Last week, my sleep was unusually light; restless in a way I couldn’t quite explain. I’ve always believed I have a certain sensitivity to people, an almost instinctive awareness when someone is thinking about me or quietly calling me to mind. It’s the reason my messages or check-ins can seem random to others. But more often than not, when I reach out, it’s because something in me senses that someone, somewhere, might need it.

That week, though, the feeling was different. Persistent. Unsettling.

I couldn’t shake the sense that it was tied to someone from my past—a friend I no longer speak to because of unresolved issues. Night after night, they appeared in my dreams. Not once, not twice, but every single night. It wasn’t something I welcomed. Dreams, after all, don’t ask for permission. They arrive uninvited, stirring memories you thought had long settled.

Some might say it was simply my subconscious at work; that perhaps, deep down, I had been thinking about this person. But the truth is, I can’t even remember the last time they crossed my mind while I was awake.

So I’m left wondering.

Was it one-sided? Was it just me, caught in the quiet echoes of something unfinished? Or could it be that somewhere, in ways we can’t fully explain, they were thinking of me too?

Still, in a world where reaching out is as simple as making a call, silence feels like a choice. And perhaps that silence says more than any dream ever could.

I still remember the color of the water that day.
Not bright blue, not inviting…just restless, reflecting the dark clouds gathering above Bataan as an incoming Signal #3 typhoon approached.

It was my birthday.

My siblings, who were based in Bataan then, gathered at Pan Resort for a simple family celebration. We ate too much, laughed too loudly, and tried to ignore the weather that threatened to cancel the day. But Filipinos have a way of pushing joy through storm warnings. So we swam anyway.

The pool was alive with noise: splashing water, children shouting, adults teasing each other, plates of food waiting under covered tables while the wind slowly grew stronger.

I was happy.
Very happy.

I remember swimming for a long time, feeling light despite being completely full from eating. I kept moving around the pool until I drifted farther than I realized. Then suddenly, my feet could no longer touch the floor.

The deep part.

At first, I thought I could easily recover. I tried to swim back, but my body felt heavy. My stomach was too full. My movements became weak and strangely slow. The more I tried to stay afloat, the more exhausted I became.

Then came the terrifying realization:

I was drowning.

Not dramatically.
Not like in movies.

There was no screaming. No wild splashing. No one noticing.

That is the strange thing about drowning…it can happen quietly.

I remember wanting to call for help, but I could barely speak. It felt as if my body had already decided that breathing was more important than words. Around me, everyone was still laughing, swimming, enjoying the birthday celebration.

And there I was, silently slipping beneath the water.

Oddly enough, panic did not completely take over. Somewhere in that frightening moment, I stopped fighting so hard. I relaxed my body enough to keep from sinking deeper, allowing myself to drift little by little until I finally reached the side of the pool.

I held onto the edge.

Alive.

I do not remember anyone realizing what almost happened.

And I never told them.

Not that day.

I did not want to ruin the mood. I did not want my birthday to suddenly become “the day someone almost died.” So I stayed quiet, dried myself off, and carried on as if nothing had happened while the typhoon winds slowly rolled closer outside the resort.

Years later, that memory still visits me sometimes.

Not because I want attention for surviving it, but because of what it revealed about me.

Even in danger, my instinct was silence.
Even while struggling, my instinct was not to disturb others.
Even on the edge of panic, part of me was still protecting everyone else’s happiness.

Maybe many people are like that.

Maybe some of us learn very early to endure quietly: to survive without making noise, to carry fear privately, to recover before anyone notices we were ever in trouble.

But every now and then, I think about that younger version of myself floating in dark water beneath typhoon skies in Bataan, trying not to alarm anyone while fighting to stay alive.

And I want to tell her something she did not know back then:

You did not have to disappear just to keep the moment beautiful.

My classmates and childhood friends have often described me as someone with a sharp memory.

I remember what happened when we were kids: who cried on the first day of school, who was naughty, who was quiet, who was the teacher’s pet, who seemed to stand out even at a young age. These small details stayed with me, not because I tried to hold on to them, but because they simply never left.

As we grew older, my friends from my teenage years were often amused—or sometimes a little cynical—about my tendency to remember everything. I could recall who dated whom, who was considered the most admired in school, who fought over what, and who quietly carried their first heartbreak.

Occasionally, I share pieces of my own story too. I remember the quick getaways from school, the people I once found endearing, and the season of my life when bouquets of flowers would arrive at my college room from quiet admirers. I remember my first boyfriend as well—someone who, in hindsight, was far too controlling (sorry! haha)

From a memoirist’s point of view, these memories are not meant to entertain or provoke. I tell them to revisit the moments that shaped me, to understand how each experience—no matter how simple or complex—contributed to the person I am today.

When I speak of the love I lost as a teenager, I do not dwell on the person. Instead, I acknowledge the timeline of events, trusting that both the good and the painful helped form the way I now see the world—with clarity, without bitterness, and without regret.

Not everyone understands how a memoirist’s mind works. But for me, remembering is not about holding on—it is about understanding, and quietly moving forward.