Before the third episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) concluded on April 18, 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 house is filled with the noise of nothingness. The moon fills the void of her mother’s absence; the moonlight softly grazes her olive skin as if in a midnight dream.
She’s looking in the mirror. Her almond-shaped face and knife-like chin are apparent among her other features. It is quiet, yet she feels like something is watching… lurking. Perhaps it is because she’s looking at a girl growing into her own body, yet one that is already judged by society.
Black strands atop her head cascade down like a black river—smooth at its roots yet the tips are rough. Maybe the rough ends need to be chopped off to allow for healthier ends. Mounds of hills continue to grow into womanhood, Ever-present eyes wander to the small pillowy parts of her that are distributed in different parts of her body—molding into a timeless hourglass—yet she yearns to chop them off with a miraculous saw, hoping she can look like those supermodels running down the runway.
Her small stature makes her feel like a dwarf. In front of her are her mother’s platform heels; you know that once you try to walk in them, you will tumble over like a baby learning to walk with dinosaur legs. It stands maybe six, seven inches tall? She laughs at herself at how absurd her thoughts are. She is definitely one of those teens.
She’s holding a tube of lipstick—which is obviously not hers—to finish her look. She swipes the burgundy pigment across her chapped ridges with poor execution. She tries to fix it, only to smear it even further across her face. She pats down on her smooth skin, removing the deep pigment smudge after smudge.
Her eyes seemed to be the only feature that still mirrored the gleam she had at birth. However, instead of her smooth olive eyelids, blotches of color were scattered across them—looking like random paint thrown in the canvas with no harmony yet regarded as a work of art. Some “work of art” that is. Her eyes seem to express uncertainty and rage of her own self standing in the mirror. Hmmm, something’s odd.
Her eyes wander, scanning the edges of the ceiling, feeling like a CCTV is watching her. Goodness gracious, her overthinking is on another level; bare ceilings with cobwebs and dust are the only things lurking in there. She holds on tightly to her golden cross laying on top just a few inches above her breasts. And a scrunched photo on her hand.
She steps on her hand-me-down phone. Ouch. A shard of the glass punctured her skin. She winces from the pain and removes the small shard. The lower one thirds of the phone was black, and the rest shows a glitchy app—the one she was last looking at. It is a picture of a silhouette, making it look as though she were copying the young adult star.
She’s holding onto her metallic necklace, taking deep breaths as the ridges of the crucified man etched on the dig into her palm. He said he was watching over her, yet why does his stare feel so uncomfortable now?
She had always doubted stories like this, believing the stories she heard in Reddit posts or on X were mere hoaxes—until it happened to herself. The humiliation, the disdain. She looked over her shoulder toward the window. The curtains were closed shut, yet every eye was on her. Those same unforgiving eyes she wants to run away from.
How will she be able to do that when she couldn’t even take care of her own things? That’s what got her into this mess anyway: carelessness. The simple act of forgetting her phone in the classroom had led to her dismay.
In her phone was a mere photo—a photo of discovery, a photo of transitioning. She never saw it that way. She only wanted the photo for her self-acceptance. The acceptance of her own autonomy.
Maybe it’s her fault for not putting a password on it, maybe it’s her fault for thinking nobody would see it. Maybe it’s her fault for having a phone, or for not hiding it, or for exploring her femininity. Or, maybe it’s her fault for taking a nude photo with her face, smiling.
Don’t mind the guys in her class that saw the photo. Never mind that they took their own copy before giving the phone back to her; don’t mind that they shared that innocent smile with their friends. Never mind that they made actual prints of the delusional girl in platform heels. And don’t mind that they uploaded it to their accounts to share it on X, mirroring her mother.
Her mother was no different from them. She shouted at her disdain for her actions. Her mother did her best, but maybe it wasn’t enough to ensure her daughter would not settle for such repulsive behavior. She tried her best to explain.
“I only wanted a photo.” She said, crying as she spoke to her mother.
“To send it to someone? To upload it to the internet? To become the school’s call girl?” Her mother fired back. She did her best to bring the young one to school and be religious, even joining the school choir for her exceptional voice, only for her child to end up as a hooker in her school—funny how she says that, when she’s a prostitute herself.
She tried her best to bottle it in, yet she couldn’t handle such humiliation. She wanted to run away to the safety of Mount Apo, never to be seen by society again. Yet she stands… quietly in front of the mirror. A tear cascades down her smooth skin as if reminding her to feel.
Will she be shunned by society when she grows old?
What if she isn’t able to continue high school because her classmates no longer see her as a person worthy of dignity?
She sits in front of the mirror.
What will she do?
One hand holds tightly on her necklace as she closes her eyes and prays for comfort, begging to attain peace, begging not to be a prisoner of her own decisions. She begs that one day his eyes will once again be a comfort to her instead of a source of fear. She begs that one day, he will forgive her and once again welcomes her with open arms. Each begging seems to get more desperate, heaving from all that crying.
Ting!
She opens her eyes. Her tears have dried; she has slept on the floor. Her waves glisten in the sunlight.
Ting!
She grabs her phone, only to see an email. Her face lights up as if the events of last night had granted her a reprieve. Her school’s principal and guidance counselor have sent her an email. She struggles with her broken phone, tapping furiously and trying to read the letter through the small, distinguishable parts of the black and glitchy screen.
“Good morning. This is a formal letter notifying you of the expulsion of Mr. Bernardillo, Mr. Rosales, Mr. Tejano, and Mr. Gomez, effective immediately, March 15, 2026…”
She takes a breath—a sigh of relief. From now on, her reality would only contain remnants of nightmares; she will no longer live within one.
“Good morning. First and foremost, I would like you to know that the Office of Guidance Counseling is a safe space where we can talk about what you have gone through and follow the necessary steps for your recovery. Please know that this is not your fault.
The administration has handled your case with the utmost seriousness, following strict protocols to address the theft and unauthorized sharing of your personal photos. We prioritize your safety and well-being, both inside and outside of the classroom.
You are not alone.”
She breaks down in tears.
Her innocent smile reappears.
The judging gaze disappears, one-by-one.
I am not alone.
Ysabella May “Ysabelle” P. Sabas
