THE ROUTE WE NEVER LEFT

September 10, 2026 | 6:00 P.M.

LITERARY: CREATIVE NON-FICTION CATEGORY

It was an exhausting day at the university. The engine of the jeepney sounded louder than usual. It grumbled as if it would pop and break down at any second, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if it did. As if my day couldn’t get any stranger, out of all the stops we had passed, there had only been one other passenger riding with me the entire time—a child. 

He sat directly across from me. He hadn't called out "para po" once, and I was starting to think we were heading to the exact same destination.

I didn’t mind it at first, simply assuming he was an independent kid learning how to commute on his own.

“That’s great, kid,” I said with a smile. “I remember sitting in that exact same spot when I was your age.”

“Really? How old are you, kuya?” the child replied, his face bright with curiosity.

“I’m turning twenty this January. What’s your name?”

“My name is Inggo.”

“People used to call me that when I was a kid, too.”

As our journey went on, we passed several buildings tied to some of my fondest memories. I ducked down slightly to look through the open window behind him. As I leaned forward, he turned his entire body to catch a glimpse of what I was looking at, gripping the window frame for balance as the breeze ruffled his hair.

He was smiling, while I stared with a quiet, hollow expression, wishing I could turn back the clock to when I was just like him. I wondered if he was living those golden days right now—if all the nostalgia weighing on my chest was simply his present reality. How I wished I could switch places with him.

“Have you been there?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s my favorite restaurant! My lola always takes me there,” he replied.

That used to be my favorite restaurant, too, until my lola became too weak to join us. We still go occasionally, but now she just hands us money so we can eat without her. Why did I share so many specific details with this kid? Why did he carry the faint scent of my childhood cologne? The flushed cheeks from the afternoon heat, the rumpled school uniform—a strange unease began to settle over me.

“Oh, I go here, too,” he said, pointing toward an after-school math and reading center. “Just please don’t tell my mom. I let my older cousins answer my math worksheets because I only like reading.”

I sat frozen. That exact building. That exact program. I had hated the math drills and spent every minute buried in their small library instead.

“Wait, kid... is your name Car—”

“Para po, manong driver!” the child interrupted.

I hadn’t even noticed we had reached my stop right in front of my street. I figured the kid must have lived nearby, too.

I stepped down from the jeepney first, eager to finally ask him what was going on.

“Hey, I didn't know we were neighbors,” I said with a light laugh, glancing over my shoulder.

The jeepney’s engine roared to life once more, rattling as it sped away into the distance. I stood on the pavement completely alone. There was no child beside me, even though I could have sworn we had stepped down together.

There was no child beside me—only the realization that I had spent the entire ride saying goodbye to myself. 

Written by: Carl Xymon M. Dala/ UST Nursing Journal