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Nurses' Notes Publication, Lopez Jaena Street , Jaro, Iloilo City (2025)

05/11/2025

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚, 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔, 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒇𝒇 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝑷𝑼𝑪𝑶𝑵, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝑪𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒔,

As the CPU College of Nursing Batch Sinagtala is currently facing the Philippine Nurse Licensure Examination this November 6–7, 2025, let us come together in one faith and one spirit. Let us lift them up in prayer—our shining stars who have journeyed through countless nights of study, sacrifice, and service. May they now shine their brightest as they reach for their dreams.

𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫

Heavenly Father,
We come before You with hearts full of hope and gratitude, entrusting to You our beloved Batch Sinagtala.

Lord, You who scatter the stars across the heavens, let Your divine light guide them as they take their exams. May Your wisdom illuminate their minds, Your peace calm their hearts, and Your strength sustain them through every question and challenge.

When doubts cloud their confidence, remind them that the same God who called each star by name also knows their worth and purpose. Let them shine with faith, excellence, and compassion. Let them reflect Your light in every answer they write, and every prayer they whisper.

Surround them with Your presence, O Lord. Let their brilliance be a testimony of Your grace and the unwavering support of their families, mentors, and the Centralian community.

And when the results are revealed, may their success sparkle like the dawn; bright, steadfast, and full of promise. For You have destined them to heal, to care, and to serve as nurses guided by love and faith.

Thank you for keeping them safe during the Typhoon Tino. You gave them the strength of the tallest mountains that never bows even in the strongest wind. May you send your angels to be with them to provide protection from any harm. Keep our future RNs safe, O Lord.

𝙒𝙚 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚,
𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙖, 𝟏𝟎𝟎%!

In Jesus’ Name, we pray.
Amen.

05/11/2025

𝙈𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙉𝙉𝙋 𝙈𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙖
By Febielin Grace Escobar

𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮,

Today, you stand on the precipice of one of the most significant milestones in your journey. To our manongs and manangs in Batch Sinagtala, know that we are with you as you take this next step. We celebrate not only your achievements, but also your unwavering hearts, endless dedication, and tireless resilience. The path of nursing is arduous, but you have reached the peak of the mountain you once called difficult. You now stand above the sleepless nights and survived the moments where your mind and body whispered, “Give up.” You stand as living proof that perseverance and faith can carry someone through even the most challenging seasons.

As you take the Philippine Nursing Licensure Exam, remember that you do not walk this path alone. Your clinical instructors, your classmates, your family, and your organization all believe in you and cheer you on. Take a deep breath, trust in your preparation, and know that every lesson you have learned and every moment of doubt has brought you here—ready, capable, and strong.

As you step into this next chapter, hold on to this promise from God’s Word:

"Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths." — Proverbs 3:5-6

Every challenge you’ve faced, every lesson you’ve learned, has prepared you for this. No matter what happens, remember that your heart, your dedication, and your desire to care for others are what truly define you. That is what makes you extraordinary. May you enter the exam room with confidence, faith, and calm assurance, knowing that God has equipped you for this very moment. No matter the outcome, remember that your worth and your purpose extend far beyond any score. The compassion in your hearts and the dedication in your hands will always shine, and your light will guide those in need. Go forth, Batch Sinagtala, and show the world the strength, brilliance, and heart that we have always seen in you.

To our very own NNP family, Aissa C. Bito-onon, Fatimah D. Ebiota, Reinard Val S. Adelantar, Kurt C. Escribano, Joshua Alec G. Elevera, Dhens Zydrix S. Aboboto, Jezreel Darren T. Nuñal, Azrile Bless D. Briones, Angela P. Marmol, Fritz P. Azucena, Jian Angelique O. Miraflor, Jam Henrick A. Macahilo, and Jennie Luv P. Macatual, may the Light that guided you here, bring you further. We believe in you, and we are so proud of you.

𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺,
𝙉𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙨’ 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙋𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

05/11/2025

𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐘:
This story is mainly a 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
All events, names, and experiences are entirely made up…
or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself…

𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

“They said she was in a coma. Then why did it feel like her eyes followed me?”
I was assigned to Room 212 on my first night shift. Everyone told me it was an easy post. One patient, stable, quiet as a grave. But I don’t think any of them ever saw the one in Room 212. Since before I began my rotation, she has been in a coma. Her face—pale, calm. I wish I’d never looked too long. I talk to her. Just to pass time. I know it’s stupid, but it helps. And sometimes… I swear I see her eyelids twitch, like she’s listening.

At first, it was just that.
Then things got weird.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙨.

I’d hear the beeping even when I wasn’t near her room. It followed me, down the hall, into the restroom, even when I was home trying to sleep. Sometimes it hurried, like a sprinting heart, as if it was waiting for mine. That sound followed me everywhere.

Still, sometimes I’d catch myself staring too long. There was something… very familiar about her.
The shape of her face, maybe? Or the faint stitch along her neck? It doesn’t look right anymore. Her lips aren’t moving, her eyes aren’t ruffling…And yet, somehow, I can feel it. I swear she’s smiling at me.

I tried to be professional. Chart, clean, monitor, and repeat.
The routine helped. It made me feel like I still had control over it. I kept my composure, did what needed to be done, and pretended not to feel her eyes under those closed lids.

But the silence started to change.
It wasn’t just quiet anymore—it was listening.
Then the bruises started.
Tiny ones, around my wrists and arms.
Like someone had taped me down.
I told myself it was stress, anything but what it felt like...like the hospital was marking me.
The skin was bruised, tender and whenever I walked past Room 212, the ache tightened vigorously.

“What’s happening to me?” I whispered nervously.
One night, I was charting when I heard it again. But this time, it was louder. A noise from Room 212. Not the common hum or beeping of the monitors... but it was something else. An indistinct rustle, the scraping of metal against tile.

“You’re tired,” I told myself. “Just tired.”
But the sound grew sharper, closer.
“It’s fine,” I said again.

Except it didn’t sound like my voice anymore.

I slowly entered.
My body froze.
There she was…sitting on the bed, hair tangled, head tilted slightly, facing backward, watching her own reflection.

In front of her bed, there was a mirror hanging on the wall.
From where I stood, I could see her face through it.

“Ma’am?” My voice came out cracked, small…scared.
No response.
She didn’t move.

The monitor still beeped in rhythm.
𝘽𝙚𝙚𝙥.
𝘽𝙚𝙚𝙥.
𝘽𝙚𝙚𝙥.

Then, slowly...bone-creakingly slow—𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣.

Her neck twisted first, and then the rest of her face followed — not until I realized her body hadn’t moved at all. It was enough to show her pale, drooping cheeks, and lips forming into something that wasn’t a smile.

𝙄 𝙬𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙘𝙚

My skin went cold as the air grew dense and suffocating, pressing into my lungs with every desperate breath while my heart pounded so violently.

Then the lights flickered— and when they came back on, her face…It was mine. Swollen, no color, veins like dark roots spreading underneath the skin.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙.

Not lightly. Not kindly.
But too wide, too sudden
like her bare skin was splitting just to do it.

𝙄 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙙.

The lights glimmered again,
and then came the sound.

𝘽𝙀𝙀𝙀𝙀𝙀𝙀𝙀𝙀𝙋

I woke up to that same sound, resonating through the light.
A white naked ceiling stared back at me, IV lines tousled at my side, tape piercing into my skin. My hand shivered as I brushed against the oxygen tube resting on my face. Everything felt too bright, too vague, a room bleached of soul and sound.

Somebody was adjusting the drip beside me…a nurse.

The walls rang in perpetual whispers, but she was humming softly, the same melody I used to hum when I was anxious. And yet, her careful movements traced my bare skin leisurely.

She didn’t notice I was awake yet?

I tried to question what happened, but my throat scorched when I tried to speak.
No amount of voice came out.
Only the weak resonance of the monitor, and silent, heavy demeanour radiating beside me.

𝘽𝙚𝙚𝙥... 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙥... 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙥.

My words died in the air. And so, I reached out, held her thin sleeve.

The nurse finally looked down. Her soulless gaze locked into mine.Neither of us breathed. Neither of us flinched. And finally, she slowly smiled. Then she muttered, softly,"𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠."
She turned aside and headed for the door, humming once again.

