Abby Captures

I’m writing this for you, Ninang—somewhere in between staying and leaving.

Everything around me moves like normal—people boarding flights, announcements playing, luggage rolling across the floor. But inside me, something has shifted.

Because I’m leaving home, and for the first time, you’re no longer there.

It still doesn’t feel real.

The past few days have been a blur—faces, conversations, memories, all blending into something I’m still trying to understand. And even now, a part of me feels like I’m just going through the motions, hoping I’ll wake up and everything will be the same again.

But I know it won’t.

You weren’t just my Ninang. You were my mom’s only and younger sister—the one who shared her life in ways no one else ever could. I keep thinking about the two of you… your laughter, your playful banter, the way you always made her feel loved, especially on her birthdays.

I see now how special that kind of love is.

If Regina George had a cool mom, I had an even cooler aunt.

You were effortlessly put together, always glowing in your own way, and somehow always surrounded by people. But more than that, you made people feel seen. You made us feel comfortable just being ourselves.

To me, you were more than an aunt.

You were someone I could talk to about love, about life, about the things I didn’t always know how to say out loud. And somehow, you always knew how to listen in a way that made everything feel lighter.

You were a young soul in an auntie’s body.

You danced, you laughed, you watched horror movies with us, and took us out for tacos or chicken wings like those moments would last forever.

I wish I held onto those moments a little longer.

One of the things I came to understand, especially during your eulogy, was your quiet faith.

You didn’t show it loudly, but it was always there—deep, personal, and steady. And somehow, that gives me peace. It makes everything feel a little less sudden… like your heart had already been in conversation with God, even before we realized.

During your viewing, I saw something I will never forget.

People kept coming. The room filled, then overflowed. There wasn’t even space left outside.

And in that moment, I understood.

That was you.

You gave so much of yourself, so naturally and so selflessly, that in the end, it all came back to you at once.

A life like yours doesn’t go unnoticed.

A love like yours doesn’t leave.

I found myself looking at Mom, and I could see it—the kind of loss that only comes from losing a sister. Not just any sister, but her only one.

And it made me realize how deep your love ran.

Now, as I sit here waiting to leave, I know that home will feel different when I come back.

There will be a space where you used to be.

A quiet absence I’m still learning how to accept.

But even then, I know you’re still here.

In our stories.  

In the way we love each other.  

In the lives you touched so effortlessly.

Maybe that’s what it means to live fully.

To leave pieces of yourself in people—so that even when you’re gone, you’re never really absent.

I’m leaving today without you here.

But I’m not leaving you behind.

I carry you with me—  

in memory, in love, and in everything you quietly taught me about how to live.

I love you, Ninang.

Always,  

Abby