grumpyslytherin

[grumpyslytherin]

something DEFINITELY ain't right

[grumpyslytherin]

Before Time Slips Away

April 2, 2025

I started learning how to ride a bike today. My first attempt was at 5:30 AM before work, and I went back to practicing around 6 PM. I never really thought I could do it—sometimes I did, but my mind has a way of convincing me otherwise. Funnily enough, it was also my mind that pushed me through today. I’m still not good at it, but I can pedal now.

But that’s not the heart of this story.

A while ago, I crashed. It was a bad fall—I landed hard on my right side, scraping my elbow, and now my shoulder and leg ache. I remember screaming before it happened. When I opened my eyes, I was on the ground, on the side of the road. The first thing I heard was my father’s voice, frantic and filled with worry—"Anak! Anak?"

Slowly, I got up. You’re okay, I told myself. Sure, it hurts, but you’re okay.

It was dark by then. My mother, who had been a few meters away, hadn’t even seen me fall. But in that moment, I didn’t care how silly I looked. I wasn’t ashamed of being 28 and only just learning to ride a bike. All I wanted was to get inside, to reassure my father that I was okay. I knew it was time to rest. Tomorrow would be another day to learn.

But what stayed with me wasn’t the pain or the fall. It was the way my father fussed over me, his voice a mix of concern and encouragement. Anong nangyari? Masakit ba? May sugat? And then, in between his panicked questions, he’d slip in reassurances—Kasama ‘yan sa pag-aaral. Masasaktan ka, matatakot ka, pero ayos lang ‘yan.

It had been so long since I last saw and heard him like that. I’ve been an adult for a long time. But at that moment, I felt like a child again. And oh, how I missed it.

As I stood up from the fall, I thought, I have to pretend I’m okay. I have to tell myself I’m okay. I’m old enough. I am responsible for myself.

And then, another thought followed—a quiet, terrifying one.

One day, I won’t hear my tatay’s voice anymore. He won’t be there to guide me through my learning moments. He won’t be there.

That’s why I just want to make every minute count. Every second I get to hear his voice, feel his concern, see his face—I want to hold onto it. Because I know one day, I’ll be looking back, wishing I could live this moment again.