~ The word “shadow” can be a noun or a verb. As a noun, it is a dark area or shape produced by a body coming between rays of light and a surface. As a verb, it is someone who follows and observes closely and secretly. My shadow is another portion of who I am. A being that shares my actions and thoughts, as well as differences. ~
 

JESSICA SANCHEZ 2011
I’ve been with her for 4 years. A challenging, eventful 4 years. She hobbles her way around tables and chairs with an Ube cake in hand. A purple dessert with a pie-like texture. She’s walking on a green carpet that caresses the both of us. A green carpet that caresses the feet of the couches. A green carpet that caresses the adults filled with laughter.
I’m right beside a red couch with four women holding a pillow in hand. She’s staring at a black, rectangular box with a girl on a stage on the front of it. Her appearance is similar to everyone else in the room. She’s a short girl, with shoulder-length hair, and wearing a long black dress that reaches the floor. Jessica Sanchez and 1866 IDOLS 05 appear below her waist. At first there were only 5 people in the room. Now a surge of anxious, brown-skin adults covers the black, rectangular box.
Both of us aren’t aware of the situation. She’s sitting still while steadily watching their movements, and I’m steadily watching hers. I enjoy watching her life. It can be calm. It can be quiet. It can be soothing. This is one of those moments. I live my life through hers, but I don’t really have a choice anyways.
The box utters, “The winner of American Idol Season 11 is… Philip Phillips!” Instead of laughter, there’s groans. The previous excitement died down, and a sense of pride washes away. Is this what disappointment should look like? Everyone gets up, and either leaves a mark on the green carpet or red couch. I could see frowns on everyone’s faces, and I feel my girl get overwhelmed by everyone else’s reaction. “Saang naman,” utters a man with short, spiked hair and a striped shirt. Maybe next time.
 

SUSMARIYOSEP 2013
The darkness serves as a waiting area for whatever her world has to offer both of us. I’ve been here for majority of the day, and I’m not ready to come out. My thoughts don’t matter as I see blinding lights and wooden bookshelves surround both of us. There’s a circular carpet underneath us both with the alphabet surrounding it in different colors of the rainbow. A has red as its background, and B has blue as its background. Trees and apples are the center of the carpet and grab everyone’s attention.

“Single file line everybody! And in alphabetical order!” says a lady with short red hair and glasses that are barely hanging onto her face. No one is in front of her, and we slowly lead other children to the front of the room. Each one of them has books in hand: picture books, audio books, and even chapter books (which I could tell they’re only checking them out to seem sophisticated at a young age). My girl has a thin book with water on the cover and a title that reads, Sharks of the World. A creature that’s jumping out with its sharp teeth and pigmented, red gums.
She’s standing still, and I’m right in front of her as I’m mimicking the slight movement of her hips. She sways left; I sway left. She looks happy, and I know she’s happy. I see the two dimples on the right side of her face and the faint one on the left side. I feel her excitement from down here, and I have the need to get excited about this too. What even are sharks anyways?
A hand reaches out from behind her. I feel a jolt of pain rush through the lower area of my figure. “Ow! Why’d you do that” shrieks my girl. I feel frustration, but she feels confusion. “I don’t like the way you look,” whispers a girl with darker skin and fuller lips. Is there something wrong with how she looks? Is it her hair? Maybe it’s her breath? Her eyes? Her mom picked out her clothes today, I’m guessing her outfit looks weird. We’re only five, but what’s so bothering about her appearance. We have our own separate thoughts even though we are connected as one person. Occasionally I hear hers and all I can hear right now is, Maybe I should start caring about my differences.
 
FERDINAND MAGELLAN 2018
I’m seeing blurs of blue chairs, wooden desks, and a greyish carpet (which you can tell wasn’t grey before). I feel the tug of the real, physical world and the darkness from where I’m from. When she finally takes a seat in the broken, plastic chair, the pull of her world reels me in. I’m cramped, I’m tall, and there’s a clear view of the girl I’m attached to. Her hair is dark brown, but can pass as black, and it’s long and thick. So much so, that I see the lottery picks of hairs being stuck to the chair. She appears focused on the white wall that purple-blue light is shining at as images of ships, headpieces, and a map of the concrete world emerges.

