It was a warm April morning when Yna put on her graduation gown.
The heat of the Philippine sun seeped through the fabric, but she didn't mind. She had waited years for this—Bachelor of Science in Information Technology, Class of 2019.
Her parents were there, dressed in crisp semi-formal wear, cameras in hand, waiting to take the usual "I'm so proud of you" photos. Her mother had even ordered a small bouquet of red roses, tied with pink ribbon. Her father smiled wider than she'd seen him smile in months. And when her name was called onstage, everyone clapped like this was a happy ending.
Yna smiled for the photos.
She posed, waved, did the signature "V" sign with her fingers.
But inside?
Inside she felt nothing.
Or maybe too much.
She had graduated. She was done with college. On paper, she was everything they wanted her to be—a degree-holder, a functioning adult, a survivor.
But she didn't feel like any of those things.
She felt like a ghost wearing a medal.
A girl still carrying a grief no one else could see.
Because by then, the trauma had become routine. It had slipped into her system like poison in small, consistent doses—just enough to keep her tired, heavy, and numb.
Since 2016, she hadn't truly felt peace. She'd learned how to dissociate better. To laugh at the right times. To say "I'm okay" without flinching. She had become a master of disappearing while staying present.
Her friends called her "strong."
Her professors called her "capable."
Her family called her "quiet, but brilliant."
No one called her "in pain."
No one called her "still bleeding."
Miggy was there too.
He brought her flowers—sunflowers, her favorite. Took pictures of her laughing, brushing a hand through her graduation cap. He didn't say much that day. He didn't need to.
Because when their eyes met across the celebration crowd, he saw it.
The mask.
The ache behind the smile.
The loneliness she carried even in victory.
He reached for her hand later that night, as they walked to the nearest tapsilogan for a celebratory dinner. She held it, but only loosely. Like she didn't want to hold on too tight. Like she was afraid of being too much again.
He looked at her.
She looked away.
"I'm proud of you," he said quietly.
She nodded, swallowing back the lump in her throat.
But she didn't say "Thank you."
Because she didn't feel proud of herself.
She felt... guilty.
She had finished college. But she hadn't healed.
She had achieved a milestone. But her wounds still felt fresh.
And she hated herself for not being able to feel the joy everyone expected her to.
That night, she cried alone in her room. Still in her graduation dress. Still wearing makeup.
She stared at her medal lying on the bedside table.
And whispered to the dark:
"Why do I still feel like a failure?"