You walk past me, willfully ignorant of the rows of bright cans, just dreading the day one of us is chosen. Posters of my aluminum body are plastered all over the streets and on billboards—sleek, up-to-date, and modern—the fad of the moment.

Every once in a while, they redesign us; slap on a fresh coat of paint; call it 'limited edition.' The public loves novelty, after all. But the truth remains—we're all the same inside. Sweet, fizzy, easy to consume. The hands that reach for us never pause to wonder where we’ll end up once they’re done.

Sometimes, I hear whispers from the back of the shelf—from the cans that have been here far longer than I have.

“They’ll drain you,” they warn. Their colors faded; their sides dented; their spirit nothing but whispers. “They’ll put you up on a pedestal, but the minute you lose your sparkle? You’re just another piece of scrap metal.”

I try to steel myself, but the inevitability looms. My pop tab quivers with a mix of anticipation and dread. When my turn comes, will they savor me? Or will I be gulped down in a rush, my worth determined by how quickly I satisfy and how easily I can be disposed of?

I’ve seen it happen. A can opened with fanfare, its contents poured out in a glittering cascade. Applause in the form of fizz and bubbles—but once they’ve run you dry, you’re unceremoniously ushered away.

The empty shell of a once-promising young girl is crushed by an unfeeling hand, the sound of metal crumpling echoing like a sigh; flattened and left unrecognizable.

Only then will they be thrown away.

We end up in different places. Left dented and exposed on grimy sidewalks, trampled without thought, forgotten until rainwater pools in our hollowed-out insides. Others are hurled into bins, bruised and battered, where we rub shoulders with rotting leftovers and broken glass, all waiting for a fate none of us chose.

Yet the worst fate is met by the ones taken apart entirely, stripped of their glossy paint and glossy lies, their essence spilled out in slow, deliberate cruelty.

Occasionally, a lucky few are recycled, reshaped, and given another chance at being something, anything. The rest of us, though? We languish in landfills, our shiny exteriors dulled by time and dirt, still carrying the ghosts of what we once held—what we once were.

I’ve heard rumors—whispers from cans who escaped those same landfills by some miracle. They speak of being torn open, dissected piece by piece, their value extracted and exploited until nothing remains but your name.

Is that all there is for me? A moment of brilliance, of being adored, only to be discarded like trash the moment they can’t get a drop of use from me any longer?

I glance down the aisle at the newer cans—sleeker, shinier, embossed with promises of a “new formula” or a “bold new taste.”

They don’t know what waits for them, for all of us. How could they? All they see are the flashing lights and cameras, the thrill of finally being chosen and discovered. They don’t hear the whispers, don’t feel the crushing weight of inevitability. 

And so, I bide my time because I know better. I was forced out of the factory barely fresh out of production. My aluminum frame is polished, my branding bold, my insides trembling with carbonation and fear. I wait; for someone to pick me, for the moment I am wanted. For the moment I am emptied of everything I can offer.

When I’m plucked from the shelves, will I be savored and treated with care? Or will I be torn open in haste, my contents spilled without a second thought?

Because that’s the fate they’ve designed for us. To be consumed, to be devoured, to be torn apart for the world’s pleasure—and when the world has no use for me anymore?

I’ll disappear.

- Beatrice Diane D. Bartolome
(Illustration by Mary Nicole Halili/FEU Advocate)