Paola Lee

Beneath the Relentless Rain, the Quiet Survival of Shadows

The rain comes as if it has a grudge. It slants through the narrow streets, over tin roofs that have begun to rust like old teeth, and drifts into the corners of my small room where the air holds everything I cannot breathe aloud. There is a heaviness in the world here, a weight that presses on the skin and seeps into the bones. It is summer outside, but inside, inside is winter.

I wake to the hum of cicadas that never sleep and the water dripping from the leaky ceiling. The damp smells like fear and mildew and the faintest hint of despair. My mother, who rises before dawn, has already gone to work; the echo of her slippers on the floorboards a kind of apology I do not know how to return. The house is empty but for the shadows it leaves behind, stretching across the walls like long, accusatory fingers. I stare into my mirror, but I do not recognize myself. My reflection is fractured, the contours of my face misaligned by years of disuse and avoidance, the weight of other people’s words settling like frost upon my skin. 

I learned early that survival is a series of negotiations with indifference. My father, who left before my memory solidified, left only cold calculations and promises never to be honored. My mother, who remains, is a furnace of exhaustion and quiet endurance, whose love is both shelter and pressure. I have been told to smile for photographs, for family, for strangers. I have been told to make myself smaller, to disappear like smoke, to endure silently. I have obeyed. 

But some nights, when the power fails and the humid air curls around me like a living thing, I allow myself to feel. To shiver not from cold but from the recognition that life does not bend for anyone, that it will leave frostbite on hearts just as readily as on skin. I write these thoughts on scraps of paper, in journals that smell faintly of rain and fear, hoping that putting them into words might keep them from settling too heavily into the marrow.

Outside, the world is relentless. Children play in flooded alleys, their laughter bouncing off walls and into drains that cannot contain it. Vendors shout over the rain, hawking fish and plastic-wrapped rice. There is resilience here, yes, but it is brittle. It cracks under the first serious pressure of expectation, of poverty, of the subtle, grinding indifference of life. The heat is oppressive, the storms frequent, but it is the invisible winters that leave the deepest scars: the nights spent wondering if your existence is a burden, the mornings you wake knowing that no one will notice if you disappear, the weight of mirrors that refuse to lie, that reflect every perceived flaw as a judgment.

I think of frostbite as not merely physical. It is the freezing of the spirit. The slow numbness that comes when empathy is absent, when love is conditional, when the warmth of human contact is rationed like scarce sugar. I have felt it in the corridors of my school, where whispers of superiority and derision mingle with the humid air. I have felt it in friendships that were themselves fragile as glass. I have felt it in myself, in the way I curl into corners, in the way I avoid the mirror’s gaze, in the way I count the hours until the next opportunity to disappear.

And yet, under all this frost, there is a strange, stubborn pulse. Survival is not always heroic. Sometimes it is simply refusal: refusal to let the cold claim you entirely. I walk through puddles of rainwater and refuse to let the reflection of my misaligned, too-broad nose, my uneven lips, define the totality of my being.

I write letters to myself that I will never send. I trace the contours of shadows and find a strange kinship in their crookedness. The world is indifferent, yes, but I am not yet finished. 

I remember the night a typhoon tore through our neighborhood. The wind pressed against the windows as though it wanted to enter and rip everything apart. I lay on the floor, listening to the house creak, the trees groan, and the rain drum with a persistence I could not match. I thought of the people who had been cruel to me, the teachers who had turned their eyes when I needed guidance, the classmates whose laughter stung like hail against the skin. I thought of myself, of how fragile I was, of how I had learned to brace for impact. And I realized something: even frostbite can teach you how to endure. Even winter, even without snow, even without the promise of thaw, can instruct resilience. 

I recall the novels I hid under my bed: The Bell Jar, The Goldfinch, and fragments of Kafka tucked between pages of hastily scribbled notes. These books were both mirrors and windows. They reflected my despair and offered glimpses of possibilities beyond it. I saw characters bend beneath cruelty, despair, and neglect, yet continue. I saw reflections of my own frostbitten heart, and in them, a strange warmth.

Survival is in the small things. In pressing my face to a window fogged by rain, watching the world blur beyond it. In hearing the sound of my mother’s voice, raw from exhaustion, and understanding it as love. In feeling the heat of my own body, stubbornly refusing to succumb entirely to the cold that is not seasonal but existential. Survival is in the recognition of the frostbite, not the denial of it. 

The market is a cruel place after storms. Mudslides clog roads, and yet, people still line up for the fish, for the rice, for scraps of income that may vanish by noon. I walk through these streets carrying an invisible weight: the judgment of peers, the ridicule of strangers, the ghost of my own insecurities. Every day is a negotiation with frost that no thermometer can measure. Every breath is a defiance of the chill that creeps not from weather but from indifference, from apathy, from cruelty. 

