EDITOR’S NOTE: With this new section called Young Voices, CoverStory opens space for young people feeling their way into the world and trying to formulate the rhyme and reason behind the paths they choose to take.

I came across a post that presented a question: “How do you deal with grief?” 

Many had answers: Sit with it. Embrace it warmly. Hold on to it as if there were no tomorrow. Ask her to have a cup of coffee with you. 

But no matter how seemingly sincere the advice was, I was firm on not welcoming grief into my room; in fact, I wouldn’t even let it knock on my door.

I hid from grief as long as I could, no matter how metaphorically—behind the curtains, under the dinner table, down to the cabinet in our old apartment. I ran from it as fast as I could. And grief did not find me whenever it rained and thunder struck. I was on the brink of panicking in class, but it was nowhere to be found. Grief did not appear even when our home was in chaos 24/7. 

I thought I was too strong to feel grief. I was brave, I did not crumble, I muttered over and over again. But the walls I built to last long and hard have cracked bit by bit, chipping steadily at the strength I needed to keep going.

And just when I thought it was over, grief proved to be wicked and cunning. I never imagined it would show up on a sunny day, when the sea was calm, when the humor of my friends and me was unmatched, and when I was having the time of my life partying. She would show up in that crowded place—when I so desperately wanted to be happy and free. 

My bluest sky turned into the darkest gray, and the sunlight became so bright that I was unable to see clearly. Grief locked me out of my room again. I couldn’t bring myself to make the bed again; folding the sheets became too difficult a chore. Communicating with others was an irritation, and eating my comfort food felt like a burden. 

Funny how grief is such a peculiar feeling, yet I knew exactly what to do—pull myself together and isolate from everyone I knew. Perhaps I just wanted to vanish so completely that even I would not remember me. Yet, deep down lay the thought, the wish, that someone would be there for me. 

The universe has a knack for turning things up for the plot, because she caught me on a random Thursday when everything seemed to fall into place. You had somehow pulled yourself together, started going for the occasional 10-km run, and cooked for yourself, only to spiral back down into the void, desperate to escape its hurt.  

It was when you had tried so hard to get up but could only stay on your knees, helpless. When you were lost in that sense of guilt for not helping yourself because the universe seemed to conspire against it. When you lost count of the times you asked the Creator to make it stop for you, just for once. 

She is the villain of my story, and for some reason, the hero is nowhere to be found. The savior usually arrives after a disaster, but it is not the same in my story; the world did not end when mine stopped. That is why I refuse to be my own hero. I cannot be my hero for I know it is a battle I cannot win. I despise grief for it reveals my weakness, yet no matter how I persevere in that 10-km run, she will always find a way to reach me. 

Grief will continue to be there. I’m afraid it’s the only thing I can’t resist, and I’ll get used to it—being numb to what remains. To catch a glimpse of some things that remind you of them, to order their go-to drink because you missed them, to listen to the songs they liked, to crave their warmth in places you least expected. The moments you shared together play on repeat because you don’t want to forget them. 

I’ll be catching the fragments of a love that once was because grief lives on where love continues to exist.  

Antonette Alzaga, 22, a fourth-year journalism student at Bicol University College of Arts and Letters in Legazpi City, is the content editor of Budyong Online and an intern at CoverStory.

Read more: Time, through the looking glass