𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "The Train That Knows Your Name" by Franceil Ann Lorraine B. Arciaga

Published by: Jeralaine G. Larios

Date Published: July 31, 2025

Time Published: 4:52 PM

Category: Prose

Subject: Trusting the courage to start over and finding the magic in choosing the right path.

Are you willing to start over again even if you have waited a long time for that thing to happen?

In the hush of a cold-breathed morning, you stood beneath the pale glow of station lights, the wind whispering secrets only the lonely could hear. The air danced and rushed past as a train thundered by, its arrival more like a spell breaking the stillness. As you stepped aboard, one foot into warmth, the other still in winter’s grasp, a quiet relief unfurled in your chest.

You sank into your seat, the world outside blurring into silver streaks, and for a moment, it felt like time bowed to your patience. Now, all that’s left is to glide toward your destination—peacefully cradled in motion and magic.

Two minutes after you boarded the train, you settled into your seat, the air around you oddly crisp, almost enchanted. A warm glow bathed the carriage, and the world outside the window shimmered like a dream. Then you noticed—none of the passing stations looked familiar. The signs were written in symbols that seemed to dance. That’s when it hit you: this wasn’t just the wrong train… it was the wrong destination.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧.

Will you step off, into the quiet unknown, and wait beneath starlit skies for the next train to arrive—one that hums with hope and carries your true longing?

Or will you remain seated in stillness, letting the wheels carry you through a path not meant for your soul, the wind whispering destinations you never asked for?

Stop off the wrong train and wait for the one that knows your name—the one bound for the path your soul has always sought. Do not fear beginning again. You will not be lost—you are only finding yourself once more.

Sometimes, the magic lies not in the ride itself, but in the courage to pause, to begin again, and to trust that the right train will know your name.

It is in this gentle stillness that the heart finds clarity, and the soul summons strength to begin again, unburdened by fear or doubt. To trust, truly trust, that somewhere on the horizon, a train awaits—one guided by fate, bearing your name like a whispered promise, ready to carry you exactly where you’re meant to be. And in that faith, the journey becomes not just a passage, but a transformation.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Here, As It Is” by Kathleen D. Yambot

Published by: Francen Anne Perez

Date Published: July 31, 2025

Time Published: 4:50 PM 

Category: Prose

Subject: Existing Without Pretending

There’s a boy sitting by the cracked basketball court down the street. His shoes are worn, laces frayed like split veins. He’s not chasing any dream. Not aiming for a scholarship. He just shoots. Lets the ball bounce back. Shoots again. The rim doesn’t even have a net, and no one’s watching. Maybe that’s the point.

I stand there for a second longer than I need to. Holding a half-torn grocery bag, sweating through my shirt, and for no dramatic reason, I feel something settle inside me. Not peace exactly. Not joy. Just… stillness. A pause.

The sun is setting wrong, too orange—too loud—bleeding through tangled electric wires like it doesn’t care how it looks. There’s a dog barking nonstop. A karaoke machine blaring a love song off-key. The wind smells like dust and leftover heat. It’s not poetic. It’s not deep. But it’s here.

And I don’t want to make it anything else.

The dust clings to my arms. My bag digs into my shoulder. I’m not in a hurry, but I’m tired. Not the kind of tired that needs to be explained. Just tired.

I used to think everything needed to be meaningful. Like there had to be a reason I existed. Like every moment should lead to something big. But now, standing there in that heat, watching a boy who isn’t even aware I’m there, I feel okay not needing more.

The court doesn’t care if I write about it. The boy doesn’t care if he becomes a metaphor. And I? I’m just here. Breathing. Taking up space. Nothing more, and for once, nothing less.

I walk home slowly, because my legs ache, not because I’m trying to make a moment out of it. On the corner, a lady is selling iced candy. Five pesos, and I picked grape. It tastes exactly like childhood: artificial, sticky, and too sweet. But it’s cold, and that’s enough.

As I stand there licking my fingers, I think about how people keep saying life is short, life is precious, and life is sacred. But what if it’s not? What if it’s just here—loud and tired and sticky and okay?