I looked at her image in the window.
For a brief moment, I thought it was just the glass playing tricks.
But she wasn’t moving away — It was walking 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 me.
Leaning in, her lips curled. She was smirking.

And the last thing I saw before the lights flickered out again—
was her face twisting into mine.
I saw my face.
𝙎𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜.

Written by: Eveanda Santo
Graphic Artist: Jenefa Lin Gayola

04/11/2025

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐍𝐋𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐎 | 𝗗𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗡𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟲-𝟳, 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱

In light of the approaching Typhoon Tino, the Professional Regulation Commission (PRC) has officially announced the rescheduling of the Philippine Nursing Licensure Examination (PNLE) in Iloilo to November 6–7, 2025. This precautionary measure aims to safeguard the well-being of all examinees, proctors, and involved personnel. The decision reflects PRC’s commitment to ensuring a safe and fair examination environment amidst unforeseen weather conditions. Examinees are advised to stay updated through official announcements and prepare accordingly.

|𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗘|

04/11/2025

𝐂𝐏𝐔 𝐍𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟗𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨-𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐋𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

The Central Philippine University College of Nursing gathered once again at the Rose Memorial Auditorium on October 28, 2025, for the 9th Natividad Campillo-Caipang Memorial Lecture Series, a heartfelt celebration of faith, compassion, and holistic care in nursing.

With the theme “𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙉𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙒𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜,” the lecture reminded everyone that true healing embraces not only the body but also the mind and spirit. Topics such as Betty Neuman’s Systems Model, the Holistic View of Man, Faith-Based Healing, and Family-Centered Care shed light on how spirituality and empathy strengthen the nurse-patient connection. It was a meaningful reflection on how nurses serve not just as caregivers, but as instruments of comfort and hope.

The success of the event was made possible through the generosity of 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟕, 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓, and the 𝘾𝙖𝙞𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙁𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮, with strong support from 𝘾𝘾𝙄𝙉𝘼𝘼, 𝙄𝙡𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙤 𝙈𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙃𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙡, 𝘾𝙖𝙥𝙞𝙯 𝙀𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙡 𝙃𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙡, 𝙉𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙨’ 𝘾𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙣 𝙁𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙥 – 𝙋𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨, and the 𝘾𝙋𝙐 𝘾𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙉𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜. Their collective efforts fostered a meaningful day of learning and fellowship. Students and faculty enjoyed snacks during the program, followed by a delightful buffet lunch at the Kabalaka Reproductive Health Center—a simple yet heartfelt expression of community and gratitude.

The lecture beautifully upheld Natividad Campillo-Caipang’s legacy—a nurse whose life continues to inspire compassion, faith, and wholistic healing in every Centralian nurse.

Written by: Jia G. Jamona
Layout by: Patryxia Krys Soloren

03/11/2025

𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 | 𝗡𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟰-𝟱, 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱

A Centralian Reminder! Due to the approaching Typhoon Tino, classes on all levels (face-to-face, synchronous, and asynchronous) and office work at Central Philippine University are suspended on November 4 - 5, 2025.

Everyone is encouraged to stay indoors, stay safe, and keep updated through official CPU channels for further announcements. Let’s all prioritize safety and preparedness in this weather.

|𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗘|

02/11/2025

𝟏 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐍𝐋𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓!

Tomorrow is the big day, 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙖!

You’ve come so far — from your first day in nursing school to this defining moment. Breathe, trust your training, and let your passion for caring guide every answer.

The stars are shining brightly for you, reminding you that you are capable, prepared, and destined to succeed. Go forth with faith and confidence — your Centralian family is cheering you on all the way!

💯 Batch Sinagtala — 100% ready, 100% brave, 100% future RNs!

Layout by: Patryxia Krys Soloren

02/11/2025

𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐘:
This story is mainly a 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
All events, names, and experiences are entirely made up…
or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself…

"𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐞"

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱.

It leaks through the walls, through the thin fabric of sleep, through the cracks in my skull. It isn’t a cry anymore—it’s a language of its own, wet and gurgling, stretching syllables into something older than words. Sometimes high and sharp, sometimes low and wet, as though it’s learning which voice will break me fastest.

