"What leads one individual, so full of promise, to commit brutal acts of violence and another to turn poverty and trauma into a rich literary harvest?"
I first read that passage while lying on a rickety folding bed in the corner of the university library's mezzanine. Rain was knocking hard against the jalousie windows, and I was tracing the margin of my Santrock textbook with a dried rose petal I used as a bookmark.
That line hit me like a whispered dare: Why do people turn out the way they do?
I scribbled beside it in pen:
And what if you were born with nothing to become — and decided to become anyway?
"Ashang, halika nga rito! Tumulong ka sa paglalaba, hindi 'yung aral nang aral!"
Kalin, my older brother's voice sliced through the air like it always did — careless, angry, unprovoked. I was nine, sitting on the wooden stairs of our family house, clenching my reviewer sheets like they were some kind of armor.
"Ay 'wag mong pagalitan si Ashang!" my Lola Catalina chimed from the kitchen. "Matalino 'yan. Hindi mo na 'yan kailangang bantayan."
They always said it like a compliment. As if being smart made me unbreakable.
"Aisya!"
I turned. It was Sir Olivar, our Physics teacher, waving my graded paper.
"Top ka na naman, anak. You're making Aparri East National High School proud."
I smiled. At school, I was Aisya — sharp, diligent, polite.
But on Friday nights, sitting by the bedroom of my boyfriend Draven while he's kissing my neck, I was Ain.
"Ain…" Drave once said, attempting to unclasp my bra. "Kailan mo ba ako pagbibigyan?"
I only laughed. "Diploma muna bago sex."
I never asked about where my mother came from. She never offered. I just assumed poverty ran in her blood like it did in all of us.
But one summer, when I was fifteen and nosy, I overheard a conversation between my Tita Elvira and another woman while they were shelling peanuts in our garage.
"Eh kasi naman, si Ines, anak ng Amerikano 'yan, diba? Pero hindi inangkin. Puro kahirapan inangkin niya."
My breath caught.
"What?" I said.
They both turned, startled. Tita Elvi sighed. "Hay, 'yang nanay mo, hindi niya ba sinabi? Galing 'yan sa tribo sa may liblib na part ng Cagayan. Lumaya't Alon ang tawag. Wala na halos sa mapa 'yan. 'Yung ama niya—American, hindi na bumalik."
That night, I confronted her.
"Nay, totoo ba?"
She paused from slicing tomatoes. Her hands stilled over the dulled blade.
"Sinong nagsabi?"
"Tita Elvi."
She exhaled sharply, then looked at me.
"Hindi ko 'yan tinatago. Hindi ko lang pinagmamalaki."
That was the first time I heard her say Lumaya't Alon. Her voice trembled a little — not with shame, but with memory.
"Babaeng dagat ako, anak. Pero ang dagat... hindi marunong humawak ng tao. Palaging tinatangay."
I used to think trauma had a shape — something monstrous, tangible. But sometimes, it's just the way someone slams a door. The way your name is never said gently.
Once, I watched my mother scream back at my Tita after being called walang modo. Her voice was shrill, like it had practiced silence too long. I was five, hiding under the wooden table, tracing the floor with my toe. Our eldest, Ate Rae whispered, "Huwag kang umiyak, Ashang. Sanay ka na, 'di ba?"
That was the night I learned you could cry without sound.
I often wondered how I turned out the way I did — grounded, high-performing, not even a trace of violence or vengeance. The developmental theories didn't explain me. Nature and nurture failed their case.
But I believe in something else..
Free will.
And my free will always whisper freedom.
Freedom from scarcity. From noise. From being forgotten in rooms where I was still breathing.
I was scrolling through research abstracts the night everything shifted.
My thesis entry was picked to be funded by the Philippine Association of Psychology Junior Affiliates (PAPJA) during the national convention. Working title:
"Proximity Without Touch: Emotional Resonance in Pseudonymous Voice-Based Romantic Pairings."
"That's oddly specific," the panelist chuckled.
"Because it's real," I said.
I had downloaded the app Soulverge two weeks before. It wasn't like Tinder or Bumble. You didn't swipe. You didn't judge faces. You just… listened.
The app ran like this: pick your emotional filter. Select a topic. Then you get matched—randomly—with another voice. A real person. Seven minutes. And if something clicks — just one tiny click on the heart — you stay.
When I decided to start my data gathering, it was late. I was half-wrapped in a comforter, feet cold, Spotify humming some old Bon Iver track.
I clicked the filter:
Depth. Humor. Warmth.
The first few calls were… Well, nonsense. Horny bastards.
The screen dimmed. A timer blinked 7:00.
The line connected.
A pause. Then—
"Hey. I guess this is how strangers become… not."
His voice was low. Easy. Like velvet lined with curiosity.
I smiled.
Finally. Not a creep.
"I guess so too."
Another silence.
I was preparing myself to ask one of the prompts I need answered for my experiment. Okay. It's now or never.
"What's something you've never told anyone, but would tell a stranger?"
He laughed, nervously.
"That I think I fall in love with voices too easily."
I was caught off guard. But for some reason, I said, ""Then I hope mine doesn't disappoint."
He chuckled. "You're pretty good at this, huh? My turn to ask."
I paused from asking the second prompt.
"What's a childhood memory that shaped your view of love?" he asked.
I exhaled. "When I was seven, I saw my mom say to my dad after a fight, 'Hindi mo man ako mahalin nang tama, hindi ako nagsisisi.' That kind."
That was not scripted. Only the prompt questions and possible responses I would need were. Gosh, it was harder than I thought. It was challenging to talk to a stranger with a motive in mind.
Silence. Then, in a hush:
"That's the kind of love the spine remembers."
The timer ticked down. My mind froze from his response. Should I go on? This might be bad. He's too smart for this. What should I do next?
There was a high-pitched, long beeping sound. I couldn't hear what he was saying anymore.
Until the lighting of the screen changed. 00:15, 00:14…
Should I click the heart? What if he doesn't click back? Aisya, think fast!
My thumb hovered over the heart.
I wasn't supposed to care. It was just research. Just a voice.
But I clicked.
You successfully matched!
It meant he clicked the heart long before I did.