I woke up coughing on Saturday, coughing harder on Sunday, and feverish on Monday. So, perhaps for the first time in my working life, I took a day off because I'm sick.

Slightly ironic, since it's been exactly a year since I started working.

Well, to be precise, I only took a day-off from being in the office. I figured I'll work at home since I don't have anything better to do in the first place. It's an option anyway, although it felt much more complicated when I was already availing of it, as if the company wanted me to have a hard time whenever I do stuff. Then again, if your life revolves around searching for stuff online to bluff about, well, why should having to deal with people who shun you be a part of it?

That is one advantage of working from home. You don't have to deal with these people: the pieces of paper that suddenly show up on your desk without an explanation, or those glimpses of how my life should've been in college. I was texting Kris - the only person who seemingly acknowledged my working at home, to her credit - with a towel wrapped around myself, as I was going to take a bath before my phone started singing. Apart from that, nothing much has really changed, since I've always considered myself alone - or, dare I say, independent? - for the majority of my year at work.

And then there are the conveniences being at home gives you. I have this urge to finish everything before the clock hits six when I'm at the office. Here, it's what Jayvee basically calls "flexible time" - obviously a dream since I still have to wait for the clock to hit six before I go home, even if I finished everything four hours before. For some reason, I feel much freer to be myself at work: I can laugh out loud with whatever comes up on The Fashion Show, I can dance to whatever I'm listening to, rather than just tap my feet; and I can cuss at myself when I do a little boo-boo on the stuff I'm typing in. Everyone did say you should be quiet.

And then there are the things you're not used to doing on a workday. I don't reheat my lunch. I don't cook my rice. I don't open the door when my sister arrives earlier than usual from her classes. I don't pay our monthly garbage collection fee. Well, at least not when I'm at work. My body clock did feel a little confused, actually, especially considering that I am still sick: I finished everything yesterday at five and felt so dizzy I had to sleep. Or, my mother wanted me to sleep, because I still wanted my personal time on the PC. One point for misplaced dedication.

But I appreciate the ability to walk around more often. The back row's presence also meant I leave my desk less often, especially when they're out having lunch together (and, in my paranoid mindset, making fun of my inability to admit my feelings). Usually my water bottle's left unfilled, but over the past two days I've had more water than I usually have, and I've walked to the kitchen many times just to shake stuff off me. Oh, right, I've been working at home for two days now. Yesterday was me at my sickest, with a fever nobody could figure out, which explains all the fluid consumption and all the toilet trips. This morning, my fever was gone but it was a horrible case of the snuffles. I actually felt better before nine, but rather than risk being late - and taking back all of those text messages - well, there's only one alternative.

Well, while it's better editing your photos with Photoshop than with whatever Microsoft had built in - thank you for your sneakiness, GIMP Portable! - it feels a little weird being rattled out of the stuff you've been used to. Sure, it's a no-brainer half-bluffing, or complaining about the lack of fashion knowledge on a fashion reality show, but it's as if you're doing something wrong, and - maybe it's my paranoid self again - it's as if they'll take you down for doing something that others have done before. As if you were smirking from your responsibilities - I literally got worse after yesterday, after all, so where's my medical insurance card? That, and perhaps that achingly (and seriously) annoying coincidence that's happened with the three days I've been away from the office over the past week.

Oh well. I just hope nobody messes this one thing up - or, in other words, please answer my emails. Happy first anniversary, Niko. You said you'll be here for only six months, and yet you're celebrating a year, or whatever comes close to celebrating.

Marking. Commemorating. Not fondly. There.

I was done with all my work, having finished everything (and then some) for the day, so I decided to confirmed her Facebook invitation and go through her profile. She was tagged in eight hundred photos, which wasn't an unusual number considering I have friends who were tagged in a thousand, but I felt it was a lot when I browsed through all of them. She was this girl who, as I later realized, was a cross between Misha Balangue and Miley Cyrus, only she couldn't decide on her hair color - pitch black at one moment, bleached blonde on another. She was riding horses, frolicking in the beach, hanging out at home, sneaking a photograph while studying at the library.

At first glance, she'd be a person I'd be pretty interested in, although not in that half-usual achingly romantic way. The thing was, I already knew her.