I try to hum, to drown it out, but even my own voice sounds strange now. I don’t remember the tune I used to sing when I was happy. I don’t remember what 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 felt like.

They said motherhood would be beautiful. That I’d feel a connection—an instant spark. But the first time I held it, I felt nothing. No warmth. No joy. Just a cold curiosity.

Its skin was soft but cold in places, clammy as if the blood beneath it hadn’t decided whether to move. And its eyes—too dark, too knowing. Babies shouldn’t 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 like they understand.
Sometimes, when I blink, its pupils seem to spread, swallowing what little light the room has left.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱.

The doctor says it’s exhaustion. “You’re adjusting,” he tells me. “You’re just tired.”

But tiredness doesn’t make shadows crawl. It doesn’t make the reflection in the nursery window grin when I don’t.

At night I wake up to sounds—soft coos that don’t match the shape of its mouth, the creak of the crib shifting on its own. Once, I found the baby's mobile spinning though the air was still. The figures above it turned slowly, the tiny wooden angels bending at their strings until their painted eyes looked down on me.

When I lean over the crib, I smell something sweet and wrong—milk curdles on hot metal, or flowers rotting in a vase that hasn’t been emptied in weeks. I pull back quickly, afraid it might open its eyes again.

𝘐𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴.

And when it does, it 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴—lips too thin, gums too dark. There’s a flicker of teeth where there shouldn’t be.

My husband says I’m not myself lately. He touches my shoulder gently, as if I might shatter. “You just need rest,” he keeps saying.

I don’t tell him that I’ve started hearing whispers when I hold it. They come from beneath its breath—small, murmuring things, the sound of dirt shifting. I can’t make out words, just a rhythm, as if it’s chanting something it remembers from before it was born.

Sometimes, when I’m alone, I whisper back.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

It never answers. But its tiny hand twitches, sharp nails brushing the air like claws tasting the wind.

I don’t touch it anymore. I can’t. Every time I do, something inside me recoils. My skin feels wrong against its skin, like touching something freshly dug up.

When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back—pale, hollow-eyed, hair damp against her cheeks. She looks like she’s been underwater for too long.
I think she’s the one the baby recognizes. Not me.

Last night, it called to me.

The crying stopped all at once. Silence so deep it felt like the air had been drained from the house. Then, softly, from the crib—

“Mama.”

The word was broken, wet, too thick for its tiny throat. My knees buckled. It was my name, but not in a voice that belonged to this world.

I went to the crib, trembling. It was awake—eyes glimmering like oil in water. My reflection rippled inside them, twisted, smiling when I wasn’t.

I whispered, “You’re not mine.”

Its mouth twitched. For a heartbeat I thought it would cry.
But instead, it laughed—a bubbling, breathless sound that curdled the air. Its limbs je**ed in time with the laugh, tiny fists opening and closing like it was clapping for me.

This morning, my husband asked why I was sitting on the floor. Why was the milk spilled near the crib. Why did I look so pale.

I told him I didn’t remember.

He said he’s worried. That I’m scaring him.

I almost told him the truth—that I think something crawled into my baby’s body that night in the hospital, that maybe the real one never breathed long enough to cry. That this one is wearing its skin like a costume.

But then I saw the way he looked at me—afraid, like 𝘐 was the one who’d changed.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦.

Because this evening, as the sky turned gray and the house grew quiet again, I went to the crib and saw it sleeping.

Just sleeping.

Its chest rising and falling, small hands curled against its blanket—the same way mine used to when I was a child.

And for a moment, I couldn’t tell if I was looking at something innocent, or at the reflection of the monster I’ve become.

My hands trembled when I reached out. I touched its cheek. Warm. So warm. The warmth spread up my arm, into my chest, until I couldn’t tell if it was comfort or infection. Tears filled my eyes before I even realized I was crying.

I traced the curve of his face, the softness of life pulsing beneath my hand.

And for the first time, I saw him clearly—
He was never trying to haunt me.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦.

Written by: Alexie Gelvezon
Graphic Artist: Cloie Mariel Hisoler

01/11/2025

𝟐 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐍𝐋𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓!

The finish line is in sight, 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙖...

