Published by: Shaina Pajarillo
Date Published: August 8, 2025
Time Published: 8:55 AM
Subject: The Art of Sonder.
𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦.
The kind where the sky is already dim, and the city feels tired. The kind of hour where people sit quietly in jeepneys, shoulder to shoulder, not speaking, not seeing—just trying to get through the day.
I sat by the window, put my earphones on, and played my favorite music. I wasn’t really listening. I just needed something—anything—to drown out the silence. The kind of silence that presses on your chest.
So I stared out, letting the world blur past. And slowly, my eyes drifted to the people around me. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of day they were trying to survive.
Across from me, a student in her school uniform was scrolling through her phone. Her lips trembled slightly—like she was holding something back. Tears, maybe? A breakup? A failing grade? Or was she simply trying to distract herself from something heavier?
A few seats away, a man in a delivery jacket was dozing off. His head kept nodding forward, jerking back up, again and again. Exhaustion etched deep lines into his face. He looked like someone who had nothing left to give—but still had miles to go before he could rest.
And beside me, a woman sat clutching a plastic bag full of vegetables. Her blouse was damp with sweat. She kept glancing at her watch, shifting in her seat—like time itself was slipping through her fingers. Was she rushing home to cook for a family that barely noticed her efforts? Or was she going home to no one at all?
And just like that, I felt it—
that soft, sudden ache: 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳.
The realization that everyone here—every quiet, tired soul packed into this moving metal box—has a life just as real and raw and complicated as mine. That their pain doesn’t pause just because I don’t see it. That behind every stranger is a storm, or a song, or a scar I will never know.
And for some reason, it hurt. In the kindest, most human way.
I wanted to ask them things I never would.
“𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺? ”
“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳? ”
“𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯? ”
But of course, we never ask. We just glance, wonder, and look away.
Maybe that’s what makes 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 so quietly devastating. You begin to realize how little you truly know about the people around you. That they carry wounds you’ll never see, burdens you’ll never understand. That they smile while grieving, keep going while breaking, and stay silent about stories that would shatter you if only you knew.
We ride through the same roads, breathe the same polluted air, and hear the same jeepney horns blaring in the distance—and still, we live in different worlds.
And yet—despite never touching, we carry each other.
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦.
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦.
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧.
𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳.
That even in a place as noisy and cramped as a jeepney, where no one speaks, you can still feel the weight of someone's sorrow beside you.
You can still sit there, in the hush of strangers, and ache for lives you'll never know.
To ride beside them, hearts never touching—and still feel the love swell quietly in your chest.
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