Some hearts will break by May. Others will bloom. But right now, in the middle of April—with the electric fans on full blast, the mangoes ripe for picking, and the sound of karaoke drifting from every other house—I’m just grateful to be in a country where love is always in season.
I’ve been scribbling in this diary for three Aprils now, and one thing is certain: Walang permanenteng tag-araw, pero may permanenteng sakit ng ulo pagdating sa pag-ibig. (There’s no permanent summer, but there’s a permanent headache when it comes to love.)
This is the messy, teleserye-level romance that only April can host—when the summer sun lowers inhibitions and the sea breeze smells like bad decisions. I told Jasmin, “Mahal mo ba siya?” She said, “Oo. Kaya nga ako nandito. Para lumaban.” (Yes. That’s why I’m here. To fight.)
It’s that strange week of April again. The sun is punishing, the jasmine flowers (sampaguita) are wilting by noon, and yet—there’s something electric in the air. Maybe it’s the countdown to summer flings. Maybe it’s because Holy Week just passed, and after all that reflection, our hearts are either bruised clean or ready to sin again.
This April, the plot thickened. Jasmin found a saved voicemail on Carlo’s phone from the ex: “Miss na kita, Carlo. See you sa beach.” (I miss you, Carlo. See you at the beach.)
— Ate (Your Filipina Diarist) 💔🌞🌸
Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s 34 degrees. Even when he leaves.
Then there’s my best friend, Jasmin. She’s been in a “live-in but not labeled” setup with her boyfriend, Carlo, for two years. April is when their story always gets spicy—because Carlo’s ex-girlfriend (the one his family still calls “the one who got away” ) comes home from Dubai every summer.
April 15, 2026 Manila Heat – 34°C, but my chest feels like a typhoon
I almost died. But here’s the thing about April and quiet love: it’s too hot for big gestures, so the small ones burn brighter. I haven’t told him how I feel. Instead, I visit the store twice a day. I laugh a little too loud at his corny jokes about the weather. I brought Angela a pasalubong from the mall—a cheap toy cellphone that sings “Baby Shark.”
Marco is everything April in Manila pretends to be: hot, confusing, and overstaying its welcome. He takes me to hole-in-the-wall ramen shops in Maginhawa, then to rooftop bars in BGC where the bill could feed a barangay. He calls me “Mahal” but only when he’s tipsy on Red Horse. He says he wants to “see where this goes,” but his flight back to California is May 12.