In just two days, you’ll face the 𝙋𝙉𝙇𝙀 with the courage, faith, and brilliance that define every Centralian nurse.

Keep calm, stay focused, and trust the journey that brought you here. The sleepless nights, prayers, and sacrifices will soon bear fruit.

May the stars continue to light your way to success— your moment is almost here!

💯 Batch Sinagtala — 100% ready, 100% determined, 100% future RNs!

Layout by: Patryxia Krys Soloren

01/11/2025

𝟑 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐍𝐋𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓!

The countdown is on, 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙖!

In just three days — 𝙉𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝟒–𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 — you’ll take the next big step toward your dreams.

You’ve studied hard, prayed deeply, and carried the Centralian spirit with pride. Now, it’s your time to shine! May the stars light your way to success, and may every question remind you of how far you’ve come.

Believe in your calling, trust in your preparation, and let faith do the rest.

💯 Batch Sinagtala — 100% ready, 100% determined, 100% future RNs!

Layout by: Patryxia Krys Soloren

01/11/2025

𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐘:
This story is mainly a 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
All events, names, and experiences are entirely made up…
or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself…

"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬"

I didn’t plan to buy it.

It was there—leaning against the back wall of a thrift shop that smelled of dust and wilted carnations. The mirror’s frame was carved with roses that had long since forgotten they were flowers, their petals curling inward like mouths mid-scream.

The shopkeeper said it came from an estate sale. I asked whose.

She frowned, as if the answer had slipped away. “It remembers,” she said softly, and rang up the price before I could change my mind.

At home, I placed it in my room. The air seemed to shift around it, heavy, aware. My reflection looked tired, eyes too hollow for daylight. I told myself the lighting was bad. I told myself I just needed sleep.

When I brushed my hair before bed, the glass flickered.

I froze. My reflection didn’t.

She kept brushing—slowly, hair gliding through her fingers as mine hung still.

The brush fell from my hand.
Her smile stayed.

I laughed, too loud, the sound brittle against the quiet. The mirror pulsed once, as though breathing. Then it stilled. I turned away, but even in the dark I felt it watching—the faint prickling behind my eyes that says you are not alone.

I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—me—standing in the mirror’s world, the colors drained, the air as thick as syrup. She didn’t blink. She only waited.

The next morning, my reflection moved a heartbeat late, like it had to remember what to do.

My mouth opened to yawn; hers opened to smile. When I looked closer, I saw fingerprints smudged on the inside of the glass.

By evening, the house had grown too quiet. The ticking clock, the hum of the refrigerator—all of it muffled, as if the air itself were listening. I told myself to cover the mirror, to stop staring. But my feet didn’t move.

I don’t remember sitting down in front of it.
I just remember the cold seeping from its frame, crawling up my skin like breath. My reflection leaned closer. Her eyes glimmered dark and wet, like polished stone.

Then she whispered.

I didn’t hear words, only the shape of them—like someone remembering how to speak after too long in silence. My name stretched across the glass, distorted, familiar.

She raised her hand. I raised mine.
For a moment, the surface felt warm beneath my palm.

And then, the world tilted.

The room folded in on itself, sound collapsing into nothing. I gasped, but there was no air. The light flickered, then steadied.
I was standing on the other side.
The mirror was colder here.

I could see my room, my body still seated before the glass—breathing, blinking, alive. My reflection—no, she—turned her head, meeting my eyes.

She smiled my smile.
She reached out.
She closed the curtain.

Now, the glass faces the wall.

I can see nothing, only faint threads of light seeping through the cracks of silver. But sometimes, I hear footsteps—my footsteps—moving through the house, humming softly the tune I used to hum before bed.

And sometimes, when she passes by, the mirror trembles, as if it remembers me—
or perhaps, as if it pities me.
Because I know now what she is.
She was never a stranger. Never a ghost.
She was everything I tried not to see.

The anger. The grief. The emptiness. The part of me that wanted to live, no matter who it had to replace.

And maybe she deserves that life more than I ever did.

We all face our reflections—but some of us are unlucky enough to have them stare back.

Written by: KZ Pangantihon
Graphic Artist: Cloie Mariel Hisoler

Nurses' Notes Publication

05/11/2025

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