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"Sorry po talaga, Tita."
With a guilty demeanor and hands clasped tightly together, Migo once again uttered, for the ninth time, his apology to Summer's mother.
If you were to ask Migo, kung may nagawa ba siyang mali? Or does he ever act in a way that makes him feel the need to say those four words over and over again?
His answer would be none and no. He knows for himself that he didn't do anything wrong. Wala siyang ginawang mali pero bakit ganito?
Bakit parang meron? Bakit parang lahat na lang mali? Bakit sa araw-araw, ultimo minu-minuto, kailangan niyang maramdaman na palagi na lang siyang may ginagawang mali?
Is the sense of inadequacy and guilt he constantly feels just intrinsic and natural? Is it the reason? And not entirely because he's an all-encompassing failure of himself?
Maybe. Perhaps.
But no, he's not a failure.
No, Migo is not.
"Sorry po. Nabigo ko kayo." For the tenth time, he apologized. His eyes had been hurled downward on the hardwood floor, avoiding the gaze of the elderly woman in front of him, whom he had always recognized as his other mother.
For Migo, there was nothing else he could say but apologize and admit how he had actually slipped off of what he had promised to Summer's mother: that he would take really good care of his best friend and yet ended up not being able to do so.
He failed.
Honestly, he feels like he always does.
Failing had suddenly become his specialty. Yes, he freely admits that he isn't very good at anything. He is a mediocre person who sometimes even falls short of the average. He considers himself not exceptionally talented in everything he does. And yet, if there is one thing he thinks he excels at and could be proud of, it is his ability to constantly fail. To fail again and again, all over again. To endlessly fail.
How ironic, right? But it is the only word that Migo describes himself.
Sam's mother gently held his chin up even before he could utter his supposedly eleventh apology. At that precise moment, Migo couldn't help but imagine it was his real mother, and it wasn't just his Tita Audrey who was holding him with warmth but, most of all, his own Mama Mary. She gave him a timid smile, reached for his head, and gently stroked his hair, exactly like what Summer would always do whenever Migo felt like he had the whole world on his back.
"Stop saying sorry, Migo. It wasn't your fault that Summer felt ill, okay? Wala kang nabigo, anak. Hindi mo ako nabigo. Hindi mo nabigo ang best friend mo."
Migo couldn't stand it, as if those words being said to him were throbbing in his ears. He's having difficulty accepting it; he feels that there should be someone to blame. Isn't that the case? That whenever something horrible happened, there was always someone to blame. Hindi pwedeng wala.
He shook his head, feeling compelled to strike down what his Tita had told him. But Migo worries that if he does, his voice will break, and the tears he's trying to stop will finally brim and become unstoppable.
So, for the last time, all he could say was, "Pakisabi po kay Summeru, sorry. Sorry nang paulit-ulit."
Audrey chuckled. He patted Migo on the shoulder one last time. "I'm sorry too, Migo. I became dependent on you when it came to my own son. Don't worry now. I'll take care of Summer first, so you can focus on your exams. Thank you, Miguel Angelo. Thank you nang paulit-ulit."
He mustered a smile and nodded. He didn't think he deserved a thank-you.
After saying goodbye to his Tita, he closed the front door of their dorm and strolled towards the window, rolling up the curtain to catch a last glimpse of Summer's family car, which was progressively disappearing from view until it was completely out of his sight.
He rolled down the curtain, and there he let out a very deep and weary sigh.
He's finally alone. Pwede nang pansamantalang tumalikod at sumuko sa mundo.
Hindi na niya kailangang magpanggap. Pwede na niyang alisin at pansamantalang itago ang maskara.
Pwede na niyang hayaang manatili ang mga marka ng bura at mali sa pahina. Hindi na kailangang tapalan. Pwede nang makahinga.
Kahit ngayon lang. Kahit sandali lang.
Habang hindi pa tuluyang nauubos. Habang meron pang natitirang tinta para sa kasunod na pagsulat ng hindi pa siguradong kabanata ng buhay niya.
At the same time that the darkness was gradually covering the sky's horizon, a deafening and disturbing silence descended upon the enclosed space of Migo's dorm.
It wasn't this kind of silence that Migo hoped for.
