Maeve Saoirse Ermino, the magnetic guitarist of the popular band Lyra, revels in the exhilaration of her music, unaware that one of her most ardent admirers is hiding in plain sight. Asael Dominguez, known as Asi, has carefully guarded his admiratio...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Mornings at home usually carried a sense of calm. Our dining table was set with the simple, familiar sights of sinangag, tuyo, and eggs, steam curling up from cups of coffee.
The quiet hum of morning sounds—the soft clink of silverware, the steam rising from the mugs—felt like a world apart from the chaos I often found myself tangled in.
It was peaceful in a way that always tugged at something inside me, though lately, the peace felt more like a reminder of everything else I'd chosen for myself—the band, the expectations, the demands of school. All self-inflicted, of course.
I had always liked the stillness, but it was hard to fully appreciate it with everything else hanging over me like an unspoken weight.
My parents didn't really care for the band. "Nak," wika ni Mom, her voice gentle but disapproving, "It's just... different from what we hoped for you."
She never said it outright, but I could feel her worry in the way she chose her words, soft but firm, like she was trying to protect me from the uncertainty of it all.
I knew where she was coming from—most parents wouldn't exactly cheer at the thought of their daughter turning her back on traditional paths for late-night gigs and a wild dream.
The truth was, they couldn't understand it the way I did—how music had always felt like the one thing I truly owned, the one thing I could do without fear. Though sometimes I do fear performing.
To them, the future I was choosing didn't seem secure, reliable. But as long as I loved it, they supported me, even if it was reluctantly.
Their support was always quieter than their doubts, but I'd learned to accept it. After all, they didn't have to understand, just accept.
Gano'n sila kahit noon pa man—never outwardly strict, but I could sense the quiet reservations beneath their encouragement. At nagpapasalamat ako ro'n, despite the weight those silences carried.
Sometimes, the silence felt heavier than any lecture could.
As I sat there, wala sa sariling hinahalo ang kape ko, my dad asked, "How's school?" He wasn't probing. There was no judgment in his tone, just a curiosity that was both comforting and, in a way, frustrating.
I nodded, trying to force a smile. "It's... okay. Medyo nakakastress lang po, pero kinakaya naman."
Stress was an understatement. It felt like I was always on the verge of cracking under the pressure of deadlines, performances, and expectations.
