Have you heard about the latest happenings in UP? Let’s take a glimpse into the daily lives of students as they battle against the forces of finals week, limited student spaces, commercialization, and slow wifi connection. The studentry’s shared struggles reveal the unjust situations currently prevailing in the university, giving a peek at the real priorities of the administration.

Read their stories to know more.

A Room of Our Own

By Liyanah Canasa

Every school has a rhythm, a pulse that hums through its hallways. In UP, it’s something most students feel but can’t quite name. It’s in the frantic clicking of keyboards during pre-enlistment, the whispered debates outside dorm offices, and the barely audible sighs of those who lose out—on a slot or a class. It feels like waking on quicksand, leaving you scrambling to stay afloat because sinking isn’t an option.

For me, it started with a checklist. Dorm application season felt like an academic Hunger Games, except with less flair and more paperwork. By Day 3 of chasing affidavits, certificates of employment, and payslips, I was convinced I’d done more cardio than I ever had in PE 2. 

Then there was the essay. “Just be honest and hope for the best,” my nanay said as I stared at the blinking cursor, trying to decide where to begin. So, I typed out our story—the hours-long commute from a distant province I endured every day because studying at UP felt like my only shot at a better future, my parents’ late-night whispers about how to stretch every peso, and the hope that a dorm could ease not just the physical distance but the growing financial strain on my family.

I poured my heart into that essay. And if pictures could talk, the 2x2 photo I attached as part of the requirements would probably be pleading, "Please, let me stay on campus!"

The weeks dragged on as I waited for the results. I was left with a heavy weight of anxiety, not knowing whether I’d have a place to stay or be left scrambling for options.

Then the email came: “We regret to inform you…”

That was all I managed before slamming my laptop shut. Well, I certainly regretted not getting that dorm slot. The rent to the cramped apartment we could barely afford and my daily fares—like playing tagu-taguan with the money in my pocket, always hiding and never enough would regret it too.  

I tried to forget about the rejection, but the thoughts crept in at odd times; like when I was skipping meals because I was out of budget, or stuck in traffic during rush hour. I thought about what it must feel like to step outside and be where you needed to be in ten minutes or so.

My mind spiraled through possibilities as I sat in my apartment room, staring at the mold in the ceiling which had evolved into something resembling a map of Luzon.

And then I thought about the dorm I didn’t get into. I wondered how many slots were there and how many of us had applied. A knot formed in my chest as I pictured someone else more deserving, taking the place I had hoped for. But then, a flicker of doubt crept in, maybe someone didn’t need it. I jolted myself for thinking that. 

I stared at the mold on the ceiling once again, left to grow and unnoticed for too long. 

It wasn’t just about not getting into the dorm; it was about how the small, everyday struggles add up and are often ignored. UP had the potential to change lives, but sometimes it felt like invisible barriers were keeping some of us from fully reaching those opportunities.

I just hope that there will be no more mold-covered ceilings in the future—no more problems left to fester in the corners, unseen and unresolved. ●

Finding the Sarap

By Zazel Espeso

“May masarap pa ba sa UP?”

I asked my friend and sighed as we descended the AS Steps, facing our daily dilemma of where to have lunch. But masarap is not enough; with P100 left in my wallet, my meal for today must be affordable too.

“Teh, canton kaya?” My friend asked, as the aroma of freshly-cooked pancit canton beckoned from one kiosk. It’s a tempting offer. But while I love my TS3 pancit canton, fishball, and Coke mismo combo, I don’t want to meet San Pedro just yet. Not without my Sablay. 

“Pass muna teh,” I told her. There was no time to waste, however; the oval’s asphalt was scorching, and my empty stomach was growling. We brisk-walked to Area 2, perhaps the only bastion left of affordable and healthy food on the campus. 

But on our way, a newly-opened establishment caught our eyes. The illuminated signs were inviting, and the huge food images were tempting. With the sounds of sizzling sisig echoing through my mind, we headed over to check the menu. 

“Walastik, pakamahal naman dito!” My friend shouted, her eyebrows crossed. P300 for a solo meal sisig, a ridiculous price for students like us. 

We stepped out of the establishment and walked to our original destination, Area 2. There were a lot of students walking out of the street, holding their mango graham shakes and laughing along with their friends. Hungry students like us swam forward for the stalls, against the flow of cars trying to drive through the humble food street.

Woosh. Klang klang. The sound of frying caught our attention, and the familiar scent led us to the direction of a stall with a long line, selling no other than our favorite sisig. We rushed to the tail of the queue, the monster in our stomachs already howling and growling. 