Hindi maingay na katahimikan ang gusto niya. Payapang katahimikan. Iyon ang hiling niya.
Pagod na ang buong sistema niya.
Pagod na siyang makipaglaban sa kamay ng orasan.
Pagod na siyang humabol.
Pagod na siyang palaging mapag-iwanan.
Pagod na siyang palaging walang mapatunayan.
He often asks himself how hard it is to be himself. How hard is it to be Miguel Angelo Cornelio?
And he would answer:
'Mahirap. Sobrang hirap. Ikaw ba naman walang matinong direksyon sa buhay. Pucha, magdadalawampung taon na ako sa mundo, hindi pa din ako sigurado sa kung ano yung gusto ko. Gago, ang hirap maging ako. Kahit anong gawin kong pagkumbinsi sa sarili ko na ipagpatuloy ko na lang yung pag-aarkitekto kasi nasimulan ko na pero wala eh, gago ako. Bobo. Palpak. Bagsak. Walang matinong kinabukasan na naghihintay sa'kin. Kaya ang hirap-hirap maging ako.'
As the minutes went by, Migo's aggravation at himself grew to a greater extent. He wandered toward his own room as the turmoil crept up on him, assuming that it would eventually subside. Yet, the moment he twisted the knob of his door and stepped inside, his uneasiness went deeper and deeper when he noticed how his room was unkempt and disorganized; his still-unfinished plates were laid flatly on his bed, on his desk, and even on the floor.
It was messy. Just like his mind at the moment.
"Putangina."
He whispered, almost breathless.
His subsequent acts took a strong, aggressive turn. He hefted the piece of paper and, fuming, crumpled it. Everything in his room made Migo shout with a great outburst of anger, of self-pity, of self-blame—of everything he was furious about himself.
His gaze was drawn involuntarily to his guitar, which was propped up on his nightstand. He headed towards it with his jaw clenching from uncontrollable anger and capturing it tightly with his fists, until suddenly—a loud thud!
Migo threw his guitar against the other wall of his room with such a strong and unrelenting force. He saw the strings being pulled completely out of the capstan, the headstock shattered, the saddle ruined, and the body of his guitar in shambles.
It was no longer the guitar he'd had since he was ten years old. It was no longer the guitar he used to play while he sang a song with Summer.
It was now ruined. He ruined it.
Migo put all the blame on his lifeless guitar, as he grew tired of putting all the blame on himself. Maybe if he hadn't frequently used it, he could have spent more time doing his plates, schoolwork, backlogs, and other activities. Maybe if he hadn't learned to play it, his focus wouldn't be diverted from learning other songs rather than reading his book materials. Perhaps he would come to love architecture. And perhaps he would enjoy doing his sketching plates, not just because he was compelled to do so.
His guitar was the reason he lost track of his dreams. It was his guitar, not him.
Migo laughed on his own after taking one last look at the plight of the instrument he once adored and treasured. A single tear eventually escaped his eyes as he realized he was the one who had actually messed up his life. It wasn't the guitar, his DSLR, his friends, or the pressure of his family and relatives, and it wasn't because of the text message he read on Summer's phone the morning after Gyu's birthday.
It wasn't any of those to be blamed for his life's misery.
It was a me-problem. A Migo's problem.
At the moment, Migo felt an exceptionally strong desire to withdraw. He crawled up to his bed's mattress and succumbed to its comfort. He reached for his phone, ready to call it a break on fighting alone because it had already gone through him to a great extent.
He thought about calling someone. 'Si Mama? Hindi. Wag muna. Si Papa. Tama, si Papa na lang. A father-to-son talk. And a man-to-boy conversation.'
[calling]
[answered]
"Pa? Papa, hindi ko na po kaya." He mumbled like a three-year-old kid, with his voice struggling and weak.
He shifted in place, then turned to face the ceiling and let out a few small sobs while he waited for the other line to speak.
"Miguel? Migo? Anak? May sipon ka ba?" He froze in his position when he heard that familiar soft and gentle voice of a woman.
Puta, bakit si Mama? Putangina.
