LITERARY | FEU Smiling Tamaraw

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨, 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙨, 𝙤𝙧 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙮 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨.

They hold stories, fragments of who we once were, whispers of who we loved, and echoes of who we lost. People have their own versions of “Cornelia Street,” those spots stitched into their hearts with threads of memory.

For some, it might be Padre Noval, where the rush of Espanya’s traffic drowns out the laughter of students huddled under umbrellas, waiting for the rain to let up. For others, it could be the creak of a university gate, watching a familiar face pass by for the last time.

These places rarely look special from the outside.

They aren’t marked with signs or commemorated in books. They are made sacred by the weight of moments that happened there, a brush of the hand when you didn’t expect it. A laugh shared in a time when laughter was hard to find. A goodbye you thought was temporary but turned out to be forever.

Some find their sacred corner in simple gestures, a spot where they once bumped into their crush. Some carry it in the warmth of sitting in circles with friends, believing that kind of belonging could last a lifetime. Others find it in quieter places, corners they retreat to when the world feels too heavy, spots that became their sanctuary when no one else could be.

For me, my place has always been the Smiling Tamaraw. Behind that white stage, holds more of me than I care to admit.

A friend who is no longer with the university once took countless photos of me, laughing and posing, immortalizing versions of myself I no longer recognize. On that very ground, I once turned down someone who promised me the world, not realizing promises mean little if the heart behind them is unwilling to stay.

And in that same space, I walked side by side with people I thought would be there until graduation, only to realize that not all friendships survive the years, no matter how bright they burned at the start.

The place with Nicanor Reyes’ statue witnessed everything. It watched thousands of others pass through, carrying their own memories, their own stories and ghosts. And yet, for me, it was the keeper of a past I couldn’t let go of, the fleeting nature of connection.

People often say we outgrow places the way we outgrow shoes, shedding them when they no longer fit the person we’ve become. But I think some places outgrow us too. Moving forward, gathering new stories, new faces, until one day, we are just another whisper lost in the wind.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙪𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙪𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠.

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