I Broke Up with Reality on a Tuesday

My mother died three months ago. A mild heart attack, they said. It was quick and quiet. So quick that I didn't even have the chance to argue with God about fairness. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I couldn't. I wanted to. I felt like I wasn't grieving enough. While my dad and my sister were bawling their eyes out. I feel guilty that I wasn't able to cry harder. Mom at least deserves that. I remember, when I was thirteen, I fell off my bike and broke my wrist. The pain was so sharp I couldn't even scream. I just sat there on the pavement, white-faced and silent. Mom came running out, panicked because I wasn't crying. She kept shaking me, saying, "Anak, umiyak ka, para lumabas ang sakit." She always reminded me to cry, so the pain can come out. At her funeral, standing by her casket, I finally understood. Some pain is too big to come out. It just stays inside, fossilizing. I couldn't give her the tears she deserved. All I had was this silent, stupid stone in my throat where my grief should have been. So I just stood there, hands in pockets, nodding mechanically at relatives who said things like “She’s in a better place now.” I wanted to tell them, “I know. She was better, anywhere that didn’t involve this country.” But grief makes you polite. It teaches you when to shut up. My father’s recently been talking about remarrying. He announced it like a holiday sale, “May nakilala akong mabait.” He said, as if we should be celebrating he found a partner nice and courteous enough to entertain him. But I told him, “Do what makes you happy.” I meant that, too. I’m done pretending I know what happiness should look like for other people. My sister, though, couldn’t handle it. She asked if she could stay with me for a while, now that I’m on shore duty. I said yes before really thinking it through. Now she’s here, sleeping on the couch, humming to herself in the mornings while scrolling on her phone like she’s auditioning for a commercial about surviving gently. It’s strange having someone around again. She’s cleaner than I am, more optimistic, and somehow allergic to silence. I catch her rearranging my things sometimes, folding my uniform, leaving post-it notes that say “Eat something proper” or “You’re doing fine.” It’s sweet. It’s unbearable. It's been awhile since I stated shore duty. Office life isn’t much different from sea life. I process paperwork I don’t understand for people I don’t respect. My superiors treat condescension like oxygen. You can tell they love being addressed as “sir” more than they love the country. They wear pride like perfume... Too strong, too artificial, impossible to ignore. I smile, salute, and let them believe I care. That’s the trick. You don’t have to like the system. You just have to let it think it’s winning. My wallet’s empty again. Payday feels like a rumor now. Everything I earn evaporates on bills, food, or repairs for things that keep breaking. My fan. My charger. My faith in institutions. My TikTok feed mocks me daily with videos of people my age vacationing in Bali, buying cars, building houses, smiling with clean teeth and ring lights. Meanwhile, I’m here, eating canned sardines with rice that sticks to the spoon, wondering if ambition expired during shipment. Sometimes I think I’ve outgrown my sadness. Not because I’m happier, but because I’ve gotten used to carrying it. It’s lighter now, like an old scar. You stop checking if it healed; you just accept that it never will. When my sister laughs, I don’t flinch anymore. When my father talks about his new girlfriend, I don’t roll my eyes. When my superior yells about a report, I just nod and think about lunch. That sums up my life for the most part. It isn't about trying to be okay. It's about trying to be sane and functional. You just move, even when nothing feels worth the motion. Last night, my sister showed me a video. Some influencer talking about “finding peace by letting go.” I laughed, because what else is there to do? But then she said, “You’re doing better, Kuya. You just don’t notice.” I didn’t respond. I just looked at her. This kid who grew up too fast because I was too busy dragging my feet. I realized she might be right. I’ve stopped trying to be fixed. Or maybe I’ve learned to live with the noise instead of waiting for silence. And maybe, even that’s what my mother would want. Not a son who’s happy, but one who’s still here, still moving, still trying. Sadness never leaves me. It stays still and quiet, molding me into a person more stranger than yesterday. And I keep walking.