HOME IS where the heart is—a tenet that seems simple enough until you’ve followed countless paths and taken one too many turns, leaving you wondering whether you’re merely on a journey or lost in transit.
In my case, passing by places is nothing new. On Mondays at 3:00 AM, you can find me waiting for the Katipunan-bound bus in my rural town in Laguna. After three hours of squeezing myself in between strangers and shifting in the vehicle’s cold foam seat, I witness the greens of rice fields dissipate into the grays of cement.
It takes a certain aptitude to get used to the disorienting feeling of waking up in a new city. What follows is a series of blurred days until, by Friday evening, I’m at the Cubao terminal, waiting for the trip that will afford me two days in our family home until I leave again.
Leaving has become a motif for me—like how I left everyone I knew from grade school to attend high school two towns away, just to do the same when I moved to Manila for university. Both decisions were motivated by the pursuit of my ambitions. They were steps I took to bring me closer to the future I wanted.
Yet sometimes, I mull over how I have no one to call a childhood best friend or that I only keep in touch with a few high school friends. I always tell myself that it’s simply the cost of chasing better opportunities; the fare that I have to pay for every departure. However, as I’m nearing my final year in college, it gets harder to be at peace with the possibility that the same thing could happen again.
The truth about having dreams is that it requires constant motion—and oftentimes, it will leave you questioning whether you will ever find a place to call home.
As I go back and forth between the fast-paced rigor of college life and the slow Saturday mornings in my hometown, it’s hard to ignore the gnawing feeling that I’m always running out of time.
On weekdays, my mindset is simply to get by until I can taste home-cooked meals again; on weekends, I am consumed by everything that I would have to face once I return. This sense of displacement hinders me from fully grasping what’s right in front, with my eyes fixed on where to go next.
However, as much as the ceaseless movement brought me discomfort, it also molded me into someone who can find community in the various faces I encounter, even if only for fleeting moments. Feeling uprooted made me realize that home is not bound by permanence—it exists in the spaces between where you are and where you will be.
After all, there is a certain comfort that comes with knowing that I’ll never be static. The awareness that I will eventually leave a place and the people in it makes me appreciate each passing second even more.
While I won’t be sharing backseats with my college friends forever, I embrace the intimacy that comes with it all the same. I will hold onto the warmth that continues to drive me forward, whether my aspirations take me to towering skyscrapers or far-flung islands.
For now, I cherish the company and encounters I can take with me as I traverse the fine line between living and leaving.
Rozz is an AB Psychology student minoring in English Literature and is set to graduate in 2026. With his love for culture and stories, he aims to craft narratives that prompt reflection and connection. By tapping into people’s personal spheres, he hopes to contribute to building more inclusive communities.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication
