FEATURE | Autumn (Reimagined)

“Why can't we be together, baby? Why does it take so long?”

There is a human—perhaps distinctly Filipino—tendency to suffer, to either “relapse” or “reminisce” into rumination; to insist there is nothing more that could be done, even when there might still be something left to hold onto.

Roughly four months ago, I ended a relationship that had once seemed perfect. I thought we were cute together. Everyone thought so too, so most were left confused by how a bond so tender could break apart just like that.

I’m trying to move on from the same broken records, though it has been difficult when I had grown so used to dancing to the same scratches in the groove.

While my previous article was angled on repetition—the what ifs, the promises broken over and over again, the question of whether I was worth changing for—this one narrates where that story ended; the aftermath: uneven processes of moving on, wounds that reopen long after thinking that we’re fine, and acts of revisiting what already hurt us once before.

Opening Spotify…

At this point, it has probably become a ritual to open music playing applications, such as Spotify, after a heartbreak. The act itself is simple—tap, search, play—but what follows is an influx of complex emotions.

Among the many songs that have quietly found their way into the soundtracks of Filipino heartbreak, Autumn by Ben&Ben holds a particular kind of emotional weight. First released in 2024, the original version was steeped in longing—a painful willingness to remain, even when love had already begun slipping out of reach. It understood the futility of holding on, yet chose to stay anyway, as if genuine devotion alone could delay the changing of the season—spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

Years later, Autumn (Reimagined) arrives faster in tempo, trading desperation for introspection. Where the original clung tightly to what was disappearing, the reimagined version turns to the realization that moving on is a gradual surrender to the fact that seasons are never meant to stay—but it may inquire about it still.

Personally, I prefer to choose this track now because it reminds me of what I need to do—to let myself feel the pain I’ve once attempted to set aside. It moves with you instead, challenging the notion that pain is evidence of love’s existence, as suffering—though often normalized in relationships—was never meant to be inflicted at all.

I understand now: love that inflicts pain is not gentle at all.

You don't have to remind me of the pains of circumstance that demand our distance.

There are distances that remain constant even when everything within them is deemed understood. They do not announce themselves at the moment they form; they creep in through accumulated hesitations, through conversations that lose their timing before they shift into arguments, through emotions that are redirected elsewhere to avoid disruption.

Painful circumstances draw lines that intention alone cannot erase no matter how carefully one traces back what led there. Fear starts to take over and decide what is expressed and what is left suspended, until truthfulness arrives too late. What once felt close becomes defined less by presence and more by the noisy acceptance of what cannot be reached anymore.

I understand now: even clarity in emotion cannot bridge distances that life has already drawn.

Should we keep holding on, even when hope seems gone?

One chance.

Second chance.

One more chance.

Last chance.

One more last chance.

The same conversations return with slightly different wording, the same pauses arrive between different attempts, and the same outcomes follow what was once believed to be solved. In these exhausting cycles, holding on begins to lose its meaning—I mean, why return to the same place, the same ending, the same realization that promises are meant to be broken?

Holding on often disguises itself as a form of effort, as if persistence could reshape the actions the other person chooses to do. Repetition is not progress—let alone a signifier; it merely reveals how patterns return immutably, how words are turned meaningless by definition, and how sentences are spoken in vain when nothing is done to uphold them.

I understand now: holding on and hoping once more changes nothing, for a love that refuses to fix itself cannot be restored.

Just when healing could happen, I keep peeling the wounds open.

The more truth comes into view, the more the version of them that was once held together by hope shatters, replaced by details that were not visible at the start until proven otherwise.

There comes a point where you move on from them romantically, but not from what they did. Even when affection and mutual understanding has already faded into one you no longer actively crave for, the effects of wrongdoing continue to sting, resurfacing in moments that are unrelated to the present but still molded by the past. Separation from a person does not automatically mean separation from the experience itself—though it does mean a first major step in choosing yourself.

From there, healing does not follow a straight path; it does not unfold in the order we expect it to. Some days suggest progress, while other days undo it without warning. Funnily enough, even reopening wounds becomes part of this process. What feels like regression is a futile effort to understand those unresolved, to make sense of the ambiguity in search of meaning that did not arrive the first time. Healing, in that sense, does not only happen in moving forward, but also in the return to what still needs to be understood.

I understand now: I was not chosen first—yet I can finally choose myself and let healing happen where I once kept reopening wounds.

I'll find my peace, I will find my path.

Clarity arrives only after leaving; life begins to breathe more deeply than before.

Ever since I left, I have done so much more than I realized. There’s a lot I had been putting off—things that once felt difficult to start, time with friends that used to carry the anticipation of possible misunderstanding, hobbies that held the weight of possible rejection, and activities that required too much hesitation before being allowed. I have not been subdued in the same way I used to be, no longer having to measure every decision against restraint that once felt normal, no longer restricted in the things I want to do.

I found myself again—not by being someone’s “girlfriend,” not by what I had to adjust for another person, not by words spoken about me unknowingly that were never corrected—but in what I am capable of when I am no longer consumed by disappointment directed outward. It was wrong of me to focus all my attention on what was not being met, on what hurt or fell short, on boundaries left crossed, until I forgot to notice my own potential as a person.

I understand now: peace is not found in holding on, but in learning how to let go and move forward independently.

In the morning light, when the pain subsides

Not many will know the full edition of a story, and that is something we eventually come to accept. Each person carries a different perspective of what happened and in that sense, we all become the main character in our own telling.

Still, pain does not lose its validity simply because it is not fully witnessed. What is felt does not require full agreement to be real, and what is experienced should not be reduced just because it exists differently in another account of the same story.

There are moments when something once felt like a good dream, only to be regarded as a nightmare afterward. That alteration in outlook does not erase what it once was, but it shows how memory can transform what time has already closed. Not everything resolves completely: some aspects persist and carry forward by any means.

I understand now: even a good dream can be remembered differently in the dark, until morning comes and the painful truth reveals itself.

Enable Repeat One

There is a reason songs like this are rarely played just once.

Listeners return, not because they expect something new, but because the feeling shifts slightly each time.

This is what Ben&Ben does so well—they create music that evolves with the listener. Each time you return to their songs—such as Autumn (Reimagined)—it feels different, as though it has grown alongside your own experiences. The melodies remain the same, the lyrics unchanged, yet somehow they speak to new moments, new emotions, new reflections.

A different line stands out.

A different memory resurfaces.

A different kind of pain creeps into your soul.

Their music, ironically, listens, waits, and responds, making us reimagine experiences that shift with time, context, and personal growth. In this way, every listen is both familiar and entirely new, a mirror for the ever-changing self.

And yet, even as the echoes of the song fade out, I find myself moving on to the spaces where “us” once existed. There is a human—perhaps distinctly Filipino—tendency to suffer in rumination, to replay the bittersweet ache of what it refused to become, to admit that Autumn will remain the longest and driest season of all. Still, even the harshest of seasons loosen their grip with time.

I understand now: nothing moves in reverse, only moving on like autumns where even the leaves are eventually let go.