Maybe it was her cologne or the lotion that overwhelmed the large room, the scent of it subdued the bright colors and density of the paintings hanging all over the large room.

The often “uncontrollable” that we are, suddenly were under her spell. At that very moment, she was the boss. Doors were shut upon her request. No cameras. No recorders.

The rules were set and I had the impression that had anyone of us dared to violate those simple rules, she would have not spoken a single word.

Well, sorry for those whose journalistic skills were only limited to transcribing recorded messages or those who practice journalism with great reliance on voice recorders. Even fast-scribblers like I am, however, wobbled later as the encounter with her turned out something very relevant and emotional.

She admitted about hating the media as it only worsened the agony that embattled her—as it became a major instrument that fueled her depression while she suffered from the mounting isolation and societal stigma.

She identified herself as Sheila Magpaye, a person living with HIV-AIDS. Shortly after her introduction, a serbidora opened the sliding doors that rendered her wordless.

Not one from the audience spoke. I was barely breathing.

More about Sheila here.