Happy Birthday, Iya (Whispered)

    this year felt different. heavier. quieter. maybe this is what they call the birthday blues — that strange, hollow ache that settles inside your chest when the world expects you to be happy. maybe it’s more than that. maybe it’s something that’s been growing quietly inside me for years, patiently waiting for the right moment to rise to the surface. and today, it finally had enough space to breathe. no distractions. no noise to drown it out. just me, and the weight of everything i’ve kept tucked away.

    at 4am, while the world slept peacefully, i found myself standing alone in a corridor. the floor was cold beneath my feet, grounding me in a reality i didn’t want to face. the walls were silent, but in that silence, every thought i’ve tried to bury echoed back louder than ever. i whispered a soft “happy birthday” to myself. no candles. no laughter. no warm embraces. just me and the air, the darkness holding my words like a fragile secret. i sang not because i wanted to celebrate, but because i needed to make a wish — sana ito na ang huli. that maybe the heaviness will finally fade… or maybe, this will be my last birthday. it wasn’t loud; it wasn’t desperate. it was a quiet surrender, a fragile wish whispered to the night like something i’ve held in for far too long.

    when morning came, light flooded the room but not my heart. my phone lit up with notifications — messages piling in like fireworks bursting one after another. “happy birthday,” “i love you,” “you deserve the best.” maybe they were genuine. maybe each word carried a piece of someone’s heart. but mine… couldn’t catch any of it. it’s like there’s an invisible wall between me and their kindness. i read their messages and smiled politely, but inside, everything felt muted. the words floated through me like smoke — visible, beautiful, but impossible to hold. they disappeared as quickly as they appeared, leaving only silence behind.

    the gifts, too, remain unopened. they sit quietly in the corner, their bright colors almost mocking the dullness inside me. once upon a time, i would’ve torn into them with excitement, eager to feel loved and remembered. now, i just stare. i wait for that familiar spark — the one that whispers, “you matter, this is your day, you’re loved.” but nothing comes. my hands feel too heavy to lift. my heart feels too tired to pretend. and that terrifies me. because maybe this is who i’ve become — someone who can no longer feel joy the way they used to. someone slowly fading behind practiced smiles and carefully constructed walls.

    i’ve never been good at opening up. i’ve spent most of my life hiding behind humor, achievements, kindness — anything to keep people from seeing the unfiltered parts of me. no one has ever truly seen the raw, unguarded version of myself. but this time, i tried. i allowed tiny cracks to show. kahit ang sakit. kahit parang ako lang ang nagbibigay. because that’s how i love — quietly, fully, without expecting anything in return. i give pieces of myself softly, hoping someone might notice without me having to ask. but most days, it feels like those pieces just fall into the void.

    people celebrate birthdays as markers of life — proof that we’ve made it through another year. for most, it’s a day of laughter, wishes, and warmth. for me, it’s something else entirely. it feels like a mirror held up to my soul, reflecting every silent battle i’ve fought, every tear shed behind closed doors, every moment i chose to keep walking despite the heaviness. it’s a reminder of the nights i cried myself to sleep with no one knowing. the mornings i forced a smile just so others wouldn’t worry. the countless times i convinced myself i was okay because it was easier than explaining the truth.

    every “i love you” sent my way might be real, but there’s a filter in me now — one that keeps the warmth from settling in. i can hear it. i can read it. but i can’t feel it anymore. and maybe that’s the scariest part. natatakot ako. i’m scared of what this numbness means. i’m scared of how effortless it’s become to hide behind a smile. i’m scared that one day, people will only remember the surface — the jokes, the laughter, the friendly presence — and never realize the storm quietly raging underneath it all.

    but here’s something i rarely acknowledge: even in the middle of that fear, i stayed. i continued. i loved in the ways i knew how. i showed up, even when it felt like I was slowly unraveling. maybe that’s why i stood in that corridor at 4am — not just to make a wish to disappear, but to leave a quiet imprint that says i was here. i tried. even when no one saw it. even when it felt like my efforts were swallowed by the dark. i still tried.

    if this is my last birthday, then let this be my final letter to the world: i’m tired, yes. i’m scared, yes. but every word here is real. every silent battle was fought with everything i had. and if anyone ever wonders why the brightest smiles sometimes hide the heaviest hearts, let this be proof. not a cry for attention, not a performance, but a truth whispered softly: i existed. i felt deeply. i loved quietly. and even in the darkness, i tried to keep my light alive — even if it flickered more than it burned...