A homebody's thoughts: how I miss the sun outside
I’ve been a homebody since I finished my final trimester last December 2025, and it looks like I’ll stay that way until graduation. There’s this superstition we hold, that anyone who hasn’t yet walked the graduation stage risks dying before they do. So here I am, tucked away in my new apartment with my little companion, Munchkin (my cat, my child), sipping warm chocolate milk in my pajamas.
Ah, finally! This quiet feels like a small luxury.
Just two days ago, I moved out of my boarding house in Uptown, the place I called home for four years. Leaving it behind feels both liberating and strange, like closing a chapter I had long grown used to. Now, I’m learning to settle into this new space, this new chapter with new routines. There’s something comforting about realizing that no matter your age, you can always begin again.
I have so many plans for this apartment. I want to make it a sanctuary. Cozy corners, soft lights, little rituals that make the days feel gentle. Maybe I’ll fill the shelves with books I’ve been meaning to read, hang art that reminds me of home, and let Munchkin claim every sunny spot by the window. I'm not yet done unpacking my things and I want this space to feel like a reflection of me: quiet, warm, and alive with possibility.
The apartment itself feels aesthetic and intentional, even if the surroundings aren’t much to look at. What makes it special is its closeness to the sea. Hearing the waves roll in and catching the faint scent of salt in the air brings me a calm I didn’t know I needed.
Still, I miss being out under the sun. I miss its unforgiving rays, the heat that burns my skin when I stay outside too long. I miss the unpolluted air of Siquijor, Camiguin, and all the beautiful islands in the Philippines. I miss the salt clinging to my hair after swimming, the laughter carried by the wind, and the way time seems to slow down when you’re surrounded by sea and sky.
This season of staying in may not be a vacation in the traditional sense, but in its own way, it feels like a retreat: a pause, a reset, a chance to breathe and dream about what comes next. For now, I’ll stay here and enjoy this quiet, knowing the sun and the islands will still be waiting when I’m ready.
E.
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