One morning, I received news that left me still and quiet. Harold, a college classmate — someone whose face I can still picture so clearly, whose voice I can almost hear if I try — passed away.
It’s strange how memories can suddenly feel so alive when someone is gone. As if they’ve been waiting in the corners of our minds for a moment like this, a moment we never want to come.
I remember as a second year student at UIC, the afternoons we spent at his house, piecing together school projects such as the feasibility study of organizing a unified communication system that links the university’s two campsuses. In between serious academic work are bouts of jokes and music, as Harold’s pastime includes a rundown of hits from pop stars of the day.
We laughed too loud, ate whatever snacks were around, and always rushed to meet deadlines we could’ve done earlier. The quiet neighborhood and proximity of Central Park in Bangkal offered a perfect refuge to take breaks in between our classes.
Ocassionally, he’d let me borrow cassette tapes from his small but treasured collection from Kon Kan to OMD. Music, then, was how we made sense of things — or simply escaped them.
He wasn’t just generous with tapes. He was generous with his time, with his patience, and with his spirit. The kind of person who gave quietly, but left an imprint that only grows more visible when they’re no longer here.
And now I can’t help but think: I never saw him again after I left Davao. Like many others, our connection shifted to the occasional like or comment on social media. I often tag him on articles I write about our batch, and he’d be happy to be mentioned in the write up. When I sat for UPCAT at Davao City High School, I asked if he knew a girl from Philippine Women’s University who was next to me in the exams. There I realize there was already a connection with Harold even before I enrolled at UIC.
I’d see his posts — updates from his day, photos with our college friends getting together for dinner or Christmas parties. But we seldom spoke. I often quip, “Maybe next vacation.” “Maybe when I’m back in town.” But the next time never came.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? We live in a world where connection is literally in our hands. With a tap or a swipe, we can talk to anyone, anywhere. And yet, we still don’t. So many friends fall into that space — the people we once knew so well, now strangers with familiar names on our friend list, waiting for “someday.”
But maybe that’s the truth we keep forgetting: life isn’t long, it’s just now.
We spend so much time chasing things: promotions at work, pay rises, affirmation and more likes on our social posts — that we forget how quickly it all can change. We postpone joy. We delay forgiveness. We assume we’ll have time to say “thank you” or “I’m sorry” or “let’s talk soon.”
And then one morning, we don’t.
Harold classmate now joins fellow batchmates who’ve gone ahead but not forgotten: Amy, Leonardo, and Chrisamore — familiar faces we once saw every day, now only held in memory. And while grief leaves its sting, it also leaves behind a quiet kind of wisdom. From him, we’re reminded of the kindness that leaves echoes. Of how generosity, even in small things, can be someone’s warm memory years later.
If there’s anything to take from this ache, it’s this:
Live your life with intention.
Say the things you’ve been meaning to say.
Do the things you’ve been putting off.
Be kind. Be honest. Be present.
Because life is short. But today is still ours.
And we honour those we’ve lost not just by remembering them — but by living better, fuller, and more lovingly because of them.