XVII.
1712 Words
-Raya-
Sunday noon in the Philippines.
Saturday night here.
The time difference still messed with me sometimes, but today, it was like my body knew I needed to talk to them. I climbed onto the bed, propped up my pillow, and tapped on the familiar app that had become my bridge between two worlds. The loading circle spun, then—
“Ateee!”
Three little faces flooded the screen at once. My heart swelled at the sight of my nieces—Lyka, Dani, and Micmic—all shouting over each other, calling me Ate Raya like I’d been gone for years instead of just a few weeks.
“Wait lang, wait lang,” my cousin shouted from somewhere off-camera. “Raya’s calling, everyone move!”
The camera jerked as the phone was repositioned, and soon, more faces joined—titos and titas, cousins, my Lola with her hair wrapped in a towel like she just finished doing laundry, and my mom, seated in front with a mug of coffee in her hands.
“There you are, anak,” she said, her voice soft but rich with warmth. “How are you?”
“Kumusta na mo tanan?” I asked, my Cebuano accent slipping into full gear now that I was home—at least in heart, if not in body.
The room erupted in overlapping replies.
“Raya, did you eat na?”
“Psst, you look thinner, are you eating enough?”
“Ay! Gipalit na gyud ang tindahan ni Manang Lina! Our sari-sari store has competition!”
“Remember Joey? He’s in jail! AGAIN.”
I laughed until my cheeks ached. The kumustahan was real—and chaotic in the best way. The kind where one story became another, and everyone jumped in with gossip or updates. Someone was always eating in the background, and I could practically smell sinigang and garlic rice through the screen.
After a while, things calmed, and my mom leaned closer to the camera. “So, tell us na. How’s America?”
I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. “It’s… different. Big. Cold. And people don’t smile at each other as much.”
Lola chuckled. “Amerikano, gud.”
“But it’s not bad,” I added quickly. “My host family is kind. The mom—Carla—is sweet. She reminds me of Tita Ella, always cooking, always checking in. The kids are cute, too. It’s just…”
“Just?” my cousin prodded, raising a brow.
“I joined the football team.”
There was a long pause. Then Dani gasped. “Like soccer?”
“No, no,” I laughed. “American football. The one with the helmets and shoulder pads.”
Chaos.
“Ay ambot!”
“Is that safe?”
“Are you serious?”
“You sure you’re not just watching the team? Playing gyud?”
I nodded, my grin growing. “Playing.”
My mom looked concerned. “Raya…”
“I’m okay, Ma. I wear the gear. And honestly? It feels good.” I sat up straighter. “It’s not easy, and most of them don’t think I can do it, but I’m learning. And I’m fast. I’ve been training with some teammates. It’s like…”
I searched for the right words.
“It’s like when I joined that science fair and everyone thought I couldn’t win because our school was small. Or when I transferred to that big private school and had to prove myself all over again. You know that feeling when you're scared but excited? When something just calls to you?”
Mom smiled softly. “You’ve always chased things that scare you.”
“It makes me feel alive, Ma.”
My cousin grinned. “You better be famous when you get back. ‘First Cebuana American Football Star’ or something.”
Lola waved a spoon at the screen. “As long as you don’t come home in a wheelchair.”
We laughed again.
Then my mom’s voice lowered, more serious now. “Whatever you do there, anak… don’t forget who you are.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t lose your kindness. You’re strong, but your heart is your real strength.”
That landed heavy in my chest—the good kind of heavy.
I heard a commotion behind them and saw someone running after Micmic, who had stolen a donut from the table.
My heart ached with love.
“I miss you guys,” I whispered.
“We miss you, too,” Mom said. “But we’re so proud of you. Whatever happens, remember that.”
“I will.”
The call ended with a chorus of “Bye Ate!”, “Take care!”, “Text us ha!”, and one very specific “Bring me chocolates!”
As the screen faded to black, I stared at my reflection for a moment—braid a little messy, cheeks flushed from laughter, heart filled.