The girl is surrounded by other people her age. The peak of early adolescence. The one to the right of her is wearing a grey polo shirt with a logo of a pinkish building on the right side, and he’s got fluffy, brown hair that blocks my view of the other ones. The one to the left of her is scaringly organized. She’s neatly moving her nicely colored pens away from the edge of the desk into her bag filled with supplies, and her wavy, light hair is covering the blue chair behind her.
One moment, I’m observing her sphere of humanity. Then, I’m abruptly sent back to my home. The darkness. Everything in her world contrasts to everything in mine: vibrant versus dull, connected versus isolated, and hasty versus patient. There’s not much to do here, other than wait for the time to trail my girl. Although I’m sightless to her life when I’m here, we share emotions. We share compassion. We share anger. We share love. We share a life. Her movements are mine, and my being is hers. I embrace the urgency of my time being up and get pulled into a new position of where I was last. Instead of cramped, I’m free, and instead of being tall, I’m petite.
The purple-blue light is shining at the same, white board, and she’s still focused on the same blinding reflections. Red, blue, white, and yellow cover a vast majority of the canvas. The word FERDINAND MAGELLAN, in bright, blue colors pop up, and a clacking noise makes the words PORTUGAL and 1480 follow behind in black letters. She’s holding a pink pen, then replaces it with a teal pencil. Back and forth, and back and forth. She’s in a rush. His death was in 1521 in what the Philippines is now, appears below the previous information. Pride rushes through her.
Murmurs follow from each person around her. She’s distracted and lets out a few laughs. She makes eye contact with a boy with a lemon-shaped head and slicked hair. “Kaela’s the one that killed him. She’s probably a vampire,” says the boy. Laughs echo all over the room. If I was still in the darkness, the same laughter would fill my world too. From the point of attachment between me and the girl, I sense growing pains of discomfort. My figure is all black, but I practically see the flood of paint labeled “embarrassment” drown my body and hers. The purple-blue light steadily leaves, and once again, I’m sent back to the darkness, helpless to her.
 
ILONG 2020
She’s pinching her nose, and it’s transforming my figure too. Her phone is held up to a mirror as she’s comparing her face to another girl with blonde hair and green eyes. Her nose is pointer and smaller than hers. Everything she tries to do, ends up making her more frustrated than she was before. Pinching isn’t working. Tape isn’t working. Crying about this isn’t working. She sulks back into a position where she’s hugging her knees on her bed.
-
Light is shining directly at her face. Her eyes are swollen. Her skin is red. Her eyelashes and eyes are practically nonexistent because of how puffy they are. Everything I try to do doesn’t work. I don’t have control over my figure in this world and something is always pulling me back. All I can ever do is watch her. It used to be calm. It used to quiet. It used to be soothing. Now it’s torturous. Now it’s unsettling. Without her knowing, I witness her heartache and struggles from the sidelines.
 
WHATABURGER 2021
She’s wandering in the dark. Her darkness attracts to mine. An orange sign with the word Whataburger flickers as she’s walking through the door. I’m behind her and a young man with glasses and slicked hair that’s close to her age. Everyone else in the room had lighter skin than, and they slowly moved to the back where they weren’t near us three. A woman with ear-length hair was seated at the table near the door but was now sitting in the back corner with another family. The room was filled with noise but was now filled with disgust.
 “A number one with just cheese and a Dr. Pepper will be good. Thank you so much!” says my girl. The man in front of her with small glasses and a beard could barely make eye contact with her. Someone get them out of here lingers its way to both of our ears, and instead of the man with small glasses, it’s a lady with blue eyes handling the front now.
I feel their hatred push us all out further near the door. Stares were trailing her and the guy more than I’ve ever trailed her. Silence and judgment were all that was known in that moment. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten Whataburger and Maybe I should’ve stuck with my lumpia.
SAANG NAMAN 2023
She’s handed back her paper in a classroom with clear beakers and a sink at every table (maybe more than what’s needed). The paper is faced down with a table on the back that reads B, C, N, O in the upper right section. I’m to the right of her and as she’s turning the paper, I feel her heart drop then mine. She reads the number 61 on the top right corner that’s boldly circled in red ink.
The darkness sucks me back in. As we grew older, my connection to the physical world has only gotten stronger. I hear the outside while I’m here, and I feel her thoughts more clearly. Her heartache and guilt affect me. I can’t do anything. It feels like our world is ending. Her heart is like a giant star that turned into a black hole, and her eyes are like a dam ready to collapse. I see expectations from everyone. Isn’t she supposed to be smart? Isn’t she supposed to be put-together? Isn’t she supposed to be happy?
Instead of a classroom filled with sinks, I emerged into a room with a window that takes up half of the wall and a girl sitting in front of me with orange-blonde hair in a braid. Her eyes are green like the trees you only see in movies, and a splash of blue that’s similar to bluebonnets blooming in early May. What once used to be the dam, is now just a flood. “I can’t believe I got that grade,” she cries out to the girl. I feel the rush of tasks catching up to her. Tasks from school. Tasks from sports. Tasks from extracurriculars. Yet, everyone still expects her to be perfect. If only she was.