Written by:
Allen Isaac de Leon

You know that feeling when you’ve been stuck at home too long, and you just want to exist somewhere that isn’t your bedroom or your office?

A while back, I met up with my friend Mai at Cubao Expo for our annual catch-up. We hadn’t seen each other in a year, and there was so much life to unpack. We started at a café—I ordered an iced horchata espresso, she got a mango drink—and we just talked about everything that had happened over the last 12 months.

As the evening rolled on, we walked over to Habanero and ordered a pizza. It was a beautiful night; we kept telling each other, “This is a life,” because it really was. But when the bill arrived, reality set in: it was almost P700. The pizza was okay—nothing mind-blowing—but we understood why it cost that much. We were paying for the right to occupy a seat. Half of that bill was probably just to cover the rent.

And that right there is the problem.

Sociologist Ray Oldenburg called it the “third place”—a neutral, accessible ground outside of home and work where communities organically connect. But in Metro Manila, finding a place to sit and breathe without pulling out your wallet is practically impossible.

A February 2026 article by The LaSallian, “No such thing as a third space,” hits the nail on the head. Metro Manila averages a measly five square meters of green space per person—nearly half of the World Health Organization’s bare minimum. The author sharply wrote: “Malls multiply while parks disappear, offering controlled environments that mimic social spaces yet remain fundamentally transactional.”

They’re absolutely right, but let’s take it a step further. We’ve been conditioned to accept aesthetic coffee shops and expensive lifestyle hubs as our modern “third places.” But let’s be honest with ourselves—if you have to buy a P250 iced latte or a P700 pizza to earn the right to sit down and debrief with your friends, you’re participating in a business transaction, far removed from the essence of a community hub.

We’ve put a price on something basic—connection.

Spaces where you can simply exist are fading. What looks like a lack of plans is often just a lack of accessible places to go. Until we demand and fund public parks, libraries, and open barangay plazas instead of building yet another air-conditioned mega-mall, authentic community connection will remain a luxury good.

We get by. We always do. But it shouldn’t cost this much to feel like you belong.