("Dreams cost more when you're awake.")
The noise hit Nox before the heat did.
Cebu was alive in a way Ormoc never was — horns, shouts, exhaust fumes, and the constant hum of traffic that never slept. As the bus hissed to a stop near Colon Street, he gripped the strap of his old black backpack and stepped down into the chaos.
Flora was already there, waving from the side of the road. "Nox! Dali, dali!" (Hurry, hurry!) Her voice cut through the noise, sharp and sure. She carried herself like she owned the city, though her tired eyes betrayed otherwise.
They walked through narrow alleys until they reached a three-story apartment that leaned slightly forward, as if bowing from exhaustion. The sign above the entrance read: For Rent – ₱18,000/month.
"Eighteen thousand," Nox muttered. His stomach tightened. That was more than his family made in a month back in Ormoc.
Inside, the apartment was cramped but clean. Cha, Flora's older sister, smiled faintly as she wiped sweat from her neck. Gen, a family friend, was sorting laundry, while little Mae sat cross-legged on the floor with a half-charged phone.
"You'll sleep here," Flora said, pointing to a narrow strip of floor beside Cha's bed. She tossed him a thin foam mat.
He nodded, trying to hide his discomfort. "Okay lang, Ate." (It's okay, sister.)
That night, as the city noise pressed through the thin walls — jeepneys rattling, vendors shouting balot!, laughter from drunk men outside — Nox lay awake staring at the ceiling. His body ached from the trip, but his mind refused to quiet.
He turned to look at Flora sleeping across the room, her arm draped protectively over Mae. The light from a streetlamp painted her face in a tired orange glow.
She was spending nearly all her pay to keep this small world together.
All for him.
He whispered into the dark, "I won't waste this."
The University of the Visayas
The next morning, he found himself among crowds of students outside the University of the Visayas.
Clean uniforms, bright shoes, laughter that spoke of comfort.
Nox walked in with his one rewashed uniform and shoes he'd polished to hide the cracks.
In class, he sat in the back — always the quiet one, always calculating.
A group of boys behind him laughed over the latest iPhone update. Another group discussed their "contribution" for a project — ₱250 each for printing and materials.
When the leader turned to him and asked, "Bro, ikaw? May ambag ka?" (Bro, your share?)
Nox froze. ₱250 was half his week's allowance.
He forced a smile. "Sige, sunod na lang." (I'll give it next time.)
The boy shrugged, unconcerned, and turned away. The sound of their laughter stung worse than hunger.
At lunch, Nox sat alone near the canteen gate, sipping from a bottle of water and eating two pieces of pandesal he had bought that morning. Around him, groups of friends joked over chicken meals and milk teas.
His stomach growled, but he ignored it, flipping through his notebook.
Equations, lecture notes, and in the corner — scribbled in pencil — a tiny chart of his weekly budget.
₱500 allowance.
₱10 for jeepney fare (one-way).
₱15 for photocopy.
₱25 for lugaw (porridge).
₱5 for water.
He added and erased, adjusted and re-added — as if one more calculation might make the pesos multiply.
The days blurred into weeks.
Nox woke before sunrise, studied under the dim bulb in the hallway, and took quick cold baths with a bucket. He skipped breakfast, sometimes lunch, saving enough to buy one lugaw at night. (Author's note: lugaw – rice porridge, a common cheap meal in the Philippines.)
Flora would scold him when she noticed.
"Eat more, Nox. Don't just drink coffee again."
"Di ako gutom, Ate." (I'm not hungry, sister.)
A lie that both of them knew wasn't true.
Every night, his muscles trembled with exhaustion. His eyes burned from hours of reading, but he couldn't stop. To fail would mean wasting everything his sisters worked for.
He found small escapes — the sound of the rain against the window, the dim hum of Cebu at night, the texts from Shyn.
At first, Shyn called every night. Her voice was the only warm thing in his day.
"Have you eaten, love?"
"Yeah," he lied. "You?"
"I'm fine. I miss you."
He'd smile into the darkness. "I'll come back for you. Promise."
But as the weeks stretched, the calls grew shorter. Then, less frequent.
Sometimes, he'd message her after class: "Still awake?"
Her reply would come hours later, a single: "Busy. Sorry, love."
One night, he waited for her call until midnight. The screen stayed dark. When he finally saw her name appear — typing… — it disappeared after a few seconds.
The silence that followed was heavier than hunger.
By the third month, the routine hardened into habit.
Wake. Walk. Study. Endure.
The ₱500 stretched thinner each week, until he learned to survive on utang barkada (friends' credit tabs) and plain rice with soy sauce. (Author's note: utang barkada – informal debt among friends.)
He learned which karinderya (small eatery) gave free soup refills, and how to time his meals so the canteen wasn't crowded.
He memorized bus schedules, shortcuts, even the smell of the photocopy shop near the campus gate.
And through it all, he repeated the same quiet promise each night before sleeping:
"One day, this will mean something."
---
Late December.
Rain pounded on the roof of their apartment, the walls damp and cold.
Flora was asleep beside Mae, and the room flickered with blue light from Nox's old phone.
He stared at the screen — at Shyn's last message, two days old.
"Mahal kita. Pero minsan, kailangan natin magpahinga."
(I love you. But sometimes, we need to rest.)
His thumb hovered over the reply box.
He wanted to beg, to explain, to promise again.
Instead, he typed nothing.
Outside, the rain fell harder, drowning out the city noise.
He put the phone face down, closed his eyes, and whispered the only thing he could still believe in:
"Someday, this will all make sense."
And somewhere between the thunder and the ache of hunger,
Nox Ando finally slept — not at peace,
but still enduring.
___
Author's Notes:
Lugaw – rice porridge, often the cheapest available meal.
Utang barkada – small informal loans among friends, common in Filipino student culture.
Karinderya – small local eatery serving home-style food.