UP Los Baños buzzed with the quiet intensity of mid-semester. Students drifted in and out of classes with earphones in, tote bags slung over shoulders, and laptops tucked under arms like sacred relics. The sprawling campus, with its acacia-lined roads and moss-covered buildings, had grown familiar to Carmela. It had become her second home—a place of challenge, solitude, and, increasingly, of dreams taking root.
The distance from her family was felt most in the still hours, especially on weekends when she stayed on campus while others went home. Her dorm room was functional but plain, the walls adorned with sticky notes, motivational printouts, and a small corkboard filled with photos: her mom in the kitchen garden, her brothers fixing up the motorbike, their newly painted house from the summer before.
Her phone pinged with a message from her mother: **"Ingat palagi, anak. Kumain ka nang maayos."** (Stay safe always, my child. Eat well.)
Carmela smiled. She replied with a selfie of her eating leftover adobo from her meal prep containers, captioned, *"Laging busog. Miss ko na kayo."* (Always full. I miss you all.)
It had been weeks since she last visited the province, the bus ride too long and costly to do often. Still, the life she had helped rebuild back home continued steadily. Her brothers had taken over much of the backyard garden, now growing not only herbs but also tomatoes, eggplants, and okra. Her mother, thanks to the inventory app Carmela had built during the summer, was managing orders more efficiently. Business was still small, but stable. Their family group chat was active, filled with jokes, photos of new dishes, and even requests for tech support.
Meanwhile, Carmela's days in Los Baños were packed.
Her coursework in Information Technology was as demanding as she had anticipated. She had just submitted a program in Java that sorted delivery orders, and her latest lab project was about building a basic website that could handle log-ins and file uploads. She stayed late in the library, often coding until her eyes blurred.
But she loved it.
The logical structure, the problem-solving, the idea that she could build something from scratch and make it work—it all excited her in a way that writing never had. Writing had always been about healing, expression, and reflection. Coding, in contrast, was about creation, function, and potential. She was still blogging, mostly weekend entries, merging both sides of her brain. But now, writing was the warm-down, not the main event.
One Sunday afternoon, she sat in the shaded courtyard of the Student Union building, laptop open, working on a freelance task for a small online shop. They wanted a chatbot that could answer basic queries.
"You really don't stop, do you?" came a familiar voice.
Carmela looked up. Raziel stood there, holding two drinks in hand. "Caramel macchiato or cold brew?"
She grinned. "Cold brew, please."
He handed her the drink and sat across from her.
Raziel had applied in a tech school in Manila. They didn't get to see each other often, but when their schedules aligned, he'd visit Los Baños or they'd meet halfway in Calamba. This was one of those rare weekends.
"You look like you're working on world domination," he said, nodding to her screen.
"Not yet. Just a bot that can answer where to find milk tea," she joked.
He sipped his coffee. "That's a start."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the wind carrying the scent of grass and fried isaw from a vendor down the street.
"You know," Carmela began slowly, "sometimes I forget how much I've changed. Like, a few years ago, I was so stuck in my own head."
Raziel looked at her carefully. "And now?"
"Now I see that I can build something. Maybe not perfect. But better."
He smiled, reaching over to brush a leaf from her hair. "I've always known you could."
She didn't pull away. She didn't lean in either. But something inside her softened.
After Raziel left that evening, Carmela sat in her room, revisiting her long-term goals. She had set them on her journal months ago: graduate on time, build a portfolio, land a stable tech job within a year after graduation. But now, she wanted more. She wanted experience.
She applied for a volunteer assistant role in a faculty research project on smart farming systems. The irony wasn't lost on her—a girl from an agricultural province helping develop automated irrigation models. If accepted, she'd help write code for data monitoring, collecting humidity and moisture levels in test plots.
To her delight, she got the position. It paid nothing, but the experience was gold.
Weeks passed. Her schedule tightened. Mornings were spent in lectures, afternoons in the computer lab or project site, evenings in her dorm debugging or attending virtual webinars. Her blog grew too, now read by students who appreciated her honest reflections on balancing tech, identity, and a life that sometimes still confused her.
One night, her blog post titled *"Why I Chose IT Instead of English: A Love Letter to Both"* went semi-viral in a local student community. She received comments from other students struggling to choose between passion and practicality.
It affirmed her choice, not because of the praise, but because she could finally articulate what she had known all along: writing had saved her. But tech would build her future.
During her semestral break, she went home to the province for two weeks. She was welcomed with pancit, warm hugs, and endless teasing from her brothers.
The house looked even better now. They had added new shelves, fixed the drainage, and even started a small recycling system based on one of her ideas. Her mother had begun offering DIY herb kits, packaged neatly in boxes Carmela designed online.
One night, she sat under the stars with her mom, sipping hot salabat.
"You look so grown up now," her mom said.
"I feel like I'm finally moving forward, Ma."
Her mother nodded. "Just remember, anak, success isn't just in titles or money. It's in how you live each day, in how you love, and in what you give back."
Carmela took that to heart. Before returning to Los Baños, she left behind a written proposal for a small tech training workshop for local teens—basic digital literacy, internet safety, and maybe even an intro to coding.
Back at school, things only accelerated. She was accepted into the university's coding mentorship program, partnered with a senior named Leah who had just landed a job offer from a top software company.
Leah was tough but inspiring. Under her guidance, Carmela learned how to build cleaner, more efficient code. They brainstormed ideas, one of which involved a mobile app that would connect rural farmers to local buyers. It was a huge project, and though it wouldn't be finished within the semester, Carmela had found a direction.
Tech for the community.
She and Raziel remained close. Their chats were often filled with code memes, class rants, and occasional emotional check-ins. He never asked her to define what they were. He was just there.
And slowly, so was she.
One night, after a long day in the lab, she received a message from him.
**Raziel:** "Someday, when you build your own software company, can I apply?"
She laughed out loud.
**Carmela:** "Only if you pass the exam."
His reply came instantly. **Raziel:** "Challenge accepted."
November ended with a storm, both literal and academic. Exams loomed. Projects piled up. But Carmela, no longer the girl weighed down by what-ifs and used-to-bes, welcomed the chaos.
She had grown into someone who knew how to adapt.
She had glitches, yes. Bad days, doubts, errors in judgment.
But she also had a growing confidence, a strong network, and a vision.
She was building not only systems but a life.
A future.
And this time, it would be written in lines of code, sketched in story drafts, and lived in full.
Because Carmela finally understood:
She wasn't just rewriting her past anymore.
She was creating her legacy.