I didn’t have siblings. But with over a dozen cousins, nieces, nephews, and a family loud enough to rival any neighborhood karaoke contest—I never felt alone.
This… this was why I wanted to do well. Why I couldn’t just sit on the sidelines and blend into the background. I carried them with me, every story, every laugh, every piece of home.
I turned off the light, slid under the sheets, and let the silence settle.
Maybe I was far away.
But I had never felt closer to who I was.
I lay on the bed, arms tucked behind my head, staring at the ceiling like it held some kind of answer.
The lights were off, but the moonlight slipped between the blinds, casting soft shadows that danced across the ceiling.
Everything was quiet now—Carla had gone to bed, the kids were probably curled up under their blankets, and Alec’s room was silent too. Not a single sound except the ticking of the wall clock and the soft hum of the heater in the corner.
My chest still felt warm from the call earlier. From the familiar voices, the overlapping laughter, the way their love didn’t seem to shrink no matter how far I was from them. They made it easy to breathe again. And then Alec… Alec, who had defended me in front of the others when I least expected it. I kept replaying it in my mind like it was a scene from a movie I hadn’t written for myself.
"She’s at practice. She’s trying. That’s more than I can say for half the people who’ve been losing for three seasons straight."
He didn’t have to say that.
Not for me.
Not for anyone.
And maybe he didn’t say it for me. Maybe he just got tired of their passive digs. Or maybe, deep down, he saw something in me that I didn’t even know I was showing.
Whatever the reason… it mattered. More than I wanted to admit.
I smiled to myself and shifted a little, the bedsheets rustling as I hugged the pillow closer.
People were always going to be divided.
Some would support me, like Irene, Felix, Trish, and Mela. My family back home. Even Alec, in his own confusing, grumpy way.
But then there’d always be those like Jessa, Kiana, and Sidney. The ones who looked at me and only saw someone who didn’t belong. A newcomer. A misfit. An outsider trying to take up space in a world they believed wasn’t mine to claim.
And that was okay.
Because the ones who mattered? The ones who really knew me—who’d seen me fall, rise, stumble again, and still cheer—they believed. They knew my heart. And if I had even just a handful of those people, I’d be fine.
I didn’t need to convince the rest.
I didn’t need their validation.
What I needed… was to prove to myself that I could do this. That I was capable of handling the unfamiliar, the difficult, the lonely. That I could survive in a new place, surrounded by new people, chasing a goal that made even me second guess myself at times.
Because it wasn’t really about football—not entirely.
It was about showing up. About taking space. About chasing something that felt like mine even when no one else understood why.
I’ve always been that way.
The girl who signed up for things she wasn’t qualified for. Who joined contests with no promise of winning. Who moved to a whole other country just to prove to herself that she could.
And now?
Now I was doing it all over again—with cleats instead of a science fair ribbon, and bruises instead of medals.
It wasn’t about the sport.
It was about the fire it lit in me.
That stubborn, persistent fire that said, “You belong here, too.”
I turned my head, eyes drifting toward the ceiling again.
Even if I never became the best on the team…
Even if I messed up drills and got knocked down and ran the wrong plays…
Even if people laughed—
I would still lace up.
Still show up.
Still try.
Because courage wasn’t about always being confident.
Sometimes, courage was just the quiet decision to keep going anyway.
I breathed in deeply, letting the silence settle into my bones.
A part of me was scared. I couldn’t lie about that.
But the bigger part—the louder part—was ready.
Because I wasn’t just playing for a win. I was playing for the girl who dared to believe she could.
I let my eyes flutter closed, pillow cradling my head like a gentle hand.
My body ached, but in a good way. The kind that meant I’d done something worthwhile. That I’d pushed a little harder. Stood a little taller.
A soft smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
They could doubt me.
Laugh.
Underestimate me.
But I was still here.
And I wasn’t going anywhere.
Sleep crept in slowly, like a warm tide rolling over sand. My thoughts grew softer. My muscles lighter. But that fire inside me? That stayed burning.
Quiet, but fierce.
Just the way I liked it.
- Writer
