In the loving memory of a losing spark,

Nothing feels more sorrowful than living with a passion that is slowly slipping through one’s fingers. It is worse than mourning the dead, because the loss does not rest—it lingers, it breathes. It reminds them daily of what they are failing to hold onto.

Before everything tumbled down, the accomplishments became the face of the institution. Their mere presence served as  role models that everyone should look up to.

But one thing's for sure is that they won't get the same limelight forever. What once were cheers that are meant to acknowledge their success became an echo from afar—a distant memory that felt impossible to attain again. 

They move through their days as both participant and observer, watching themselves unravel without the language to stop it. Each hour presses closer than the last, compressing thoughts into obligation. Pressure gathers quietly behind their ribs, until even breathing feels like a deadline.

Pages wait—blank and patient. Ideas hover just beyond reach. Close enough to ache but too fragile to grasp. When they finally write, the pen no longer feels like a tool but a wound. Ink spills heavier than intention as each line extracts more than it gives.

They write because stopping would mean admitting the absence. Because silence feels louder than failure. They would push harder, hoping something honest survives the friction.

I guess the pen bled a little too much.

Perfection watches from a distance, immaculate and untouched. It does not speak anymore. It no longer has to. Because its presence is enough. Slowly, they understand that their passion was not lost all at once but traded piece by piece—for approval, for consistency, and for the illusion of control.

They think the grief will end once the passion is gone, but it doesn’t. It stays curled in the margins of every page. Even now, it breathes when they do, reminding them that what is slipping away has not fully surrendered. The haunting is not the loss itself but the way it refuses to disappear.

Written by Enah Lei Bohulano, Staff Writer

Illustrated by