IN THE span of four years, my life had changed from praying to be accepted into the Ateneo to counting the number of days before leaving. Indeed, the years leading up to this moment had revolved around embodying my favorite color in various aspects: the University, the Zoom classes, the heart reactions on Messenger, and the feeling of being blue.

Regardless of the pandemic denying us two full years of campus life, I was able to consider the Ateneo a “home” with the sense of peace and belongingness it provides. The Ateneo watches people come and go over the years—every brick is testament to the many people that had once called the Ateneo a “home.”

Even with all the upcoming graduation dry runs, no amount of preparation could ever be enough for the heartbreak of losing what you consider your home. With each hour that passes by, the dreaded day of bittersweet farewells creeps in as we slowly come into terms with yet another concluding sentence of a major chapter in our lives.

My home was also a person. Like the Ateneo, they were full of love, acceptance, patience, and peace.

Loving them—like loving the Ateneo—was never difficult. We learned to find love in the mundanest of things: during rides in the back of the e-jeepney, the 10-minute waltzes between lectures, or the midnight snack runs along Katipunan Avenue.

Amid the halls of Gonzaga and the Science Education Complex filled with chatter and chaos, I found silence solely in their presence. If only the brick-laden walls could talk, they would have long been gossiping about our secret moments and stolen glances that were so deeply hidden from the eyes of the prying public.

Just like how I have to leave behind the Ateneo, I too have to let go of the person I considered my home. In more ways than one, graduating and moving on are similar: Both invoke feelings of the inevitable and forceful acceptance of leaving behind what you once had called “home.”

In two months’ time when the graduation bells ring and the marches commence, may we realize that some goodbyes are painful but still necessary. Life certainly does not end when you walk off the stage or accept the loss of a great love. Memories will cut like the knives we used to cook with—but like with all wounds, they heal given enough time.

One day, I may confidently walk the same halls again that have been eyewitnesses of the love and happiness I once had. Someday, even the Church of Gesù will simply be a monument to visit for a sense of peace rather than a place to immerse oneself in grief.

Past the longingness, the Ateneo has now transformed into a repository of memories that have long been engraved deep into our hearts. These will stick around even after graduation: Whether it be the past four years of my college life or the last ten months of my Senior Year, the memories and people I choose to keep have taught me how to love and be loved, forming the person I am today.

If reliving those four years of college life meant I would get to know my home all over again—the mannerisms, voice, favorite shows, and how our hearts fit together like two pieces of a puzzle—then let me experience those hardships again to watch our story unfold once more.

Au revoir to my home and the Ateneo—until we meet again.

Emman is a Computer Science student from the Ateneo de Manila University who is expected to graduate this June 2024. He utilizes his knowledge in programming to tell immersive stories and to make a change in the world.

Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.