It wasn’t the cameras. It wasn’t the flashing lights. It wasn’t the crowd. What truly broke hearts that night was the sound of Maricel Soriano crying—not in character, not for a scene, but in real life. Raw. Unfiltered. Shaking.

The Diamond Star had always been the face of elegance, strength, and sharp wit. But on this night, at the wake of her longtime friend, confidante, and critic-turned-family, Lolit Solis, she walked in with trembling hands and eyes already red from crying. And when she saw the casket—when she saw Manay—she broke.

There were no lines. No rehearsals. Just a woman grieving another who had stood by her through the best and worst of her career. As Maricel knelt beside the white coffin, holding a single flower, she began to sob uncontrollably. Her shoulders shook. Her voice cracked. And all she could whisper was, “Hindi ko kayang mawala ka nang ganito…”

The room fell into silence.

People who had known her for years, who had worked with her on countless sets, had never seen her this way. Maricel Soriano—the woman who could cry onscreen with perfect timing—was now lost in the kind of pain that didn’t care for performance.

For those who didn’t know, Lolit Solis was more than just a columnist to Maricel. She was a mentor. A second mother. A partner in truth and scandal. Their relationship had weathered storms—from career hiccups to personal betrayals—and yet, they had always found their way back to each other.

“She was the one who stood up for me when no one else did,” Maricel once said in an old interview. “She would scold me like a mother, but protect me like a lion.”

So when the news broke that Lolit had passed away at 78, it was like the air had been knocked out of her. For days, Maricel said nothing. She didn’t post tributes, didn’t give statements. And many wondered—would she come to the wake? Would she be able to face this goodbye?

And when she did, it was as if years of unsaid words came pouring out in one long, tearful silence.

She stayed by the casket longer than anyone expected. Murmuring stories only she and Lolit knew. At one point, she pulled out a small envelope from her purse—sealed, hand-written—and slid it gently beside the flowers. No one asked what was inside. No one dared.

Later, after she composed herself, Maricel faced the press. Her makeup was smudged. Her voice hoarse. But her words—her words were crystal clear.

“Alam niyo, sanay ako sa pag-arte. Pero ito… ito hindi ko kaya. Kasi totoo ang sakit. Si Lolit hindi lang manunulat. Siya ang boses na hindi ko laging gusto pakinggan, pero lagi kong kailangan marinig.”

There were tears in every sentence. Truth in every pause. She continued:

“Hindi kami laging okay. Madalas kaming nagbabangayan. Pero sa dulo, siya ang unang tatawag. Siya ang magtatanong kung kumain na ako. Siya ang tatawa sa mga problema ko kahit wala namang nakakatawa.”

Maricel smiled, but it broke halfway. “Sabi ko sa kanya dati, ‘Mauna ka man, huwag mong iiwan ng walang paalam.’ Pero ayun siya, umalis na lang.”

Those watching her—friends, press, fans—stood in stunned silence. It wasn’t just a farewell. It was a wound re-opening, a love laid bare.

One of Lolit’s former assistants quietly approached Maricel and handed her an old photo—a black-and-white print of the two of them from the 1990s, laughing on a film set. Maricel stared at it for what felt like an eternity before she whispered, “Saan na ulit ako kukuha ng lakas?”

She didn’t stay long after that. Just long enough to light a candle, press her forehead against the casket, and say, “Paalam, Nay.”

As she walked out, still wiping her tears, one thing was clear—this goodbye was different. This wasn’t just showbiz losing a giant. It was a daughter losing her second mother. It was the end of a long, complicated, fiercely loyal friendship that survived decades of fame, failure, and forgiveness.

Many celebrities came and paid respects. But none cried the way Maricel did. None cracked the way she did. Because no one had a history quite like hers with Lolit Solis.

And as the lights dimmed and the crowd thinned, her final words lingered in the air.

“Kung may langit, sana naririnig mo ako. Hindi pa ako handa. Pero salamat. Kasi ikaw ang nagpatatag sa akin. Ngayon, paano na?”

It was a goodbye from the gut. From the soul. From a woman who, for all her fame, still bleeds when love is lost.

Rest in peace, Lolit Solis.

And to Maricel—your tears spoke what words could never say.