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In the despair of downpours, there must be hope. Even in the aftermath of long gone homes, stormed streets, and fallen posts, there must be a helping hand. For the average student facing devastation, carrying a heavy plateful of burdens already, there must be hands to lessen their pain. There must be hope. There must be. Yet why is there none—only apathy? Seated in offices where floods never reach, someone signed an order. After surviving a calamity, you demand that we return to surviving classes. That no one gets left behind—for we will end up lost in track in this hectic calendar of education. But still, some are and will be abandoned. As if life was not already hectic enough, not everyone can choose between sacrificing academics or recovering from catastrophe. As if blind to reality, did you even ask a student a simple “how are you doing?” as the storm subsided? Tell me… Did you even bother to look? At the corner of a gloomy room, how hope crumbled into a painful, long waiting game alone. Do you not see the weary eyes of an only child sulking helplessly, staring at her only source of light? Where her phone's broken screen only held an endless string of words. Messages left unread, repeating sentences, missed calls, all from the right side. Tears kept falling on the name of the supposed receiver: "Family.” A lonely silence was disrupted by the only notification she never wanted—the word "lifted" was enough to erupt her into even more frustration. It would be a dream, a privilege even, to think if she, and many others, have enough energy to worry about classes instead of their families out of reach. Did you even experience drowning? Not only in the literal sense, but in the grief that comes with facing destruction. In losing your home that has already been through so much, once held together by weakened foundations. In an endless night of ruthless winds and rains, never knowing when it will end. In holding tight to your loved ones to ease the cold, cowering in fear from losing them. You may have not roamed roads buried in debris and trees, searching for missing loved ones, or salvaging any remains of drenched properties, or waiting for hours to days for any update. But surely enough, you know you are human too. To know others have gone through that pain. To know that it is inhumane—to demand students to be at class by morning when today had cried like there is no tomorrow. With every aftermath of typhoons, we are demanded to catch up, show up, and study despite any difficulty. Expected to comply when professors throw mountains of deadlines in the middle of severe storms. Expected to not get left behind, even if grief bleeds as we desperately wonder how to get food, how to get in touch with our loved ones, or how to survive the next day. Don’t you see? We were always humans before we were students. Humans with families and friends that still can't be reached nor found until now. With no means to travel back on time. With nothing left other than ourselves who survived the storm. Every year—every storm that comes and goes, it is always success that comes first and never the student body. Believing that anyone can bounce back is like if the sun magically appears, everything is already alright when it is never the case. The sunlight after the storm illuminates those in need, those in grief, and those lost to calamity. It should have been a clear sign to be a helping hand instead of being an inconsiderate one. With inhumanity, the storm never disappeared. It returned as apathy. When you say no one gets left behind, don't forget your empathy too—for humanity, as a university.