions I had no courage to answer.

After mass, we went to Grandma Rosita’s house, where the air was thick with garlic, onion, and the steady rhythm of her ladle against the pot. I slipped beside her, offering to help, when the kitchen door creaked open.

“Welcome back, Tinay,” a voice said.

I turned, and there he was—Ronel, framed by the doorway, smiling the same boyish smile I knew from years ago. My heart tripped over itself.

He stepped forward and hugged me, and in that embrace was the warmth of childhood afternoons, mango trees, and secrets whispered in the dark. For a moment, the world shrank to just us.

But then Uncle Leo barged in, his grin wide, his teasing sharper than any knife. “Ay, look at you two!”

I froze. Heat climbed my cheeks. Ronel laughed easily, brushing it off, but I knew Uncle Leo could see through me. He always did—he was my walking diary, keeper of my confessions.

Yet the truth stood between us like a locked gate. Ronel had a girlfriend. He loved her. Once, with disarming honesty, he told me he only saw me as a friend. And I respected that, even when my heart rebelled.

Inside me, a battle raged. Don’t force it. Don’t say it. Don’t ruin it. I repeated those words like prayer beads, each one a reminder of what I stood to lose.

And so I chose silence. Not because I didn’t care, but because I cared too much. I chose to protect the fragile bridge we had built, rather than risk setting it on fire for something uncertain.

That day, I learned love isn’t always about holding tighter. Sometimes, it’s about stepping back, letting the current take what it must. Love can be a whisper we bury in our chest, a secret gift we give by not asking for more.

I didn’t know what the future would bring. But I believed in one thing: the right person would come, at the right place, at the right time.

Until then, I held on to this memory—Ronel’s arms around me, the echo of his voice calling me Tinay, and the bittersweet ache of a love I had to let go.