It was during film writing class when Sir Doy had all of us write a letter, obviously hypothetical, to someone we had a lot of questions to. I didn't want to gravitate towards the usual suspects - then again, my distant relatives are so distant I don't have any idea where to start - but, after ten minutes of thinking, I remembered her. I'll admit, I did forget her, apart from the very rare mentions from old friends. It's been eight years or something.

Two days later, I read out my letter in class, and I think my professor was genuinely interested in my story. With a little fictionalization, it'd be a love story between the most unlikely of people. I didn't pursue that; it'd be too long for a short screenplay.

Well, I guess you don't remember me anymore.

It's been a while, really. You left Manila when we finished Grade 5, and I can still vividly remember when we cried at the thought of you leaving. But of course, Anna, I remember. What about the "rivalry" we had with hand-drawn newspapers we circulated within the classroom? We were rivals, even in academics - either you made it good in class, or I did. I silently laughed when you complained about Tita Bel cutting your nails too close to the fingers.

In hindsight, Anna came as a storm of sorts to the class. She was technically a year behind us, although she somehow got accelerated when her family returned from the United States. Suddenly there was a new name on that piece of cartolina with all of our names on it. "Mary Anna Mansat," it said, and I was curious, as we all used to be when someone new came to class.

To keep the long story short, I felt intimidated by her presence, not after many years of me being the best in class. (Or, I was thinking too highly of myself at a young age, which is odd since I never got the highest honors in school because of my attitude.) She was around for only two years - this thin, wide-eyed girl with black hair and perhaps the whimsiest of whims. Yes, that time when she was complaining about her mother cutting her nails too close was true. I think me and the guys made fun of her during the time. "Ang arte naman niya," we went.

But I couldn't get myself to dislike her. Yeah, she is admirable, for one. And then there's the fact that she's a family friend. They occupied a big house a few streets away: I remember the really big wooden staircase with two makeshift gates to keep her then baby brother, Matthew (if I remember the name correctly), at bay. My parents knew her parents from Couples for Christ prayer meetings, and everything else followed. I remember somehow looking forward to visiting her place simply because of all those stuff she brought home from the States - those quiz booklets, plushies in plastic bags, magazines that had that smell on them.

Or maybe you remember that one time we played in your bedroom. "The Niko and Anna Museum", complete with torn-up pad paper for tickets, and nobody came.

Her family decided to return to the United States, and I knew that very well. We'd lose a couple during the prayer meetings, plus a couple of facilitators during Kids for Christ sessions at the subdivision's excuse for a clubhouse. Her last day of classes at MTS was perhaps a very awkward day. She went around, saying goodbye to almost everyone. And then there was me, her biggest rival in almost everything - well, not exactly, since we did collaborate on Hello News - folded pieces of bond paper with fake advertisements and all those American ideas - until I broke away and she got dissolved. I think we were seated in one of those ledges with plants on them. Or maybe two school desks put outside for some reason. I don't remember what we said, but I do remember the crying, and I do remember the hugging. And then, nothing.

Life did get in the way. I graduated from MTS, still not getting the highest honors. High school was, as you all know, tumultuous. There was a moment when I got in touch with her, but we were all new to the Internet back then, and I was trying to make sense of what her Yahoo! ID stood for. ("Cutie angel Pinay girl," I think.) My parents left CFC, I've lost touch with everybody who possibly had contact with her, and then everything else came. Her house was still standing, still in that shade of green, but slowly it lost meaning as I grew up. Then, that homework for film writing class.

I haven't heard from you since you said you're abandoning your Friendster account. I last checked, and it still has Kristen Kreuk's photo on it. I know, your favorite character from Smallville. And all the testimonials that came from all of us, your friends who you left behind for the United States.

Maybe I shouldn't bother asking, but for old times' sake, how are you? I'm sure Matt-Matt has grown, and I'm sure Tita Bel and Tita Ador are still the nice parents I've met when we were still bouncing around during Kids for Christ meetings. Maybe I should ask about school - I'm sure you're doing well, judging from how you've fared in elementary. I hope you aren't crying over low grades like you did eight years ago. Obviously you've got new friends, maybe a love life unlike me (but who's to ask?) and maybe a better life, at least relatively, than the rest of us here.

