Some losses are too deep for ordinary words. This is one of those days when memory feels heavier, love feels louder, and silence says more than it should.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
It has been 58 days since you left us.
Fifty-eight mornings of waking up to a world that no longer holds your voice. Fifty-eight nights of trying to make peace with a silence that feels heavier than any sound.
And still… it feels unreal.
There are days when I manage. Days when I bury myself in work, in responsibilities, in anything that can keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. I move through hours like nothing has changed, smiling when needed, speaking when required, fulfilling roles that demand strength.
But grief has its own way of finding me.
It comes quietly. Unexpectedly.
In the middle of an ordinary moment, my heart would suddenly race, as if it remembers before I can even think. As if it whispers, “You cannot escape this. This is real.”
And today… today is one of those days.
Our home still carries you.
Not just in memories, but in presence.
I see you in the spaces you used to fill so effortlessly. In the corners where laughter once echoed. In the simple, ordinary things that now feel incomplete. It’s as if every wall, every chair, every quiet afternoon is still waiting for you to walk in again.
And maybe that’s what makes this so difficult.
Because in my heart, you never really left.
Whatever I do, wherever I go, I carry you with me. Not just as a memory but as someone I still long for. Someone I still expect to see. Someone I still want to talk to.
My younger brother.
I told myself I have accepted it.
I told myself you are in a better place—no… the best place. A place where pain does not exist, where tears are no longer needed, where peace is complete and eternal.
I hold on to that truth. I believe it.
But belief does not erase longing. It does not erase the fact that we could no longer see you, eat with you, talk with you, and be with you in this world.
Because even if heaven has gained you… I have lost you here.
And there are days—honest, fragile days, when a part of me still resists reality. Days when my heart quietly protests and says, “What if this isn’t true? Unta damgo ra ang tanan!”
It’s not denial.
It’s love of the family… refusing to let go too quickly.
If missing you is a language, then my heart speaks it every day.
If longing is a place, then I have been living there since the day you left.
And yet, in the middle of all this pain, I return to God’s promise—that He is near, especially now, especially here, in the quiet places where I break without words.
Grief is not the absence of strength.
It is the presence of love that has nowhere to go.
So I will carry this.
I will carry you.
In every memory, in every silent prayer, in every tear I cannot show, and in every moment I choose to keep going even when it hurts.
Because you were never just part of my life.
You are part of who I am.
And no distance—not even death—can ever take that away.
58 days. 58 nights.
I miss you… more than words can hold.