A little messy. A little sweet.

Not waiting to be understood.

Not begging to be turned into a quote or a caption.

And for once, I don’t want to write it better.

I don’t want to change a single thing.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “For the Kind of Love I Longed for” by Angela Garilao

Published by: Jeralaine G. Larios

Date Published: July 31, 2025

Time Published: 4:30 PM

Category: Prose

Subject: The author’s quiet longing for old-fashioned love.

I wonder if I was born too late—for handwritten letters, for porchlight promises.

Because my heart doesn’t fall for stories told online—it longs for the slow, the quiet kind. For footsteps pacing softly by the gate, rehearsing lines and hoping it's not too late. For voices that shake, not out of fright, but from the hope of getting it right. For hearts that show up, not flawless or grand, but open, honest, with trembling hands.

I catch myself imagining what it's like to be courted—not just talked to, but wooed. Slowly. Patiently. Gently. To be seen as someone worth waiting for. To be written about in a letter that took three days to compose. To fall in love not with a profile or post, but with the way they show up—present, patient, and close.

Sometimes, my heart returns to the stories I grew up hearing—of boys in the rain, strumming songs you’d long to hear. Of girls who’d peek from behind their fans with care, while families in the sala pretended not to stare.

And I can’t help but ache for that kind of love—the slow, uncertain, brave kind. The kind that didn’t need instant replies to feel real. The kind that lingered quietly, but stayed. 

It may sound silly, I know. But still, a part of me waits—hoping to be loved like that, with patience—with presence.

Maybe that kind of love doesn’t knock loudly anymore. But every now and then, I leave the porch light on—for the kind of love that knows how to return.

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “Requiem of The Rain” By John Paul Reyven S. Anadilla

Published by: Jadelynn Arnigo

Date Published: July 31, 2025

Time Published: 8:44 AM

Category: Prose

Theme: The ache of absence—how love, once lost, creates a void so deep it becomes sacred, where grief is not the parallel of love but its final, most brutal form: memory made flesh, then eroded into nothing.

The doorway cleaves—parting, sundering—a soundless rip in the world's pelt, less wood than calcified grief giving way. Like cartilage, yes, but cartilage petrified beneath the ossified burden of what refused decay, a thing past death yet clinging to the shape of absence. The rain falls and sutures the silence. A cold, silver filament drawn taut by unseen hands, needling its way through crumbling mortar, probing the hollows of core, stitching itself into the frayed fidelity of those dusk-consumed revenants. They drift; they dissolve, 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘦, into thickening gloom. Abandoned umbrellas never be litter; but carcasses. Upturned thoraxes, chitinous husks, spines scooped clean by a wind that carries only dust and the scent of forgetting. Heads bowen not in grief, but in a terrifying, vacant expulsion—a surrender so absolute it mimics reverence, 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘁𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗿.

I stand wedged in the doorway’s ragged maw. Not poised. Impaled. Braced against the agony like a 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙩, a confession whose syllables have fossilized on the tongue. Above, the sky lacerates itself. Before me, silhouettes stretch—not merely lengthen, but deliquesce. They bleed one into the next, a procession of faces scoured raw by an antediluvian salt, the kind that weather names from gravestones but 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. Each glance that snags mine detonates—silvered planes imploding inward, shards and fragments of negation.

I arrived before the hour could congeal its cruelty—still pliant, 𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝘃𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗯𝘀, teeth unbroken on the skin of hope. Before I mastered the cautery of yearning, the branding iron held to the raw nerve before it could seep its slow poison into the joists, into the wetwood where rot doesn't wait—it anticipates, a patient hunger. Tonight, your absence cinches tight, a collar of cold iron. The walls reflect; they masticate, grinding your name between stone teeth like a curse incised by the very rusted nail that once suspended our pathetic pantomime of forever.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥.

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

And beneath the clavicle’s gallows, something oscillates—not muscle, not memory, but a deeper sediment. A resonance. As if grief were a subsonic thrum only audible to shattered tuning forks, vibrating in the interstitial between heartbeats, low, insistent, treacherous. I reach for the 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗴𝗲𝗼𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝘆 of your shoulder. My hand plunges into atmospheric slough—a vacancy that once held warmth, now merely the shape of evaporation.

