As the first episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) slowly came to its conclusion on February 28, we knew that we had one more thing that we can offer our bright young fellows: a starting platform for their creative endeavors. Here, we present one of their final outputs from the workshop. We also asked them to provide an artwork that they think best represents their stories. Read on.
The ruffles on my new second-hand dress gather at my neck. “Jaan, you brought everything?” my mother says with sickeningly sweet worry. I nod.
“Jaan.” I never learned my mother’s tongue, one meant to be mine too. I carry the weight of my dented water bottle in my hand. Every sticker picked and placed with intention. Longing to be seen, understood.
“Hurry!!!! I can’t wait to see you babe,” the message dings. It reads like a martian language. I take the last empty bus seat. 15 pesos exchanged for a small flimsy paper shoved in a fold of my wallet. I’m happy I didn’t pay full price.
There he is—full toothed smile and a bouquet of carnations. Not just flowers: carnations. He takes my bags, even heavier, my hand. We begin walking 4 blocks to the arcade. Our pace, like musical rhythm. He talks about his jail-broken console while adjusting his glasses.
Outside the local Persian place, 2 blocks in, I feel it. The back of my head, buzzing; ten pounds heavier. My stomach is stinging again, like it does on bad days. “Maybe I’m hungry.”
He cuts me off.
“We should eat now, not walk further.”
I insist. I look in his brown eyes — it’s worth it.
We pass the arcade sign and he runs to buy me pizza. I look down and mutter, “I’m sorry, I don’t like pepperoni.”
He starts picking off the 8 pieces, one-by-one. I do like pepperoni, and I’m not exactly allergic. This just makes things easier. I remember mama: ham-smeared fingers. It didn’t help—residual particles still reached my body.
As he picks off the last red circle, he asks,
“Would you prefer a new one? Just cheese?”
I say it’s no biggie. I look at the paper plate of meat removed with such care — it’s worth it.
As the last sip of bubbly Coke Zero lingers on my lips, we move towards the game room. Lights and sounds hit me all at once. Techno music from the Pac-Man machine, coins clinking in buckets, booming voices from the Whac-A-Mole. My eyes, useful as a dirty camera lens. Romance as guise, I lean on his shoulder with closed eyes. The sound is enough; I’ll process the light another time.
I ease into it. He lets me. Gentle as his sweet perfume. Resounding laughter as “GAME OVER” flashes on the Donkey Kong machine, so loud people start staring. I don’t care.
Five games in. I feel it again—the sounds louder, the lights brighter. I am engulfed. He holds my hand; I use it as an anchor. His skin on mine — it’s worth it.
We walk back. I can’t hide it, not anymore. He sees it on my face, my limp, the added rasp in my voice. He doesn’t know. I never told him.
Our legs touch, sitting on cramped bus seats.
“I barely slept, sorry,” I say, eyes closed.
I slept 9 hours last night.
He helps me off the rusty bus before our three-minute walk home. He rings the doorbell. I would, in any other circumstance, be nervous about him interacting with mama for the first time. She doesn’t speak local dialects, plus, I’m not dating a nice Indian boy.
I’m preoccupied. Calculating the energy needed to blink. Mama opens the door. I’m counting my strides. I know it takes twelve steps to get to the sofa.
I only get to four.
Thud.
I hear muffled remnants of the conversation between my boyfriend and mother.
“Should I book a car to the ER?” he asks.
“If we went to the hospital every time Sylvia fainted, we’d be out of rent,” Mama replies.
Cheek on the cold tile, my left hand bent painfully under the weight of my body. Silence lingers.
“Jaan, mere Jaan…” Mama says. I feel teary eyes on me.
He asks, “Is that… a translation of her name?”
Maybe a stupid question—but his guess is as good as mine.
She laughs.
“Jaan means life: Sylvia is my life.”
My consciousness drifts.
Pink eyeshadow catches light. My eyes squint open. Mama presses a glass of water to my lips, supporting my back. My boyfriend stands staring, hand behind his head.
She gives me two minutes before her barrage.
“Sylvia, why don’t you listen? You say you know your body—then what is this? Did you take your meselamine before leaving?”
She starts praying in Hindi, gripping my hand tight. I look at him. I wonder what’s going on in his head. How long was I out? Does he know? Will this be the last date? It usually is.
I can barely think over the 108 mantras.
Learning your partner has a chronic illness is one thing—but the prayers, the collapse, the entire scene together? I wonder why he’s still here.
I watch him take off his glasses to wipe something from his eye.
Mama leaves the room to prepare paneer—safe food.
I turn my head to him, letting out a carefree, “What’s up?”
He bends down, brushing his fingers on my cheek, moving hair from my eyes.
“You could’ve told me,” he says.
I reply through quivering lips,
“I want to be able to have a fun day in the arcade, I want to be able—”
He takes a deep breath, like a teacher before giving your parents bad news.
“Let’s do something simpler next time, yeah?”
His voice. His grin. Next time. The words echo. Fragrant cardamom wraps around us.
I just nod, saving my energy. Footsteps grow quieter. He scurries away to help mama cook. God bless him—he’ll need it.
Sound echoes through paper-thin walls.
He asks mama for lists: foods I cannot eat, triggers, symptoms, and safe places.
The pain and frustration float away. One tear on my cheek. I let a smile slip.
For the first time today, I let myself rest.
I let myself be life.
It was worth it.
Kiana Amarnani is a storyteller and student at De La Salle University who loves imagining a kind and just world. She enjoys poetic and lyrical narratives that make people feel deeply. Kiana has been a climate justice advocate since 2019, which heavily influences her work and its connection to nature and the climate movement. She has been published within the advocacy sphere, with poems like “Under the Shade of a Narra Tree” with Talang Dalisay.
