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.