I hurled your name into the thunder’s raw throat. It didn't repeat. It unspooled, a fragile thread snapped mid-air, disintegrating before the first consonant could claim existence. The rain remained—𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘺, a complicit witness. It dragged its sodden shroud across the fissures you deemed unworthy of your apparition benediction.

Rain should be an incarnation of 𝘆𝗼𝘂—slow, deliberate, a drowning that ceases only when saturation becomes annihilation. Instead, it touches me with the indifference of a stranger, a priest anointing only the sterile plains of skin your 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥. I remain profane in the void where your touch once resonated, places that still contract like wounded things at the ghost of your hands.

Something feral now blooms in the cavity behind my petrified shell—a ravine devouring every vowel that still dares attempt 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲. I keep shaping it with ruined lips, a futile incantation. But 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨. They lacerate the tongue. They vanish, absorbed by the waiting dark.

Where do you undergo your slow erosion now?

What brittle tomb did you coil yourself into when the world contracted like a dying lung?

We were too unformed, too 𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺-𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯, to brand the word forever without it scorching straight through to the quick, leaving only char. Too fractured to flee without shedding shards of ourselves into the framework of every slammed door.

So I 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗶𝗻

I 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗯𝘂𝘀𝘁

I 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲 with impeccable courtesy.

This room has 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. The bed arranges its emptiness nightly around a ghost too weary to haunt. The window gapes wider, a slack jaw, and the rain begins its nesting, a wet usurper. I am the 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 in a structure that comprehends only endurance, not conflagration.

I turn—𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯—a spasm of neurological compulsion. Sleep denies me like a betrayed deity. The ceiling pronounces its sentence in the damp plaster:

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙭𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙪𝙚

And the noiselessness doesn't repeat the verdict. It ingests it.

I would cast every coin of my ill-gotten wealth into the abyss, drown every jewel in the mire of the earth, 𝘪𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦—the one that once rested against my chest. I have lain in her arms as if death itself were a lullaby, and the sound of her breathing was a sanctuary 𝗜 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲. I would bleed myself empty, 𝘃𝗲𝗶𝗻 𝗯𝘆 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘃𝗲𝗶𝗻, just to hear her laugh again through my memory. She is not gone; she has rooted herself like a splintered sorrow in the centre of my soul, a 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧 suspended in perpetuity behind my eyes—never falling, never drying, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Or perhaps the flaw was inherent: I was never engineered to love 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗿𝗮𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱, without leaving scars like signatures on the yielding flesh of the world.

Return.

Or remain gone.

I will keep singing into the drowned dark, my voice a frayed wire sparking in the storm’s wet mouth, until the rain learns to shape your absence 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝗺 𝗜 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗸𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁. The rain will never say it right—𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙣𝙚𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙄.

𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗳𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱.

𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗱𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁.

𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀—

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵, 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘺𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦

𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵.

𝗡𝗘𝗪𝗦: “DOH implements 60-day medicine price freeze in calamity-hit areas” by Allyza Jedd M. Manimtim

 

Published By: Patrick Lance Guerra

Date Published: July 31, 2025

Time Published: 7:38 AM

The Department of Health (DOH) has imposed a 60-day price freeze on 148 essential medicines in 40 areas placed under a state of calamity due to recent typhoons and the southwest monsoon, as announced on Thursday, July 24.

DOH explained that under the Price Act, a price freeze automatically takes effect when a state of calamity is declared, ensuring that basic and essential commodities remain affordable to affected communities.

“As provided under the Price Act, the price freeze is effective within 60 days from the declaration of a state of calamity in a locality, unless the President lifts it at an earlier date,” DOH stated in its advisory.

As of the latest advisory, 40 areas have declared a state of calamity due to the combined impact of Tropical Cyclones Crising, Dante, and Emong, as well as the enhanced southwest monsoon or Habagat, which brought heavy rains and flooding to several provinces.

