There’s a kind of homesickness that doesn’t wait for Christmas.
It doesn’t knock politely or give time to prepare.
It arrives with a message at 3 a.m.
It breaks through duty rosters, time zones, and oceans.

Last week, I found myself staring at my suitcase,
not to pack, but to wish I could.
To wish I could fly home—not for a vacation, not to surprise family—but to stand beside them in the quiet of a wake.

My cousin passed away.

Even now, typing that feels unreal.
Because how can someone you danced beside in childhood,
someone who shared the same rice, roof, and jokes—
suddenly just not be there?

He’s gone.
And I wasn’t home.

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Being an OFW means sacrifice. We say that all the time.
But no one prepares you for the moments when that sacrifice is saying goodbye… through a screen.

Not being there felt like betrayal.
To my grief.
To my family.
To the little girl in me who once held his hand during silly games in the living room.

I wanted to be the one arranging the flowers.
Lighting the candle.
Holding our Tiya Cita’s hand when it trembled.

Instead, I sent prayers through Wi-Fi
and watched as others carried him home.

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But maybe… maybe presence isn’t just about geography.
Maybe love doesn’t always need to be in the room
to still be felt.

Because I’ve cried for him in the in-between moments—
before shifts, between meds,
while walking through hospital corridors with swollen eyes
that no one asked about.

And in those quiet moments,
I talked to him.

Told him I’m sorry.
Told him I love him.
Told him I still see his smile in old photos
and feel his laugh in childhood echoes.

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This is what homesickness is, sometimes:
Not just missing home,
but missing the chance to say goodbye in person.

And this is what hope becomes:
Trusting that love still reaches.
That prayers whispered thousands of miles away
still land at heaven’s gates.

So if you, too, are far from someone you love—
if you’re holding your grief quietly while showing up to life—
I see you.

We are not absent.
We are just grieving differently.

And our love is not smaller because we couldn’t be there.

It might just be louder in the silence.

— AJ Gabriel