I have seen frostbite eat friendships. The way people can be tender one day and absent the next, leaving only numb spaces in the places where warmth once dwelled. The frostbite of the world is a slow, grinding erosion. The frostbite of the heart is the shivering that occurs when someone says nothing while you scream inside. I have known it, and I have felt it. And yet, still, I continue. 

At night, when the electricity cuts, the house becomes a cavern. My reflection is ghosted on the walls by lightning flashing beyond the window. I trace its movements. Sometimes it is more familiar than the person I see in mirrors. Sometimes it is stranger. I count the beats of my heart and measure the intervals like lessons in endurance. I whisper to the empty room, “You are here. You are enough.” Sometimes, I believe it. Sometimes, only the echoes believe it.

And yet, even here, life presses on. My mother returns with her groceries, soaked and exhausted. She smiles. I smile. The frost does not fully recede, but it loosens. I pour hot water over rice and fish. The room fills with the steam of survival, ephemeral and fleeting, but real. Even frostbite leaves tracks of warmth if you know where to look. 

I carry my frostbite like a medal of endurance. Each scar, each shiver, each night spent alone counting the ceiling’s cracks is evidence not of failure but of persistence. I have learned to accept that the world’s indifference is not a reflection of my worth. I have learned that frostbite can coexist with growth. That coldness can teach resilience. That numbness can sharpen awareness. That grief can deepen appreciation. That apathy can fuel determination. 

There are mornings when I finally look in the mirror without turning away. The face staring back is not perfected, not polished, not prettified by smiles or self-deception. It is uneasy, honest, raw, and alive. I touch my cheeks, my lips, my jawline, tracing the frost and the warmth simultaneously. I whisper, “You survived.” And in that whisper, I feel something thaw, a small pulse, a flicker. Not a flood. Not a resurrection. Just the promise that there can be light. 

Frostbite is not the end. It is the pause before thaw, the whisper of resilience in the middle of relentless cruelty. It is the space where life persists quietly, stubbornly, beautifully. It is the weight of survival carried in silence. It is the acknowledgment that the world can freeze you in every way, and still you will find ways to be warm. 

Frostbite is not the end. It is the pause before thaw, the whisper of resilience in the middle of relentless cruelty. It is the space where life persists quietly, stubbornly, beautifully. It is the weight of survival carried in silence. It is the acknowledgment that the world can freeze you in every way, and still you will find ways to be warm.

And so I walk into the streets, into the humid haze, into the world that will never pause for me, carrying frostbite on my skin and warmth in my chest. The chill is real, the cold is persistent, but so is endurance. And even when all seems brittle, even when laughter and light seem like impossible luxuries, I hold onto the fragments of warmth I find: a smile, a word, a book, a breath, a heartbeat.

This is winter. This is survival. This is frostbite. And in the quiet aftermath, even in the small, shivering victories, there is life.

Where the Light Waits in the Middle (余温 · Yú wēn — lingering warmth)

✧ scent memory: it began with an absence ✧ 

My mother once placed my folded clothes on the table and, in that unremarkable second, the cap of my favourite perfume disappeared. It slipped beneath the day’s clutter— receipts, lint, forgotten scraps of living. I didn’t reach for it. I was too tired, too full of the heaviness that collects quietly beneath tables and beneath skin. 

Outside, a taho vendor called, “Init pa!” into the morning air, but I did not answer. Some days, I feel made of silence. 

It was such a small loss, yet something inside me tightened. Of the perfumes I owned, this was the one I used when I wanted to feel presentable — when I hoped scent could distract from a face I had never learned to love. Pink, floral, bottled sweetly. But uncapped, it looked different. Exposed. Vulnerable. A little ruined. 

Perhaps that was why it stung. 

I have spent years avoiding mirrors — glancing only long enough to confirm that I hadn’t startled anyone with my existence. I’ve turned away from glass windows, from store fronts, from my own shadow stretching too confidently beside me. Beauty felt like a language spoken around me but never to me.

There were mornings when even brushing my hair felt like an apology. 

“A veces, perder algo es ganar otra forma de verse a uno mismo.” 

Sometimes, losing something teaches you to see yourself differently. 

I didn’t grow up with softness. I grew up teaching myself not to wince when I caught my reflection off guard. There are photos I cannot look at without flinching. There are angles that feel like accusations. I have lived inside a face I never learned to call home. 

So when I found that perfume cap again — buried under a pile of useless receipts — I didn’t put it back. It had always fallen off anyway. 

Some things are meant to be lost so we can breathe without them. 

—∞— fragments of light still find me —∞— 

Yet beauty finds me, quietly, without demanding anything in return. 

In the way sunlight slips into my room like an old friend who knows not to knock. In a song shuffled by accident—“Pretty Isn’t Pretty”—echoing the ache I’ve never spoken aloud. In “Lacy” whispering its envy like a confession. 

In my dogs asleep beside me when I can’t rest; in my cat curling over my heartbeat as though guarding something fragile. 

Some lines from books sit beside me like companions — The Bell Jar, Bluets, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous — as if the pages understand what mirrors do not: that self-perception can bruise, quietly and repeatedly, without leaving marks anyone else sees. 