Thirty minutes passed, and finally, a full bowl of sisig was in our hands. Meaty and hearty—this is what a perfect student-friendly lunch tastes like. We devoured the bowl like there was no tomorrow.

As we were heading back to AS, we passed by the same establishment earlier. “Narinig mo? Dadami pa raw ganito sa UP,” my friend whispered to me.

“Puro mahal naman, panigurado.” The pace at which small stalls and eateries were being replaced with towering commercial establishments scared me. Soon, masarap would have to equate with higher prices of goods. But the sarap that the community provides is incomparable, for there is a familiar warmth and comfort in the food they serve. ●

In the Face of an Untitled Document

By Bianca Arceo

The cursor blinks at me while the untitled document glares back, empty and accusing of my incompletion. The weight of a hundred tabs on my laptop buries me—some long abandoned, others still waiting to be opened. Across my table lie reviewers for tomorrow’s exam, their pages brimming with highlights and annotations. Beside me, the tick-tock of the clock steals my attention, each second a countdown to 11:59 p.m., like a bomb ready to explode.

An empty coffee cup, the last of the three I have downed, sits beside me as my stomach growls in hunger. Scattered across the table are bluebooks from the past week’s midterms. The weight of those exams still lingers, as raw as yesterday. The sleepless nights spent studying are finally catching up to me, leaving my bones aching with every movement. The academic calendar never gave me a chance to breathe—without the reading break, I am swept by the relentless waves of exams, readings, lectures, and requirements.

And here I am now, staring at the blinding white emptiness of an unstarted document, the harsh glow of my screen isolating me as the darkness outside my window closes in. My eyes feel heavy as if they have gained a thousand pounds, my back hunched like an arch, and every fiber of my being resists the pull of my bed’s embrace.

Another glow flickers, this time from my phone. A ping breaks the silence. I glance at the screen. Several class group chats, another message from my professor, and one from my friends flash across my phone. The constant barrage feels like an assault, but I am too drained to care. I cannot summon the energy to respond or even listen.

I shake off the throbbing migraine and force myself to focus, trying to string together words for my essay. I manage to type two sentences, hoping they will make sense eventually. But my head feels foggy and my body is numb, as if it no longer belongs to me.

Another ping from my professor, this time a reminder about tonight's deadline, buzzes through my phone. My untitled document still stares at me, while my reviewers sit on the table, waiting for me. I just need to get through this night. ●

The Waiting Game

By Isaiah Veniegas

The past few months have been a mess for me. It has been exactly two months since I stopped buying my prescribed antidepressants without the knowledge of my psychiatrist at PGH. My friends have been telling me to contact PsycServ, but months have passed, and no slots have opened yet due to the high demand.

So, I usually just sink into my bed at the Acacia dormitory. As I scrolled through TikTok at 2x speed, I wondered if I should bother catching up on my 8:30 a.m. class at the time of 9:15 a.m. or just watch another episode of “Bluey.”

Then, a text message popped up from my friend, Janine: “Max, meron na yung akin. Open mo account mo.”

I jumped out of bed. Janine and I both applied for the Student Learning Assistance System (SLAS) last August. Our initial bracket did not qualify for the monthly stipend and internet subsidy but we appealed for reconsideration in September. We were told the results would be out soon, so all we could do was wait—and wait we did.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into a month. And finally, my results may already be here. I hurriedly opened the SLAS website. Its haunting interface burned through my retinas after weeks of frantically checking every day.

I entered my login details and was greeted by the words “Error” in bold black Arial font. “Your device appears to have no internet connectivity.” I pulled down the notification tab and saw a message from my data provider sent exactly an hour ago: “Your data will expire in 60 minutes.”

With my weekly budget barely adequate to afford mobile data when the university wifi fails, food, utilities, and transportation, sacrifices are inevitable. On some days, absent any other option, I am constrained to consuming only one meal to afford the resources I need to keep studying.

I tried connecting to DilNet, but it kept failing. I don’t have the luxury of time—none to break down or curse the university’s terrible internet connection. What I do have is an overwhelming sense of hopelessness creeping in.

Desperate, I sprint from my dorm to Palma Hall, hoping for a more stable connection. I run, clashing shoulder to shoulder with people, my phone in one hand and my future in the other. I can see it—the light at the end of the tunnel.

Finally, I got a connection. I unlocked my phone and headed straight to the website when suddenly, a follow-up message from Janine popped up.

“Sino top artist mo? Hev Abi akin wahaha.”

I stare blankly at her message and the unchanged status of my SLAS appeal.

I will try to hold on for one more day. Maybe tomorrow will be better. But for now, I am forced to settle with what I have—a budget stretched too thin and a condition that worsens with each passing day without medication, devoid of resources to give myself the help I desperately need. ●