I'm writing this from the place where I've had Bonkey groomed for, I'll say, a year and a half now.

I like this place because I could hang out here while waiting for the groomers to finish. There's coffee. There are seats. I've written so many things in here. I also like this place because Bonkey, never mind the fact that he'll never trust the groomers, is comfortable with the place, too. I could get some writing done while he walks around the shop, and we're both happy - him, with the change of environment; me, for the supposed boost in productivity.

A year and a half is also long enough for things to noticeably change. Sometimes it's our fault: Bonkey pushed one of the acrylic stands displaying the drinks menu and cracked it. Sometimes it's the daily grind: there's a statue of a dog in here that's now missing its tail. Sometimes it's life: how many of the folks who work here, who have grown to love Bonkey, have since left?

One day we happened to be here when Mariel - Bonkey's "frenemy", and also, the women behind our photographs - said it was her last day. Something about finding a new job that allows her to move back to the province? I'm not sure. A few more photographs and a botched invitation for coffee later, we were off.

Now the place feels a little too quiet. Or is it just me?

I mean, change is constant, and all that. I get it. I have no choice but to get it. I wouldn't survive over 37 years in this planet if I didn't, even if I've talked about how I'm not good with it. But lately I've been thinking about how it's all my fault, and more importantly, how it's all because of something much deeper inside me.

I was having a conversation with someone 15 years younger than me yesterday. We're both on Substack and, as it turns out, we both took communication arts in La Salle. I began thinking about how, despite our top-level similarities, our lived experiences are different, at the very least because the people around her are different. We shared Sir Gary and Sir Doy as professors, but she didn't get to meet Mang Ric - may his memory be a blessing. (Incidentally, she was one of Toni's students. Yes, Toni, my blockmate, is now Toni, an industry expert turned faculty member.)

I've had that feeling before while walking the campus grounds in recent years. Everything still is in its place, save for the elevators that weren't there before, but also, everything else isn't. The stories I have, the memories I share, feature those very places, but they're also about the people I had encountered. They're not necessarily the same people others have encountered. The course codes are different, but that's administrative. The people? Not so.

Is it a problem that I try to find home in the places I find myself in? Is it because I had a pretty stable childhood, living in the same home for over 27 years before moving out for what turned out to be on a permanent basis? Is this why I always try to look for something close to forever - and I don't mean this in a romantic sense, not necessarily - rather than accept that people come and go? I can imagine how much better that would be. I wouldn't have to grapple with losing friends as much. Everyone is just a phase.

I've been living in the city for six years now. Look out of my flat's window and you'll see things constantly changing. A lot has happened from that vantage point in six years, more than the vantage points I've had for almost thirty. It doesn't feel like it, though, because inside is home, a place I can call my own, where I can retreat and rest. Maybe the cocoon has sheltered me too much from reality, though. Everyone is transient from this vantage point.

I don't know. It feels like I should get used to people coming and going, rather than asking them to stay for a while. Squeeze out all the joy while the best before date is far away.