No Caramoan. No approving looks. No sympathetic smiles. No childlike grins and silly jokes. No summer dresses and sunblocks and buri hats and cute souvenirs and sunburned skin and memories. Only dark clouds, broken umbrellas, damp socks, and packed dinner.
No gumamela tucked behind the ear, no guitars and bonfires and Buklod and Gwen Stefani songs. Nothing. Everything is gray and dull and sad. Much like most of my 30 summers.
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