Leaving without formal goodbyes
I went to the nearest grocery store to buy a storage box. I had assumed two backpacks and a suitcase would be enough for the clothes, books, shoes, and other belongings I planned to bring home to the province. But as I started sorting them, I realized I would need more space—for the pillow a patient gave me, the books borrowed from others I never managed to return, and the gift items I received from friends.
Going to that store was part of my routine during my time here, especially on post-duty days. I had walked the same streets for years now. I knew a lot about the origins of their names and their history. I knew which streets were safer and had fewer cars passing through. They were the paths I took to get to school, to meet a close friend who lived three blocks away, or to head to coffee shops nearby for “study-outs” with classmates.
On the way to the store, I recounted last night’s encounter. I was going to meet some old high school friends when I spotted a familiar face at a nearby construction site—one of the security guards from my condo. He greeted me first, and I greeted him back, surprised to see him there. I asked him if he had transferred, but apparently, he was just covering for a coworker.
I walked a few steps past him, then paused, thinking of going back. I had first met him in my old condo before the pandemic. When classes resumed, I moved to a new place. Then a few months later, there he was, stationed in the lobby. “Lumipat din pala kayo, sir, dito.” Kuya was the one who initiated the conversation. Since then, he has become my go-to personnel whenever I needed help and assistance in the condo, such as for minor repairs in my unit.
When I saw him last night, I wanted to tell him I would be leaving soon and thank him for his kindness and for always greeting me in the lobby. His greetings sometimes helped me orient myself to the time of the day. But I held back; he was not a close friend, someone I needed to inform or say goodbye to. Even though I felt that this might be our last interaction. Or maybe, someday, we would cross paths again at another condo lobby.
After the last left turn and a few more steps, I arrived at the store. As I entered, it dawned on me that this might be my last trip to this place. I first saw the turon station, and my feet led me in that direction. I had already tried all the flavors—langka, ube, and Chocnut. I wondered which one I should pick for my last turon. As if that popular turon wouldn’t be available back home.
And I caught myself romanticizing every “last”—the last visit to this place, the last eat-out in this restaurant, the last meet-up. As if leaving meant dying.
Thinking back on last night, I reflected on the meaningful relationships I had built and maintained during my stay here. Over the past week, I reconnected with friends—both old and new—after being busy with my internship and board exam review, and before leaving the metro. However, there’s this melancholic feeling because I couldn’t meet with everyone to say a proper farewell. There’s this pressure to meet them, reminisce about the shared memories, and talk about our different paths. There’s this fear that once I settle in the province and we each get caught up in our own lives, words like “miss you” and “see you soon” might start to feel empty.
Perhaps that’s just how it is in the busy, complicated world of adulting.
And perhaps I should learn to be comfortable with leaving without the formal goodbyes. I mean, to those people who are really close to me and the ones I hold dear. Haven’t many people left before with unspoken goodbyes? Yet those people are still part of the memory box I carry with me.
What makes this transition harder is that I had always viewed my nine-year stint here as merely a phase—as if I had only stayed here to study and the people I met here were just classmates and acquaintances. I had always thought I could easily detach myself from them. Moving forward, perhaps I should fully embrace this phase as an essential part of my history. And this comes with accepting that while it is okay to leave without the formal goodbyes, it doesn’t diminish the significance of those I met along the way. Each of them played a role in my journey here, and I’ll carry the memories of our time together as I begin a new chapter in the province.
I chose the largest storage box and continued the day by sorting and packing everything. This time, it was easier because I didn’t have to fit everything into a limited space. I then carried the bags and boxes downstairs one by one and booked a ride to the terminal.
As I sat in the car, I began to again feel the emotional weight of this departure. It still felt heavier than the baggage I was bringing home.
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Vincent Racoma, 26, is a young doctor who sometimes writes.