The health department clarified that the price freeze will remain valid for 60 days from the date of the declaration in each area unless the President orders an earlier lifting of the mandate.

Medicines covered by the freeze include treatments for fever, bacterial infections, asthma, diabetes, and hypertension since these are the conditions that require constant and timely access to medication, especially during disasters.

Among the examples mentioned in the list are Paracetamol for fever and pain relief, Metformin for diabetes management, Amoxicillin for bacterial infections, and Salbutamol inhalers for asthma attacks.

The price freeze covers various forms and dosages, such as tablets, capsules, syrups, suspensions, injectables, and inhalers, depending on the type of medicine and its intended use.

According to DOH, “Both branded and generic medicines are included in the freeze to ensure access to quality healthcare during emergencies.”

Aside from medicines, the 60-day price freeze also covers basic necessities like rice, vegetables, pork, poultry, eggs, milk, coffee, sugar, cooking oil, salt, and essential household items like laundry soap and candles.

“Consumers are encouraged to report cases of overpricing to the DOH Hotline (02) 8651-7800 and the DTI Hotline (1384),” the department also advised.

DOH also stated this advisory aims to protect public welfare by maintaining stable prices and preventing unjust price hikes during a time when many families are already struggling with the effects of natural calamities.

REFERENCES:

[1] Baron, G. (2025, July 24). DOH reminds public of medicine price freeze in calamity-hit areas. Daily Tribune. https://tribune.net.ph/2025/07/24/doh-reminds-public-of-medicine-price-freeze-in-calamity-hit-areas

[2] Department of Health. (2025, July 24). Price Freeze for Drugs and Medicines. https://drive.google.com/file/d/16FnDDSG0n5tUfTHL3lHV9Ycjgnsgygey/view?fbclid=IwQ0xDSwLu049leHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHr00p7HXZgeLE3UdwQlOMxrVgKNNW1KyRRplSrKyLbnPkGRr0_4bDHcMwzNQ_aem_P5Ik3SA_c2KpCCdu9eZdbw

[3] GMA Integrated News. (2025, July 24). DOH: Price freeze for 148 medicines in areas under state of calamity. https://www.gmanetwork.com/news/topstories/nation/953637/doh-price-freeze-for-148-medicines-in-areas-under-state-of-calamity/story/

[4] Sampang, D. (2025, July 24). Price freeze for 148 medicines in effect in areas under state of calamity. INQUIRER. https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/2086596/price-freeze-for-148-medicines-in-effect-in-areas-under-state-of-calamity

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: "The Things I Shouldn't Have Said" by Ashley Jhanelle G. Ramos

Published by: Francen Anne Perez

Date Published: July 31, 2025

Time Published: 6:40 AM

Category: Poetry 

Theme: The internal struggle of over-sharing because of emotions and the regrets it leaves behind.

It always starts off calm.

like the soft splash of ocean waves at dawn.

Excitement flickers softly as I let out what's on my mind.

But as the story progresses,

The storm suddenly hits—

and my mouth begins to race,

words crashing over each other.

The excitement of sharing is so exhilarating.

not caring in that moment if I was oversharing.

I laugh too loud, talk too fast—

like rain that drowns the morning light.

My voice fills up the empty gaps.

and time, without realizing, has already passed.

And when it's time to walk away and leave,

That's when it suddenly clicks—

all that I have said,

suddenly floods through my head—

the stories, the jokes,

the little confessions never meant to be shared.

I don't mean to say so much.

But my excitement's like a fire,

that I can never seem to stop.

I wish I could gather every word,

Take them all back.

But words don't work like that.

Once they’re out, they’re out.

And now all I could do is stand here—

watching as the fire burns.

A knot in my chest forms.

tightening with every word that I recall.

The thoughts keep circling in my head.

each one louder than the last.

Maybe they don't even care.

Maybe they enjoy what I share.

But I'm still left with thoughts that sting—

thoughts that I’ll carry until midnight,

when it's quiet,

consuming my mind.

But I know I can't just sit and watch—

Watch as the fire burns the air.

until all that's left are ashes and despair.

