WHEN the ghosts of your past don’t knock — they just text “Hey.”
It all started innocently, as most haunting tales do over one of those virtuous-sounding lunches. This kind makes you wonder if you’re being punished for something you haven’t confessed to. There we were, picking at quinoa bowls and tofu pretending to be something else, when Ron — the ever quick-witted, glass-half-full type — asked a question that didn’t match the lightness of our calorie count:
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Now, Ron is clever, sure. But he’s not the cynic in the group. That job falls to me and Tornes, whose deadpan comments blur the line between philosophical and sarcastic. Together, we form the unholy trinity of lunchtime oversharing — bonded by years of corporate trauma and the belief that unresolved feelings pair well with unsalted salad dressing.
Ron’s question wasn’t random. Earlier that day, I spotted a tarp featuring a brooding new Filipino artist — the kind whose cheekbones have their own fanbase and whose lyrics make you question your life choices. That sighting led us down a conversational rabbit hole about the re-emergence of Filipino bands. Suddenly, OPM wasn’t just café background music; it was tugging at emotional scars we thought had healed.
And that’s when Multo came up.
Not the jump-scare kind of multo from horror flicks. No white dresses or floating heads. This Multo — the song — is an emotional haunting set to melody. Think of it as a gentle slap from your past, disguised as art. The kind of tune that makes you scroll through old messages and wonder if your ghost feels haunted too.
The lyrics talk about shadows that just won’t take a hint — ghosts that keep tagging along no matter how fast you move on. It’s the kind of song that sneaks up on you and replays memories you swore you’d archived.
And no, this is not a paid advertisement for that band — though if they ever want to sponsor emotional damage, our group chat is wide open.
But let’s get this straight: there are ghosts from the past, and there are skeletons in the closet. Different creatures.
Skeletons are the receipts — the things you did, said, or conveniently forgot that could tank your career or make your mom pause mid-rosary. They’re not just secrets; they’re drama in storage.
Ghosts, however, are sentimental. Bittersweet. They don’t expose; they linger. They can be exes, old friends, alternate career paths, cities you left, or versions of yourself you abandoned when you “grew up.” They’re not evil. Just… inconvenient.
We’ve all got them — some friendlier than others.
If you could face one ghost from your past, who’d you pick?
(If your answer is “no one,” congrats. Either your memory’s sharp enough to forget, or your Wi-Fi’s strong enough to avoid temptation.)
Why do these ghosts haunt us?
Here’s my theory:
One, we’re unhappy.
Two, we’re curious — which still circles back to unhappy.
Three, we’re in an exploratory mood, which again is loneliness with better lighting.
Four, we’re nostalgic — unhappiness on shuffle.
Whatever the reason, it all boils down to this: something in the present isn’t hitting the spot, so we go digging through the past like it’s a clearance sale for feelings.
Ghosts don’t knock loudly. They slide in subtly — through a scent, a status update, a Spotify shuffle. They don’t demand closure. They whisper, what if you hadn't?
We don’t need to exorcise them at all. The goal isn’t to forget, but to live in a way that when the ghosts do drop by, they don’t rattle us anymore. They just remind us of who we were, how far we’ve come, and that we made it — hangovers, heartbreaks, and all.
So, the next time a ghost appears — through a song, a scent, or a suspicious “Hey” at 1:03 AM — don’t panic.
Offer them tea. Nod politely. Then mute them for 30 days.
We’ve got better things to do than haunt ourselves.
Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
