After school, my friend Lyca and I would catch a jeep to Isetann and then hop on any Pasig-Quiapo FX, chatting about everything while watching Manila's commercial chaos roll past. If I had to go home alone, I’d untangle my earphones. I’m lulled into relaxation as I replay conversations, plan for tomorrow, or daydream about distant places.

If you had mentioned the prospect of braving the dilapidated nooks and crannies of Quiapo's hectic streets solo a year ago, I would have been mortified. My parents, busy with work and driving my younger sisters to school, couldn't always drive me around anymore.

But what began as a sinister ordeal to commute to and from UST soon evolved into a hobby. It baffled and amused my friends that the sheltered passenger princess was more excited about the 40-minute commute trip than getting to her destination.

My fourth year of college stood out as the outlier among the other three. It was the year I discovered joy in counting my change in the jeep rather than my scores. As someone who had always been perceived as book-smart yet incredibly tongue-tied in street-smarts, my senior year afforded me the opportunity to slowly become streetwise and independent—adjectives that weren’t usually associated with me.

I was the goody two shoes who could do no harm—the flawless rule-abiding student scared of clubs and vices. Diligent in academics, with complete notes and homework finished ahead of everyone else. I collected the nicknames and inside jokes such as "early bird," "speed," and "robot." Restlessness is the pest that clings to me when I'm not the first to submit my task, a groupmate hasn't updated their part yet, or the professor hasn't sent the instructions earlier.

The intellectual allure of academics and validation from reading and writing were the only invisible tethers of my self-identity. This safe display of my productivity and innocence served me well in most cases, but it also hindered me from forming friendships easily. I secretly envied my friends, who seemed to be natural social butterflies. This left me suspended in a paradoxical mindset. Naturally, I chose to side with my obsessive work ethic.

Little Mika, who simply wrote self-indulgent fan fiction, could never have imagined being the blog editor for her school publication, having bylines in local newspapers, working with journals, giving small writing workshops, having three internships, and presenting her thesis in international conferences.

But as my professor put it, I would soon be confronted with the obstacles of the real world. Scoring the highest on that grueling international relations in East Asia exam during the second year made me feel unstoppable. But staying at the top? Easier said than done.

My first wake-up call to the simulacrum of the university experience tasted salty. My tears mingled with my ramen broth in the car park. It was funny how the score of a single test paper disillusioned my delusions of invincibility and stalwart routine of reviewing. Still, how could I feign indifference when I was always perceived as one of the best and most well-rounded students?

The persona I projected at the beginning of college faltered due to my bloodlust for external validation. My impostor syndrome slithered in like a serpent. It whispered that if all I possessed were my work ethic and punctuality, then my academic talent was but a sham, a fragile house of cards waiting to collapse with one swift gust.

My junior year drilled into my stubborn head that I was not exempt from being humbled. I was merely an early bird, not the all-rounder I had hoped to be.

But in my final year of college, I had a discovery: for once, the agitation from overthinking whether I was the first to upload my activity, submit an essay that exceeded the word count, or review material weeks ahead of my peers no longer tormented me. Instead, I burned into my brain my friends’ laughter in Intramuros, filming TikToks in the classroom, and clumsily trying to keep our balance together on the LRT ride.

Just when I thought the thrill of academic validation couldn't be surpassed, the spontaneous frolicking and heartfelt stories with me proved me wrong. Back in freshman year, I thought I had to pull off that senior vibe in Zoom classes. Now, as a senior, I wanted nothing more than to feel like a freshman again.

The rustic odors of St. Raymund’s corridors and chairs bear witness to the countless histories that started and ended at the same hallowed walls. Seated upon a bench in Plaza Mayor, watching the blurring footsteps of teachers and students cascading in the Main Building, it felt like a movie I didn’t want to end.

It’s still unnervingly surreal to me that I created this draft in my second year, and now it is ready for publication. I'm immensely grateful to those who embraced my duality: the articulate wordsmith and the childlike daydreamer with selective hearing.

(Mikaela Gabrielle de Castro, outgoing Blogs Editor)

To my parents, Jojo and Cehz, I still don’t know what I have done in my past life to deserve the most perfect parents in the world. Along with Maggie and Mia, you are my selfless best friends who not only embrace my quirks but would drop anything for me in a heartbeat.

To Tom, the epitome of a man written by a woman, from high school to college, you taught me the art of empathy when things don’t always go our way. You have softened my rough edges, originally crafted for defense, but also taught me the beauty in allowing them to melt away.

To all my professors, especially my thesis adviser and limit pusher, Sir Denila. Amidst your teasing habits and my candid expressions—often being at wit’s end—you have no idea how deeply I harbor so much gratitude for you. You have dubbed me as a “wordsmith,” but really, it is your eloquence that inspires me to continue honing my craft.

To 4ASN1, we are very similar to the sovereign and diverse states of the model simulations we conduct. We have helped each other beyond academic pursuits through humor and openness. I felt like an adult and a kid simultaneously with you, and I don’t regret it.

To my college barkada, “kulto,” Mary, Elyza, Lyca, Depaks, Anna, Chelsea, Emman, Anrei, and Cyla, thank you for dragging me from my old ways of comfort to immersing me into everything I have been missing out on the whole time. You have shattered my pristine facade, accepting all my idiosyncrasies.

To everyone in TomasinoWeb, Marsh, my writing hero, gracefully handed the baton of blogs to me. I had enormous shoes to fill, but your foundational support always kept me moving forward. Ian welcomed the wide-eyed me into the clefts and hollows of the world of journalism with his unforgettable humor.

I’m also grateful for JC, Suma, Ernest, and Xyrah, whose leadership and passion for journalism taught me immensely. To my blogs kids: Kali, Mharla, Drey, Sophie, Paolo, Denise, Jeann, Laikha, Cesca, Yana, Raine, and Kim. I owe much of my growth as an editor to this exceptional team of writers. Now, it’s your turn to hold the pen in the front lines.

Four years ago, my shy self simply wanted to try out writing for an organization. My debut article was riddled with corrections, yet today, I bid farewell as an editor, with many stories penned with growth and dedication. My membership here set off a chain reaction in my own writing and character development. Thank you for letting me serve such a steadfast organization that will always be worth fighting for.

There will be no more days of back-to-school supply runs, summers fading into the upcoming school year, classmates to chat about homework, nor a teacher to turn to with questions at the end of class. Now, we stand on our own.

Being baptized by real-world moments served as the inalienable lesson I needed, one that not even the most cerebral literature could impart. I won’t remember the score on the paper, but the camaraderie and laughter while studying with friends. These are the memories that endure, far outweighing the fleeting academic letdowns that once ruled my world.

My insatiable gluttony for achievements will always be an old friend. But in the midst of this new chapter of life filled with job hunting, doing taxes, and dealing with bosses, that hunger becomes a gentle tide, guiding me towards a sacred fulfilment in cherishing the simple joys with people I love.