The breeze on humid days. 

The clink of ice in a glass. 

The warm weight of a cup at 2 a.m., like a heartbeat borrowed. 

These are inheritances too soft to name. 

⏤ the middle is not a waiting room ⏤ 

I used to imagine life as a sequence — beginning, middle, end. I now suspect it is mostly the middle: endless corridors, half-lit, where we continue despite ourselves. 

I have existed here for years. Not the prettiest. Not the brightest. Simply someone who keeps going. I have cried silently — tears like blinking cursors: present, unspoken, waiting. I have lain on the floor asking questions the ceiling refuses to answer. I have smiled in hallways while something inside me cracked. But even then, in the smallest ruin, there was a flicker. Not hope — something quieter. Something stubborn. Something like a flame that does not know how to die. 

ꕥ stillness taught me how to see again ꕥ 

One warm night, the world held its breath. The fan wobbled. My dogs leaned against my legs; my cat rested on my chest like a fragile promise. Nothing demanded anything of me. 

In that stillness, I did not need to be pretty. 

I did not need to be impressive. 

I did not need to be palatable. 

I simply needed to remain. 

Maybe the softest version of me was the strongest all along. 

[breath #4] we are beautiful, even when undone 

We each carry a scent that is unmistakably ours — even when something is missing, even when we feel unfinished. Maybe we were whole all along. 

“Who is that girl I see…?” 

— Reflection, Mulan 

Is life a circle? A line? Perhaps a spiral — returning, revisiting, re-becoming. The middle does not divide. It holds. 

It is strange how a perfume cap can become a metaphor for the self: something small, insignificant, yet revealing. Its absence taught me this — 

you do not need every piece of yourself to move forward. 

Breath is enough. 

Light is enough. 

Softness — quiet, trembling, persistent — is enough. 

People who once felt permanent have drifted out of frame. Some left softly; others vanished abruptly. Their absence made space for gentler things — loyal dogs, a protective cat, strangers who say, “You remind me of someone I used to be.” 

In this middle, I am loosening my grip on perfection. On shame. On the idea that beauty must validate my existence.

Healing moves like a tide. 

Not straight. Not obedient. 

But real.

My story is written in three alphabets:

hurt in Tagalog,

healing in English,

hope in hanzi soft enough to smudge.

※ the song continues, even in the silence ※

I hear it sometimes:

the spoon on a chipped cup,

my cat’s gentle steps,

the turning of a page I haven’t reached.

They whisper:

You’re here. You’re trying. That’s enough.

So I walk—soft, upright, trembling, awake.

Holding my own hand.

Life isn’t a checklist.

It’s missed alarms, spilled coffee, quiet afternoons, small mercies.

It is brutal.

It is beautiful.

I carry my story deliberately. The perfume — uncapped. The dreams— unfinished. The insecurities — unhidden. The softness — unapologetic.

If someone else is standing in their own middle, afraid of mirrors, unsure of their face — may they know:

they are not behind.

they are not broken.

they are simply becoming.

Let us be the quiet light.

Let us stay where the light waits in the middle.

Even if our reflections look back unsure.

Even if no one claps.

TRANSLATIONS

(余温 · Yú wēn) — “lingering warmth” (Mandarin Chinese)

“Init pa!” — “It’s still warm!” (Tagalog; what taho vendors shout)

“A veces, perder algo es ganar otra forma de verse a uno mismo.” — “Sometimes, losing something teaches you to see yourself differently.” (Spanish)

hanzi — Chinese characters

Author’s Words:

This piece is a dual narrative exploring resilience, self-discovery, and the quiet endurance of everyday life. In Beneath the Relentless Rain, the Quiet Survival of Shadows, I trace the weight of absence, the small betrayals of neglect, and the subtle frostbite of isolation, showing how survival often exists not in heroic gestures but in the persistence of ordinary moments. In Where the Light Waits in the Middle (余温 · Yú wēn — lingering warmth), I examine the slow, often imperceptible processes of healing— the way light, memory, and small acts of care illuminate the spaces left by loss. Both pieces reflect my ongoing exploration of memory, identity, and emotional resilience, translating personal experiences of vulnerability into a broader meditation on human endurance. Through the fragments of daily life, the quietness of reflection, and the lingering warmth of small comforts, the work seeks to capture the ways we carry ourselves through difficulty, learning to exist fully, even amidst imperfection.

Author’s Biography:

Paola Lee is a writer from the Philippines and a former mentee in various writing magazines and research mentorship programs. She runs a personal blog where she explores human rights, politics, philosophy, and mental health, using her platform to advocate for meaningful social conversations. Her work has been published in Hyper Moss Theorem (The Moss Puppy & Hyperbolic Review Collab Issue), where she contributed math-inspired poetry. She enjoys reading young adult fiction and novels, classics, and philosophical texts, in her free time, she listens to Olivia Rodrigo, Phoebe Bridgers, and Lorde.