POV

04.23.25

My smile faded the moment my older brother started laughing at me again—teasing me, as he always does.

It used to be funny, but today, it felt different.

There was a sting behind the sound of his laughter, maybe because I knew it would be one of the last I’d heard for a while.

As he packed his clothes into his large travel bag, I sat there in silence, watching him.

My eyes welled up with tears, and I blinked rapidly, refusing to let the river flow.

But the lump in my throat made it hard to breathe.

He’s leaving for Manila today at exactly 3 PM, off to start a job that promises a better life—for him, for our family, and for me, his little sister.

I sat still, watching every movement he made as if memorizing them could make the moment last longer.

And just like that, the laughter on his lips disappeared too.

He must have seen the sadness in my eyes—or maybe he felt it himself.

The room that once echoed with his jokes suddenly grew quiet.

I looked away and fixed my attention on my phone, pretending I wasn’t hurting.

But inside, I was breaking apart.

I know he’s going to miss us, especially Mama, who is back home in the province, tending to the farm with all her quiet strength.

I wish he could stay.

I wish I could be selfish for just one moment and ask him not to go.

But who am I to stop him?

He has dreams to chase—dreams bigger than this small town we grew up in.

And part of that dream is to help me finish college, to see me succeed.

I can’t take that away from him.

Still, memories won’t stop flooding my mind.

They come in waves—those nights and days filled with laughter, silly fights, and shared secrets.

The times we joked around at home or wherever we happened to be.

We weren’t always this close.

When we were younger, we were like fire and ice—constantly bickering over toys, food, anything and everything.

We were enemies in every game and rivals in every meal.

But time softened us.

Now, we’re more like sheep—gentle, calm, and quietly connected in ways we never imagined back then.

And now, as tears escape my eyes despite my efforts to hold them back, I quickly wipe them away before anyone notices.

There’s a weight pressing on my chest at the thought of him being far from us.

He’s old enough, yes, but the fear creeps in: what if he finds someone else there?

What if one day he comes back not just with bags of clothes, but with a wife and a child in tow?

That’s what always seems to happen when someone leaves for Manila—they return with a whole new life.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most: knowing that change is coming whether I’m ready for it or not.

If only we were still children, maybe I wouldn’t feel this ache—this bittersweet sadness.

Maybe I would only feel the joy of seeing him finally able to work for his dreams, for our future.

But being older means understanding the cost of growth. It means realizing that love and pain often hold hands.

I remember when I went through a breakup.

He was there—not with grand speeches or dramatic comfort, but with his usual style: silly jokes and small, meaningful advice hidden beneath his laughter.

He made me laugh through tears, and somehow, that was enough to get me through.

I’ll miss that.

I’ll miss his singing, his silly dances, his mischievous jokes.

I’ll miss the noise he brings and the quiet comfort of knowing he’s just in the next room.

Oh, my heart is breaking.

Not in a loud, crashing kind of way, but in the slow, aching silence that lingers in every goodbye.

God alone knows how much I love this older brother of mine—not perfect, but real.

He’s more than just a sibling.

He’s been my anchor in storms, my source of joy in heavy days, my protector, my playmate, my companion.

So as he steps out into the world,

I sent him my deepest prayer.

May God guide your every step, Dude.

May He give you strength when you feel weak, protect you from harm, and bless every corner of your life.

I’ll be here, always, silently cheering you on with all the love my heart can hold.