But if there's one thing I've been itching to ask, it's why you left Friendster in the first place. Shallow, I know, but I thought we'd be able to talk to you, like we used to in elementary, even if we sort of hated you for being smart and airy at the same time. You didn't even leave behind a way for us to keep in touch. I remember, we almost banded together for your eighteenth birthday - a video message, apparently, to be sent via email. Last I heard it never materialized.

Forgive me, Anna. I actually write letters like this now, only it's an email. I end up remembering all those stereotypes of American teenage girls, all with their shopping sprees and adventures with boys. Call me sentimental, but I hope you aren't like the rest of them.

It was exactly what I was thinking while browsing those photos. But I wasn't worried, although it's because I forgot I wrote that fake email for a college class. It was more of curiosity. I didn't expect to see her on Facebook, although I should've. Somehow, she found Carmel after she posted our class picture a year after she left, and then she found everybody else, and the conversations, while still a trickle, started coming in. Well, they had relatively more contact with her, and me, after everything that happened since I moved schools, haven't. Only difference was, of course, we all replied to her in English.

"Isn't it interesting that suddenly you've connected with, say, six of us in a week or so?" I wrote on her wall.

"Yeah, all from that one elementary picture!" she replied. "I still have the box with all the stuff everyone gave me before I moved away. Did you find the other MTS pics, by the way?"

I've yet to look for those photos, especially since my mother moved our old photo albums somewhere else. And that box she was talking about? I absolutely can't remember it.

Oh, but what's the use? We've not talked for eight years. I guess you've forgotten me and all of what we've been through by now.

I got that one all wrong. Well, maybe almost, but still.

The feeling was, to put it gently, quite odd. There you were, surrounded by familiar places, but the whole place felt unfamiliar to you. Nothing sticks out. Must be the dark skies, although there's no way you'd see those skies from the inside. Must be the people around you, although you're used to the lunch crowd, strangers occupying restaurant tables, only they have IDs wrapped around their necks, and suits over their abdomen, or whatever counts as business.

You make your way around the place, but there's absolutely nothing you can do. Twenty minutes, and you're forced to wait, as much as you tried avoiding idle time. Then again, there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. There's another path, and you walk through that, and you see stall after stall, and you remember the things you tried before, and one of them stood out, and you go there, and you find solace in the things you know you're not familiar with. You might call that familiarity, too.

It is, after all, a self-contained complex. Not isolated, but it feels like it. Step out, and you see a different crowd. Step in, and it all changes. You're probably used to hearing people laugh without provocation, to a lack of uptightness, to a more bustling crowd. But if it's change you're looking for, you've got to deal with all of this. Starting over again, dealing with your worries, wondering whether you can cut it, or whether they'll let you. These thoughts as you walk in the rain, and lunch groups slowly progressing to work groups, corporate drab transforming to hipster chic, or whatever amounts to it.

Can you do it? You can do what they want you to do. You're afraid you can't do what you have to do. And you listen in to the conversations, and they know what they're doing, and you're trying your best not to get your anxieties get in you. They're just inside you, waiting to be tapped, and when they do, it's another hello to the breakdown, like when you failed one thing, or failed another. Well, more of getting one detail wrong.

And then they call your name, and you get led to a table, and while a wall covers all your insecurities, you feel you're doing pretty good. Hopeful, just as the rain falls, as everything you have breaks apart, perhaps looking for a replacement. They do say it's merely first day jitters. Maybe that means you'll have another first day, and you'll be like them. The irony, perhaps, of conformity. Make the same mistakes, and you'll be back where you actually are right now.

Marielle Antonio flew to Japan immediately after her graduation, along with her family. Last we heard, she is working as an English teacher to Japanese students, much like her father.

Ariane Astorga started working as part of a technology company's marketing staff a week after graduation. In between hosting events, writing press releases and voicing phone systems, she's still looking for a "career that she hopes would suit her better," according to a statement she released. She was heard on the radio for one morning and one night, but has yet to find the right match for her.

Kris Balingit currently works as a management trainee for BPI. "It's kinda boring na kasi you keep on doing the same thing each and every single day," she once said. "I'm not complaining, though."

