This trip will not be forgotten, not because of how elnido captured our hearts but because we missed our flights twice! Can you believe that?

• Either you stay in one of the hotels across the mainland in Brgy. Uacon for accommodation and have the bangkero drop you off and fetch you by nightfall. (Potipot is just a 5-10 minutes ride from the mainland.

• Go camping in the island and have the bangkero fetch you the next day. In this option, you can enjoy sleeping under the stars as Potipot is regarded as a virgin island—no electricity, no major infrastructures or hotels.

Why should we not blame the government? They knew the storm was coming. They knew it was super typhoon. It has been aired in every local television channels. Even before it enters in PAR. We all knew. They said they are prepared and yet there are still thousands of people starving in Day 5. Dead bodies are still scattered until today, almost a week after. Where is the strategy? Where is the plan? Where is the president? I couldn't find readiness in all this. I am very sad and disappointed with this government. I dont know I am not very smart but i definitely know the OBVIOUS.

I carefully waited for my phone to illuminate with your name and the words that I want to hear. I waited, as my body worked itself up a mountain with images of your smile waiting around every corner, and memories of your soft touch guiding me along my uneven path. I waited, as I filled my mind with these visions of you, as I grew closer to the top. I tip-toed up to the peak as I waited. I felt myself wobble. I waited. I waited longer.

I still wait.

After 2 years of waiting and wanting, I feel myself slowly descending into a canyon of what can only be described as complete self doubt, confusion, and rejection. But as I am falling, I hear a familiar tone, accompanied by your name in lights. ”Hey, we should get together, soon.” I feel a small hitch on my right ankle. My leg keeps me hanging in the translucent air, floating around in circles amid the foggy questions of the last year. I think back to previous conversations, ”I'll make it up to you. Just give me sometime. Soon, i promise.” I feel a slight pressure relieved from my right side as a slew of strings and memories creep their way out of the clouds and drag my entire body—feet first—back up to rocky ground. I feel those four letters squeeze me tight, imprinting themselves onto my arms, and seeping through my skin before I can object. My veins are suddenly saturated with a message of belonging again, a feeling of being needed. Being wanted. As these fabrications flow through my bloodstream, throughout my mind and body, they reach their final destination. My heart.

Your safety net saves you from commitment;

Mine saves me from disappointment. From reality.

So what is it about this word that I love so much? Maybe it is the vision of a future with you that it paints in my head. Maybe it is the daydreams that follow every time it appears upon the screen of my phone.

Or maybe, just maybe, it is the flash of hope that tells me that I might get over and move on from those bad years, soon.

Please, just, soon

You always used to tell me:
Every story needs an ending, Jen. That’s just the rule.

But what if it’s not ready to end? Or it is, but, it’s not really sure how?
Why can’t a story just go on a hiatus, or take a sabbatical? Can’t it just use some of its paid vacation days or go on a pregnancy leave—it’s trying to birth something anyway, isn’t it?

And I’ll remind you that some stories end with a To Be Continued. Some stories even have sequels!
Look at the boy with the lightning bolt scar on his head. He got 7 fat books AND a movie deal before his rendezvous was over.
Can’t we carry this one on a bit longer? You can even change the plot. How about in the next book, we leave the fights over stained dishes in the sink and who is going to pay the electrical bill this month behind and go on a wild vacation to Costa Rica. We’ll spend the first 37 pages jumping off cliffs and zip lining through the rainforest. We’ll get matching Henna tattoos right above our elbows and stay up all night picking off the scars of our childhood and drinking fruity wine out of jars. You’ll kiss me before sunrise, before high tide, before it all has to end.
If you stare at words long enough, they become so unfamiliar and bizarre. Same with people.
Jen, I just don’t—uh—feel the same—you know—way about you anymore.

And that’s how our story will end. It has to. Because you can’t write a love story about one person, just like you can’t keep a relationship going when only one person is in love. That’s just the rule.

Thought Catalog