The joy that hurts a little
I met my old friends today over iced coffee.
Fanning ourselves with handkerchiefs due to the excruciating heat, but somehow, at the same time, finding comfort in the familiarity and warmth of what once was a recurring presence in our everyday lives, almost a decade back then.
Tangible signs of our aging into adulthood were undeniably present, but our voices and laughter still generated the same feeling of juvenility I felt when I was a 15-year-old who was just trying to figure life out.
I’ve seen these people when they were 12-year-olds with crinkled uniforms, bad haircuts, and having to deal with awkward confessions of love. Some of us have even known each other when we were 8-year-olds. I’ve seen them learn how to deal with life as we aged. I may not know all the specifics of their shortcomings, but one thing is for sure: I’m proud to see them conquer life despite it all.
Back then, we belonged to a close-knit group of more or less 30 students—the “cream of the crop” singled out from the rest of our schoolmates the moment we signed up to be science and engineering students at the ages of 12 and 13. This made our bond all the more exclusive—the kind where you actually felt that everyone was family.
One, two, three years after our completion of junior high school and we still made it a point to keep in touch with each other. This was fairly easy, as some of us continued to be classmates and schoolmates—and even forged new, unpredictable friendship combos and dynamics along the way.
And then the pandemic came. To say it wreaked havoc on our batch is an understatement. We were just a few weeks shy of our well-deserved senior high school graduation, but that came crashing down when the days of anticipation turned into days of being locked down in our homes.
We have dealt with all kinds of demons over the past tumultuous five years. Some had to quit school. Some went under the radar. Some had to work to make ends meet. One died due to COVID-19. Some had to deal with abusive relationships.
And yet, despite it all, there we were—crowded around a small table sipping iced coffee like it was some magical potion that could pause time. There was laughter and so much noise. But the kind that bubbled up from somewhere old and familiar, like muscle memory.
It caught me off guard, how easily we slipped back into the rhythm of our younger selves. How grief, distance, and growing pains took the backseat, just for a moment, to make room for joy.
But you know what’s strange? It’s the kind of joy that hurt a little. Watching them laugh, talk about their plans, drop casual mentions of job applications, anticipated responses from employers, board exam experiences, and even takes on our current political climate. I found myself silently wishing the world would be kinder to them. Gentler. Because if anyone deserves a shot at peace and fulfillment, it’s these people.
We’re not getting any younger. One day, we’re going to be left to fend for ourselves and our families. I can’t just shrug off the anticipatory grief that comes with all these. There were moments at that table where I wished I could just transport all of us—even for just a bit—back to our old classroom, cracking jokes and comebacks without any care for what’s waiting for us in the real world.
Time moves fast and no one is spared. Maybe it’s just the sensitive, empathetic side of me, but there’s a kind of longing that I cannot easily ignore—one that wants to protect the innocence and dreams that we once had. I thought I was done with this feeling when we received our high school diplomas, but little did I know, there would always be something in me that aches a little when I see them now—not because I’m sad they’ve changed, but because I’ve watched them grow into people I admire.
And maybe that’s the real magic of it all. We didn’t just grow up—we grew into versions of ourselves that still carry pieces of who we were back then.
I know life hasn’t made it easy. I know some of us still carry things we’ve never talked about. But I want so badly for every one of them to reach whatever it is they’re chasing. I want them to have soft places to land, to wake up one day and realize they made it—not in some big, cinematic way, but in the small victories that matter most.
Because they deserve it. We all do.
And I guess that’s the bittersweet part of reunions like this. It reminds you that the people you used to share lunchboxes and heartbreaks with are now out there trying to make a life for themselves. We’re not kids anymore.
But when we’re together, it feels like no time has passed at all.
—————-
Sophia Feona Cantiller, 23, is a Silay native who works as a freelance online writer and a computer science graduate of the University of the Philippines Visayas.