Niko Batallones still works as an "outsourced writer", and despite everything, he feels he's done things not everybody - even his colleagues - have done. "Inaway ako ng mga readers ko kasi I said Adam [Lambert] shouldn't win," he said. "That's just one of them. My best work involves starting controversies. I think I have." The rest of his life, he says, has been well-documented.

Trix Deseo started writing for ClicktheCity.com before graduation, and has since written many of the website's food reviews. "Try dieting when your job is to eat a lot everyday," she once said on her Facebook page. "Now that is hard. That Chunky Choco Tempura is evil. Deep fried chocolate? How could I resist?"

Mimi Esteban is currently working as a publishing specialist for an American company. When asked for work anecdotes, she had nothing to say.

Jason Lopez can't believe that it's been a year. He's left for the United States in January, and now works as an intern at a production company, all while pursuing his dreams. One of his short films got shortlisted at the Philadelphia Independent Film Festival. "I haven't really earned a lot of money, pero I think I achieved a lot in terms of personal and career fulfillment," he said. "Yung pera na lang talaga yung kulang."

Edsel Mendoza took a holiday before taking a job as a photographer for The Picture Company, one of at least three CAM105 kids who did so. He did a short stint at the Mall of Asia branch before helping open the Greenbelt 5 branch. "I've been in the company for six months now," he said. "It's a steady job and [it] will do for now."

John Pangan currently works as part of Citigroup's sales staff, and has "learned and earned quite a lot of sales experience". But he admits he isn't happy with where he is right now. "It doesn't really make me self-fulfilled," he said. "Something is definitely missing." He intends to quit his job after his first year, and will look for a job that's more in line with his course. Despite the current economic woes, he thinks he's ready for it.

Kat Pasigan is busy working on several productions, having spent her time staying up late, meeting stars, and having her phone number unwillingly announced on air. "[I'm] now under [Rica Arevalo's] wing," she said. "Sort of a workaholic, but how can I not be? I love my job." She still aspires to become either a producer or a cinematographer. "Napakamagkaibang daan," she pointed out.

Jose Perfecto worked a few odd jobs, including a short stint in Cebu designing installations for an air conditioner manufacturer. He currently describes himself as "self-employed," working as a ceramic artist and doing everything from dinnerware to art pieces.

Naomi Quimpo pursued video editing for a while, before taking up a sales position at a hotel in Manila. "I would've continued editing kundi dahil kila mom," she said. "Enjoy naman. It's not the kind of selling that requires cold calls, finding your own clients, following up ... as in zero pressure." Her ultimate goal is to save up for law school, and get her own condominium at Eastwood City.

Sars San Juan is one of the few who have taken jobs within the media industry, having started work at QTV months after graduation. "I work as a production coordinator here," she said. "We can [use Facebook]."

Kaymee Santos has naturally remained quiet, and is reportedly working at an events management company. She couldn't be reached as of press time, so specifics are unknown.

Charmaine Tan also works as a marketing trainee in a bank at the moment. She also couldn't be reached as of press time, so specifics are also unknown.

Jackie Uy was already working for a cosmetic company before leaving at the end of last year to work as a writer for the noontime show Eat Bulaga! She has since left her post to study at the National Chengchi University in Taipei, on the back of a scholarship.

Malia Viardo flew to Singapore early this year after taking additional classes in digital arts. "One year later, [I'm] stuck in limbo waiting for a confirmation [for my] EPEC application," she said. "If it fails, screw Singapore. I will earn my first million here."

I'm scared of getting angry.

It's a natural thing, anyway. We can't always keep it in, especially if we find ourselves pushed to the wall. What else if something heavy and unwarranted has been dropped on you, and you're left with no other option? Capture all the rage that you can capture, focus it on one thing, and detonate.

But for some reason, everybody else gets away with it, and I don't. I was notorious for my tantrums when I was younger; when things got pretty bad I'd be quick with a howl and a barrage of tears. I was in a pretty awkward position in elementary school: I'm the kid who does well and has many friends, but the only thing keeping me from getting the top annual prize was my somewhat rowdy attitude. That, and the light bulb I broke when I slammed the door too hard during one of those bouts.

Of course, high school was less kind on me, both because the people surrounding me were more ruthless, and because we were expected to act mature, or whatever came close to it at the time. So the people around me were able to express themselves freely, and I can't? Sure, my reactions are always exaggerated, at least to them, while they were quite savvy with expressing their disappointment. Words versus animal howls.