Next time, I'll let others shine.

not let my emotions run—

out of control, without a finish line.

Next time, I'll remember—

that silence, too,

can carry more meaning

deeper than words

This time, I’ll remember,

and I'll be better.

I promise.

𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗦 𝗡𝗘𝗪𝗦: "Barrios outboxes Pacquiao, holds on to majority draw" by Curtneiy Jerarde Young

Layout by: Queen Xyra Blancia

Published by: Francen Anne Perez

Date Published: July 30, 2025

Time Published: 9:46 AM 

Mario Barrios kept his WBC welterweight belt after sharing the ring with Manny “Pacman” Pacquiao in a close duel, scored 115-113 & 114-114, and declared a majority draw during the WBC welterweight championship at MGM Grand Garden Arena in Las Vegas, Nevada, on July 19.

Pacquiao, who returned to the ring after four years of retirement, aimed to break his record as the oldest welterweight world champion (2019) but was left upset after being held to a majority draw against Barrios.

"I thought I won the fight," said Pacquiao.

The round opened with Pacquiao throwing backhand punches without conviction, pulling off his signature hand speed with every right lead to a hook, moving to a sharp uppercut, which challenged his opponent.

The first to third rounds finished with a gap, as Barrios came prepared and checked hooks towards Pacquiao's jab, trying to dominate Barrios, yet his best was not enough.

As the fourth to seventh rounds took place, Barrios used their size difference as an advantage and fought behind the jabs, landing his counterpunches against Pacquiao, but he gave back.

Pacquiao turned the tables and pulled off his jolting jabs, followed by an uppercut, which aligned their scores and raised Pacquiao higher than Barrios' score.

Despite that, in the final three rounds, Barrios rallied with orthodox, landed rear hooks, and finished the bout after a lead right; the match was declared a majority draw, Barrios kept his crown.

One of the judges marked the match 115-113 in favor of Barrios, while the other two judges marked it 114-114.

"But I still tip my hat to Manny. It was an absolute honor to share the ring with him, somebody with so much experience who has accomplished so much in this sport. We left everything in the ring. Nothing but love and respect,” Barrios stated.

Moreover, Pacquiao considered fighting again and called for a rematch, and Barrios said he would love to do it again as well.

REFERENCES:

(1) Peter, J. (2025, July 20). Manny Pacquiao vs. Mario Barrios results: Fight card highlights. USA TODAY. https://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/boxing/2025/07/19/manny-pacquiao-mario-barrios-live-results-updates/85265158007/

(2) Graham, B. A. (2025, July 20). Manny Pacquiao turns back clock but settles for draw with Mario Barrios. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2025/jul/20/pacquiao-barrios-majority-draw-welterweight-title

(3) Kearns, S. (2025, July 20). Manny Pacquiao draws comeback fight as Mario Barrios retains WBC welterweight title. BBC Sport. https://www.bbc.com/sport/boxing/articles/cgjgqzjez8wo

(4) Graham, B. A. (2025b, July 20). Manny Pacquiao v Mario Barrios: WBC welterweight championship – as it happened. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/sport/live/2025/jul/19/manny-pacquiao-v-mario-barrios-wbc-welterweight-championship-live-updates?filterKeyEvents=true&page=with%3Ablock-687c72ed8f08dbd6c52936be

(5) Sky Sports. (2025, July 20). Manny Pacquiao falls short in world title comeback bid as Mario Barrios retains belt with majority draw. Sky Sports. https://www.skysports.com/boxing/news/12183/13399128/manny-pacquiao-falls-short-in-world-title-comeback-bid-as-mario-barrios-retains-belt-with-majority-draw

(6) INQUIRER.net. (2025, July 19). HIGHLIGHTS: Pacquiao vs Barrios - WBC welterweight title fight. https://sports.inquirer.net/632364/live-manny-pacquiao-vs-mario-barrios-wbc-welterweight-title-fight

(7) Premier Boxing Champions. (2025, July 20). Pacquiao vs Barrios HIGHLIGHTS: July 19, 2025 | PBC PPV on Prime Video[Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulsBY57oK0w