"Miguel Angelo? Do you want to talk to your Papa? Migo?" Migo bit his lower lip as he let himself hear his mother's voice. "Alex! Bilisan mo na nga tumae, ikaw ata gustong kausap ng panganay mo! Ayaw magsalita sa akin!" He can hear the frustration in her voice. He chuckled at it, but then his tears suddenly flowed. In between cries, he sniffed and hurriedly wiped the tears from his face, as if he were scared someone might just enter his room and witness him weep. "Migo, are you crying? Sinong umaway sa panganay ko?" And then there was it—the uncontrollable tears and loud sobs that he could no longer keep to himself.
"M-ma. Mama." He sobs. "Ma, si Papa na lang po yung a-architect niyo. Sorry, Ma. Hindi po ako kasing-galing ni Papa. Sorry po. Nabigo ko na naman kayo."
He said it. He finally said it. Pagod na siyang magpatuloy sa bagay na pakiramdam niya ay hindi naman para sakanya. Pagod na siyang magpanggap na magiging mas magaling siyang architect sa Papa niya kasi kahit kailan hindi naman iyon mangyayari. Hindi siya pang-arkitekto. Hindi siya para dun.
Migo aspires to be the guy behind the scenes of every masterpiece. Yes, Migo had always wished to be a film director someday. Pero naunahan siya ng kaba, ng takot sa mga salitang maririnig niya at ng kawalan ng tiwala sa sarili. Akala niya kasi hanggang hobby lang, lilipas din. Hindi pala.
"Maniwala ka man o hindi pero isang beses mo lang akong nabigo, Migo. At hindi yun ito... Gusto mo bang umuwi muna dito sa bahay? Uwi ka muna bukas kay Papa at Mama, ha? 'Wag ka na umiyak. Naiintindihan ko. Naiintindihan kita, Miguel Angelo."
That was the last word Migo heard from the other line until, unbeknownst to him, he had already fallen off to sleep, and his tears immediately dried on his face owing to the melancholy coolness of the night.
🌤 the next day, mid-afternoon
"Miguel Angelo! Buksan mo yung gate, baka si AMae at Papa mo na yun! Bilisan mo!"
The loud yell of Migo's mother calling his name could be heard throughout the first floor of their house from across their living room.
Migo rubbed the back of his head and sighed in frustration. "Ma, mamaya na po! Wala pong patalastas 'tong pinapanood ko!" He yelled back. He put his feet up on their couch in comfort and returned his attention to the movie he was watching. He couldn't help but grin at the scene that was playing on their television screen.
"'Wag mong hintaying bumilang ako ng tatlo, Migo! Sinasabi ko sa'yo!"
He let out a frustrated grunt. He stomped his feet, forced himself to his feet, and with knitted brows, he strode out of their home and headed to open their gate.
He froze in place, his mouth agape, as soon as he realized it wasn't his father and sister who had greeted him the instant he opened their gate.
"Summeru." He subconsciously uttered it, his eyes looking directly at him.
He heard him laugh a little, which caused him to withdraw his sight, and his eyes were accidentally struck by the brightness of the direct sunlight overhead.
Migo blinks repeatedly, making his feet stumble briefly when he tries to compose himself.
Summer held him with his elbow, and Migo couldn't help but startle at his unexpected touch. He realized that he and Summer hadn't had much conversation, and he felt hesitant to ask if they were ever okay. If everything between them was just well and alright. If they could be best friends again because he couldn't dare to lose it. He couldn't dare lose Summer. Not him.
"Migo!" He exclaimed.
Migo returned his gaze, completely mesmerized by the way Summer flashed a bright smile across his face. "Ano?" He asked, annoyed at himself for masking an overwhelming sense of dire need for Summer's presence in his voice.
Summer pouted. He fumbles with his fingers. "Say it again."
Baffled, Migo asks again. "Ang alin?"
Summer rolled his eyes. "Summeru. Call me that again."
Migo chuckles as he advances on Summer before stopping when they are only a few inches apart. He then pokes at his cheeks. "I miss you, Summeru."
It wasn't the way the sun shone overhead that made Migo beam with happiness, but rather the way Summer bit his lower lip to contain himself from smiling and the way his cheeks went rosy pink, which was not obviously a result of the scorching heat but because Migo felt it. Migo knew it.
Summer also misses him.