All through that time, one lesson was being eased down my consciousness, or shoved down my throat. Freaking self-control.

I did learn that I'm the impulsive type. It all made sense: I didn't have control over my emotions, so it always is a barrage when I decide to release it, which is often. Or, as all crossfades go, was often. Sure, things got pretty better afterwards - all those friendships got a little smoother, and those run-ins with the authorities were limited to when it's a good thing - and eventually I felt good about myself. I no longer was the immature, explosive boy who would burst at the slightest provocation. I was like everybody else.

My existence, however, meant I still had the abilities to become angry. College. I got visibly annoyed at so many people, but it never reached a peak as often. When it did, I got scared of the consequences. I once threw a jacket at Jason in anger and felt I've lost someone. I once argued against having Jom as a partner in CWTS class (I was insisting on Ian) and felt I've lost everyone. I suddenly was scared of doing one false move - one move that deviated from "normal" and "acceptable" - and it affecting everything. Not good for one who always looked for seriously visible acceptance, as opposed to tolerance.

Well, that went with everything else anyway. But I learned, and I coped, and I still felt uncomfortable.

Simply said, my existence meant I'm still able to be angry, but being a twenty-year-old meant you can't do it anymore, unless you want a run-in with the police. Keep it all in, and release in tempered, controlled, civilized passes. The situation at work led me to realize that I've kept literally everything - the backfire is, I've learned how to hold a grudge, and while they say it isn't good for you, well, what the heck? - and along with that, the urge to just let it all out for once. Just one big outburst, enough to make a point but not bad enough to make me lose everything.

As you've all seen, I'm left to writing about living mutant wigs. I did say life was always unfair towards me, because they can all get away with it.

Eventually, you start to settle in, and you stop thinking too much about whether there was something wrong with you being yourself, something repulsive that made you pretty much a hate figure. You've made excuses for yourself, or maybe you prefer to call them justifications. You just push on as you hear the rest of the world make small talk, playing with promiscuous nurses or lost work, and maybe you'll hear the discussion shift towards you and everything that makes you undesirable. Or you're just thinking about it. You know preoccupation can only get you so far, and when all is finished, and everything else has been exhausted, you try to cover your ears by starting your own conversation, with someone, hopefully someone. But you have to be alone, or else you'll be the weakest person in the world, and that's the least of your intentions.

Or maybe it's just you who's so narrow-minded, thinking that the very people who hate you will be the ones who will carry you through. That's the product of a few months, and one shrouded in mystery at that. Nothing beats twenty years of just standing there and letting things be, not trying too hard and not slacking off, either. Right before you, a list of fifty people or so who might be willing to talk to you, and the time is just right, for everything's winding down and the rest are getting ready to head west. All of you are just the same, with basically the same problems and the same need for a companion, and yet they manage to say they don't need you, and you are left stranded. Or you're just thinking about it. But that's the case, surely, because at this stage, you're not supposed to hang on to others just to feel good. Start doing things for yourself. Be independent, please.

There are people who talk, and people who talk to you, and people who you have to talk to, and people who you enjoy being with, and people who are a combination of some, or all, of them, and it ends up being painful. There are things you can do, but there are more things you can't do. What you have is fragile. One wrong move and you break them. You're better off keeping all your crazy impulsive plans and, instead, be like everybody else. Respect circles. Stay away from them. You're too late. You've got nowhere else to go. It's raining, and you're falling in love, and you want a hug, and you feel a little colder as you walk your way back west, and you smell the smell of rain-drenched suits, and you feel uncomfortable, and you can't do anything about it.

You've kept yourself preoccupied again, but there's the irony. You ended up overthinking about everything. You haven't moved onward. You are still idle. You are still hearing things. Perhaps most importantly, you still want the last letter to fill your alphabet. Track one. Press repeat. Enjoy while you still can.

I forgot what day it was, but it was definitely this week, when I looked out the window and realized that it's sunny, unlike what the weather forecast for the past few days (and the weather itself) suggested. So, I left my desk, went to the elevator going down, and stepped out of the building, only to realize that it's raining. Very hard.

