("Sometimes the universe answers only when you stop asking.")
The days blurred into one another.
Morning looked the same as night, and every sound from the streets below—the bark of dogs, the tricycle horns, the occasional laughter of neighbors—felt like noise from a world that had forgotten him.
Nox lay on the thin mat in Cha's room, staring at the peeling ceiling. The air was heavy and unmoving. A single electric fan turned weakly in the corner, pushing around the same warm air that smelled faintly of detergent and sweat.
It had been three weeks since Flora lost her job.
Three weeks since he'd stopped going to school.
Three weeks since anyone had mentioned the word future.
His notebooks sat in a neat pile beside him, gathering dust.
The Crushing Weight
He woke up early out of habit, but there was nothing to wake up for.
He'd lie still, listening to the quiet breathing of his sisters from the other room.
Sometimes, he'd scroll through social media—classmates posting their enrollment forms, new schedules, new uniforms.
He scrolled past them quickly, thumb numb, expression blank.
He had ₱72 left in his wallet.
He calculated, out of instinct: one sachet of coffee for ₱10, one loaf of bread for ₱40, and maybe he could still help pay for water.
But the math didn't matter anymore.
There was no tuition to save for. No deadline to meet. No goal.
He whispered to himself, "Ano pa'ng silbi?" (What's the point?)
The words didn't sound sad—just tired.
His life had become a still photograph: him, the mat, the ceiling.
Even the sound of his sisters laughing in the kitchen couldn't reach him anymore.
That night, the lights flickered as usual. Cebu's electricity was moody during the rainy months.
Flora was talking quietly with Cha in the kitchen. Nox could hear fragments: "next month's rent… maybe ask Gen for help…"
He turned on his side and faced the wall.
His phone screen glowed beside him, faint and blue. He opened his gallery—photos of him and Shyn, smiling, arms around each other, their eyes bright with a kind of innocence that now felt foreign.
He lingered on one picture—Shyn feeding him kwek-kwek near the plaza.
Both of them laughing at something stupid.
A world that felt like a different life.
He didn't cry. He wanted to, but his body refused.
He was just… empty.
Everything he'd built—love, school, ambition—had dissolved.
He thought of Flora, overworked and unpaid. Cha, still studying. Mae, too young to understand.
And him—lying here, doing nothing, contributing nothing.
He whispered again, softer this time, "Why bother?"
The words vanished into the stale air.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until colors flashed behind them. His chest felt tight, but not from tears—just pressure, the kind that never released.
He turned on his back, staring upward.
The ceiling seemed lower now, pressing down on him like gravity.
Midnight came slowly.
The noise from the street faded.
The electric fan groaned once, then fell into a steady, mechanical hum.
Flora's voice had gone quiet. Mae was asleep. Cha was breathing softly beside him.
The silence deepened until it felt alive—like it was listening.
He could hear his heartbeat, slow and uneven.
He focused on it, just to remind himself he was still there.
He thought about his father, about that one awkward call.
About his mother, who never came back.
About Shyn, whose last word to him was sorry.
Everything led here—to this moment of stillness where nothing was left to fight for.
He wanted to scream, but even that felt pointless.
No one was listening anyway.
So he lay still, letting the darkness fill him like water.
The world around him seemed to dim further.
His thoughts started to scatter, dissolving into static.
Sleep began to take him—slowly, painfully.
Just as his mind started to fade,
the silence cracked.
A sound—sharp, pure, and unreal—cut through the dark.
Ding~
His eyes snapped open.
For a second, he thought it came from outside—a phone, maybe, or the TV in the next room. But everything was still.
Then it came again.
Ding~
The sound didn't echo in the room.
It echoed inside him.
His breath hitched.
The darkness in front of him began to shimmer faintly, like ripples in water.
His body froze—he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or awake.
And then, in that trembling silence, he whispered the only thing his mind could form:
"What… was that?"
No one answered.
Only the still air,
the beating of his heart—
and the third, final sound.
Ding~