"Yaya, I'm just going to play by the tree, okay? I promise I won't go far. You'll still see me from there."
A cheerful farewell from a young boy to his personal maid.
His nanny narrowed her eyes at him, and in response, he gave her the widest smile he could, using his most effective weapon to win her approval—the puppy dog eyes, something even his parents couldn't resist.
With a chuckle, his nanny nodded, prompting him to hop in joy while cheering, "Yay!"
"Just stay nearby, okay? Don't go too far!" she firmly reminded him.
He turned to face his nanny, stood straight, and gave a salute. "Eye, eye, yayey!"
This made his nanny laugh, but he didn't mind. At least he made her smile.
While he was playing, he noticed a little girl crying not too far away. His chest tightened at the sight. He reached into his pocket to check if he had brought the handkerchief his nanny always packed for him — she made sure he had one in case he got sweaty.
He approached the girl quietly, and she didn't even notice his presence. Gently, he held out the handkerchief, but still, she didn't see it. So, he softly dabbed it against her cheek — only then did he finally catch her attention.
"Take it. Wipe your tears," he said with a gentle smile, still offering the handkerchief to her.
No matter how wide his smile was, it didn't seem to put the little girl at ease. Who could blame her? He had just suddenly approached and offered his handkerchief without saying a word. He even forgot to introduce himself—where were his manners? If his older brother found out, he'd definitely scold him.
He gave an awkward little laugh and finally introduced himself.
"Hi, my name's Dos. I saw you crying earlier, so I came over. Is it okay if you accept this handkerchief I'm offering? It's also totally fine if you don't want to—don't worry, I won't be upset."
His voice was gentle and calm, carefully choosing a tone that wouldn't frighten the little girl.
A whole minute might have passed with the little girl just staring at him. Still, he didn't lower his hand—the one holding the handkerchief—hoping she'd eventually accept it. And she did. With slightly trembling hands, she reached out and took the handkerchief.
He thought she was going to use it to wipe her tears, but to his surprise, she wiped her nose instead.
He almost burst out laughing but managed to hold it in, worried she might get scared or think he was making fun of her.
He pointed at the ground next to the little girl.
"Is it okay if I sit beside you?"
The girl didn't say anything, nor did she nod. She simply stared into his eyes, so he smiled warmly at her.
"My big brother says silence means yes, so… I'll take your silence as a yes, okay? I'll sit now. Just push me away if you don't want me here—promise, I won't mind."
He even raised his left hand like he was making a solemn vow.
When he finally sat down, a smile formed on his lips—she didn't push him away. That meant she was okay with his presence. He quietly sat beside her, simply keeping her company.
His older brother once told him to be sensitive.
If he sees someone crying, he should offer them a handkerchief—but let them decide whether to accept it or not. And most importantly, never ask if they're okay.
"Don't be a bird-brain," his brother said.
"They wouldn't be crying if they were okay."
Asking them if they're okay will only lead them to lie about what they really feel. His brother said there's a high chance they'll just say "I'm fine" even if they're not.
So just like what his older brother told him, he stayed silent.
He felt that the girl beside him didn't need noise or questions. What she needed was presence—a quiet kind of company that would remind her she wasn't alone.
He smiled to himself, realizing his brother was right all along. Not everyone in pain needs someone to ask, "Are you okay?" or "What happened?" or "What do you need?"
Some just need someone to sit beside them in silence.
Someone who makes them feel seen.
Someone whose quiet presence says, "You're not alone."
Even in the midst of tearful grief, there are people who show up—not to talk, not to fix things, but simply to be there.
"Do you understand?" he remembered his brother saying, ruffling his hair as he did.
"That's the kind of person you should be."
When the little girl had finally finished crying, it was just in time for his nanny to start calling for him. He stood up and turned to face her—only to realize she was already looking at him.
"My nanny's calling me. I'll go ahead now, okay? I hope I see you again tomorrow," he said with a wide, gentle smile. "My big brother said… there are things in life that, no matter how much we want them, we won't get—because they're meant for someone else. Or sometimes, there are things we wish we could avoid, but they're bound to happen no matter what. All we can do is stay strong, because they're just trials that will shape us into stronger people."
He grinned even more. "Well then, I'll get going. And I hope you're not crying anymore tomorrow. Hehe. I think you'd look prettier if you smiled. Byeee!!"
He ran off toward his nanny without waiting for the girl to say anything.
But the moment he reached her, he smacked his own forehead—he'd forgotten to ask for the girl's name.
It's okay, he thought. We'll probably see each other again tomorrow. I hope.
"You little rascal! I told you to stay close. I got so worried—I almost got in trouble with your mommy. Goodness gracious!"
His nanny scolded him the moment he reached her, so he flashed a wide smile and gave her a peace sign.
"Sorry to my prettiest and freshest nanny. Promise, it won't happen again."
"You, Dos, okay? Keep your promise, alright? Do you remember what your kuya always says?" his nanny reminded him gently.
He smiled and nodded, because everything his older brother said—he memorized and took to heart.
"Sorry is for things you didn't mean to do, not for the things you keep doing on purpose."
His nanny nodded, clearly pleased by what he said. He flashed her a bright smile.
"Promise, nanny. It won't happen again. I didn't mean to. I just saw a girl crying earlier. Are we good now?"
And as they walked the path going home, he couldn't get the face of the little girl out of his mind.