So, I went back up, trudged back to my desk - that walk full of utter derision again - and took out my umbrella. Elevator going down. Out of the building. I realized it's not raining anymore.

Well, it still was, but the sun was still shining, and it's just a few drizzles, the type that you can survive without using anything to cover your head. I still brought the umbrella anyway, because nothing gets better than being a boy scout - and, as I've long learned, you might be greeted by torrential rains once you step out of the mall. (I risk throwing another reference here, but I won't.) And, I was hungry.

I end up playing with my umbrella, as if I am Gene Kelly holding a cane. And it wasn't raining anymore.

People who are diagnosed with ADHD - you know, Magic, Beethoven, Nicksy - need some sort of routine, or else they get rattled. Or, at least, that's what I told my mom, because that's what I read from a book I chanced upon while doing some surprisingly personal school project. Somehow it gives some structure to the whole day, and while it gets boring in the long run, at least it gives you something you can lean on.

So, in my case, that'd be me checking the same websites whenever I log in. Or me doing the same thing whenever I get back to work from lunch - go to the restroom and, after doing business, turn off the iPod and roll up the earphones on the walk back to the desk, if only to remove the derision. Or me walking on the same route to the shuttle every night - which, since Valerie introduced me to it, revolves around four escalators, one revolving door, and a stride through MRT passengers.

And then there are the things that you can absolutely rely on happening, even if you don't want it to, like looking up when someone walks away (and always chancing on the same person, to my irritation, just like that). Or that forty-minute drag from the C5 exit to the Skyway off-ramp. Minimum. At least, I figured, when you get past there it'd be pretty quick, more or less.

To say the least, it's been seriously confusing lately. For two nights, that spot on the highway with freaking heavy traffic was a breeze - at one point it took me under thirty minutes to pass! The trade-off was at the Daang Hari, which usually takes ten minutes to navigate halfway, but now takes ten to just half of that distance. Similar situation, really.

Throw in the rain, the missing emails, and the later departures, and you can call me a shallow person. But we all live in a schizophrenic world, under the same schizophrenic sky, because even if we choose one thing, life always chooses another. If you're less cynical, you can call it an ever-changing world - and I accuse you of marketing-speak.

As always - well, not as always, but after fifty weeks as a torn employee, I've gotten used to this sort of conversations. Virtual, and deep despite the fact that we should be doing something else. In my case, news articles. In Ariane's case, well, whatever she's being asked to do.

"Niko-niks," she said.

"Yannie-yan," I answered.

"I'm torn," she started off. "Or, should I say, lost. As always."

"Between two lovers?" I quipped.

"No, not really," she answered. "Love is okay." But I wasn't thinking of love during the time. I was in a metaphorical state of mind, and after all this time, I knew what she was talking about.

"It's work that bothers me," she said. "Dude, mag-wa-one year na tayong wala sa DLSU. At one year nang nagtatrabaho."

"So what's your point, then?" I said. I didn't mean to sound snobbish, but she should have a point.

"Wala," she admitted. "Kinukumusta ko lang tayo. You and me both."

"Alam mo na ang sagot," I said.

"Eh, ayun na nga," she said. "My frustrations are starting to resurface again."

Familiar situation, I figured. It's when you've gotten tired of thinking of them, but you haven't really any choice. "Alam mo na sasabihin ko," I only said. Not a good line, in hindsight.

"Humor me," she answered.

"Me?" I went.

"What about you?" she continued.

"Ayoko nang ulitin," I said.

"Okay," she answered. "I guess there's an answer in that. In itself." I didn't understand what she meant. I was too sleepy to press her. Besides, she somehow changed the topic.

I knew something was up. Somehow, I knew the most important details, but I didn't feel it until it was all over. Then again, it's not unusual for someone to address everything and everyone being left behind before saying goodbye. It's the least you could do, after all, or else you'll be left with either sentimental pangs, or floating issues - or both - and it'll linger forever. Or maybe it's just me who's thinking that way.

Then again, Marcia didn't. I knew she was leaving for Canada. I knew her family's attempts to migrate halfway around the world was finally a success, after seven years, although it still surprised her. I knew she didn't want to go, and I knew she felt she didn't have any other choice. I knew she did her final catching up with her friends, that final get-together days before she took that flight to Toronto. And somehow, I didn't feel it coming.

For some reason, she chose not to make much out of it. I first time I mentioned it to her - we were chatting online, for I was at work - she somehow didn't want everyone else to know. Or at least that's what I remember. We didn't really talk much after that, but I saw her post one blog entry after another, reminiscing about the things she will miss once she finally leaves the Philippines and attempts to start over again. For some reason, it slowly made sense to me.

I wasn't particularly close to Marcia, although we did spend some time together. We, of course, took the same bus home from our classes, and whenever we had the chance we would, and we'd talk about so many things, unless we decided to sleep on the whole trip. (She often slept. I often woke her up when we approached Fernando's, the supermarket which has since closed.) Obviously I'm not alone in thinking she's one of the more outspoken members of the block, doing things with a slight activist slant, never one to back down. And yet she always the one who was concerned about other people - during our first year, when I felt the world was getting fucked up with my every attempt to connect, she took me aside and told me everything she thought. I should do this, I should do that. It'd usually annoy me, but during that instance, I didn't.

She did have her own group of friends. Initially she was, of course, with the party animals, somewhat connected by the fact that she, Ariane and Martin all lived in the same area. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I had the feeling she was set apart by the group for who she is - the fun-loving, perhaps slightly shallow people, against the one who'd speak out of things were amiss. I can't remember. It was four years back, after all. The only other thing I remember was her connections with Loui, Caresse and Tina, which came up for reasons I obviously wasn't able to track, when more important things happened. While it was a camaraderie that seemed to fit, something happened during thesis - and she found herself working solo. She told me it came down to a choice between her and Tina, and she thought she wasn't selected because of her outspoken tendencies. Again, correct me if I'm wrong.

I'm not exactly painting Marcia as a loner, but for some reason, she was. She wasn't afraid to strike out on her own, do things that she knew was right, and say things she felt had to be said. She snuck out of our Bulacan field trip to stop by her relatives, and nobody but a handful of us in journalism class had a clue that she was gone - she just showed up at the rendezvous and we all took more photographs as we went home. And yet she felt like someone who cared. It's quite a complicated explanation, really. But, at least for some, she was part of the ecosystem. You can't scrub her out of the whole picture.

For most of us in college, perhaps, she left without even a whisper.

I only realized she's arrived in Canada when I spotted her on YM today, and noticed that her status message said breakfast even if it's already nine in the evening. Of course, I decided to talk with her, and that first overseas chat predictably revolves around the cold summer temperatures and the time difference between Toronto - well, Brampton - and Manila. For some reason, I felt awkward asking her questions, about how she's adjusting and whether she'll get used to things in the long run. I should've known the answers to those - she's only been there for two days, she's still sleeping in her aunt's basement with the entire family, and she's still getting used to 20-degree summers. It's the usual questions people who didn't have to face that prospect - to be honest, my family's thinking of immigrating there, too - ask those who have. And yet it felt like I was talking to someone who I didn't really know, much more spent three crucial years with.

"At least medyo nasalo ka ng relatives mo, adjustment-wise," I said. "Pero kahit alam ko date ng alis mo, di ko man lang naramdaman."

"Okay pa naman," she replied, somehow derisively. "Carry lang."

"Will it sink in?" I pressed, thinking it'll get us somewhere.

"I think it is sinking in."

"Good, I guess."

While we worried about what we'll get ourselves into next, she snuck out without notice and started fresh. Perhaps it's our fault we didn't care that much, or perhaps it's just her way of doing things.

Apart from my iPod, the only gift I got during my graduation was a bottle of aftershave, which my Merville-based uncle and aunt gave me. While I appreciated the gesture, I thought it was a pretty clueless gift to give, mostly because I don't shave, which goes at odds with my half-prominent body hair. (The only time I had my face shaved was when my barber was utterly convinced that I had to. And that was when I accidentally paid for the full grooming package days after my birthday.)

Only lately did I start using that, though. I still haven't learned how to shave - that barely noticeable tuft of hair on my chin is still barely noticeable - but when I ran out of that sprayable aromatherapy extract that I was using as a perfume, I decided, better use the otherwise idle gift as a cologne, rather than let it evaporate. Besides, I can use it as that, although to make it more akin to aftershave, it's only applied to the area around the neck.

Judging by my cluelessness over such things, you can say it's never really been my habit to wear any scent to anywhere. Or by the fact that I don't always apply aftershave before going to work, but it's more because I've forgotten to do so. I always never trusted those scents, despite me knowing what it contributes to the impression I make towards other people. There's the science of picking the right scent for you - I remember reading that it shouldn't be too strong, and that it should mix in quite well with the sweat. But I guess I never really got that science. What else do you get when you have someone as hyperactive and sweaty as me?

Many times, however, I've wondered how some people manage to carry those scents for quite a while. There's college, and among the many, many people I've met, there are some who have succeeded in working those nasal registers. I smell something and know that it's them. The same doesn't exactly happen at work, but from where I am, I smell a myriad of those scents, some irritating, some questionable, and some too subtle for me to even notice. But at least they smell like something.

But of course, the obvious technique - spray often! Then again, it's pretty cumbersome for guys - or maybe it's just me - to bring a bottle of perfume, or cologne, or something to work. Or, betetr yet, bring it out of my bag and spray myself every time I think I have to. I guess it's just me who thinks doing such impression management is limited to the bathroom, but I should have an explanation as to why I suddenly smell bursts of designer perfumes when I'm busy writing short profiles on obscure American child actors.

Then again, I could do it discreetly - I tried just that one time, with that aromatherapy whatever, and me seated in front of this PC, the moment I arrived. Oh, if you're wondering why I'm using that thing as a scent, it's partly because I like it, and partly because it calms me. But it fades away after a couple of hours or so. And it's a small bottle. And it's empty.

I got around, anyway. I do it for formality's sake, but I don't really get bothered if it doesn't smell anymore. (Unless, of course, if I begin to stink.) Sure, I still smell it in the few people that I talk to nowadays, but that's for them to keep. As for me, if I forget it, never mind. I don't get the chance to be that close to anybody else anyway.

Fridays aren't good because traffic on the way home gets really, really bad. The construction along the SLEX is prolonging my agony for an hour on average. The last weekend was a payday weekend - for most, since I only get my payday weekend at the end of this week - so traffic was worse. Oh, and did I say I was feeling extra, uhh, loopy over the past week? Oh, right, I think that was very obvious. Good.

As always, I was texting Kat. It was a bad week, and I'm more than thankful she managed to hang on even if I was a little annoyed at one of her text messages at one point.

With a bad mood comes a lot of thoughts, and I sure had one of those thoughts, while lying on the bed, trying to sleep. (Actually I didn't have to try falling asleep. It's a matter of time.) Again, I was thinking of the past, and of the things that I did wrong - or, in this case, the things that made the last time different from this time. "'Di 'to matatapos kasi wala akong pamalit," I suddenly told her. "May escape route dati. Kapag masakit, maghanap. Now? Napakasakit at walang magawa."

I was, of course, thinking of college, and how things always felt like a cycle, which proved less painful as time passed. Right now, it's harder to get on another bandwagon, and I do feel surrounded.

"Parehas tayo!" she exclaimed. "Ako kasi mas optimistic na makakalabas ako sa sitwasyong ito, eh."

"The difference is reciprocity," I replied. And I refused to speak further. But I fell asleep by then.

I may have spent the weekend either in front of the PC, or catching up on lost sleep, but I was still in a very bad mood. It didn't help that it was raining, because it looked so dreary outside. Then again, I'm not the person who can find a compromise on anything - I hate sunny weather, too.

Why do we even bother saying it'll soon be over? I know, I've said it a million times before, that from this day forward, I will move on and look at other things and distract myself. But I'm going to be here for a year already, and I feel more hopeless with each passing day. And surrounded, too, by folks who don't undersand and folks who'd rather not understand. And you still want something, which explains the lack of escape routes that'll, uhh, satisfy that craving, for lack of a better term.

Instead, you get reminded of all those reasons why you can't satisfy those things, which is why I hate the rainy season. I'm making a new association, and it has something to do with that Prefab Sprout song - you know, the one that goes something like, Nancy, let your hair down for me. That, and the return of pink sweaters.

I need an escape route. It'll go full circle, and then it'll go full circle again.